Продается мертвый "Консерватор"
Официальное представительство мертвой еженедельной газеты "Консерватор" в интернете выставлено на продажу. Сообщение "etot 3213123 domen $%^#% prodaetsia #$%^#$%^ pishite domainz[at]mail.ru" опубликовано сайте
www.egk.ru, куда в прежние времена со всего мира приходили подключенные к сети пользователи - следить за судьбами Вячеслава Лейбмана, Татьяны Толстой, Дуни Смирновой, Мити Ольшанского и других основных ньюсмейкеров издания.
Теперь же на главной странице одного из самых консервативных за всю историю современной цифровой России доменов помимо процитированного выше намерения кому-нибудь продаться опубликован отрывок из эротического литературного произведения на английском языке. Больше на пепелище не осталось ничего - ни архива, ни замечательной статьи Толстой о булочке, ни завораживающих своей прямотой фраз "Как в любом живом организме, в нашем проекте постоянно происходят изменения" и "Живут и развиваются только те проекты, которые могут меняться и обновляться" из редакционного признания, опубликованного в номере "Консерватора" от 22 ноября 2002 года.
"This is a story about discovering the different flavors of power and pleasure. It contains domination, submission, bondage, and some pain. It also contains odor fetishes, foot fetishes, ass fetishes, and watersports. There is also recreational drug use. It is highly recommended that you read this after losing your sobriety, while an object of some kind is inserted and vibrating in some part of your body; however, these are only suggestions, not required", - говорится в предисловии к эротическому куску на бывшем сайте "Консерватора". Многие из тех, кто следил за непростой и многократно трагичной судьбой издания, согласятся, что эти слова в том же самом порядке было бы справедливо высечь и на надгробии газеты.
Началась эта история с покупки Лейбманом "Общей газеты". Когда во время одной из радиопрограмм поупателя спросили, кто его попросил приобрести газету, он ответил: "У меня есть шестилетний сын. Если и говорить, что кто-то меня просил купить "Общую газету", то, скорее всего, он, потому что ему жить в этой стране". Вячеслав Лейбман произнес эти слова в августе прошлого года. "Я думаю, что где-то на пятый год мы все-таки выйдем на позицию как минимум безубыточную", - сказал он тогда.
А уже в марте этого года издатель "Консерватора" Вячеслав Лейбман в интервью информационно-аналитическому бюллетеню "Новости СМИ" подробно объяснил, как меньше чем за год можно убить сразу несколько проектов, если потратить на это благое дело значительную сумму денег, создать несколько профессиональных редакционных коллективов и привлечь к работе сильных внешних специалистов.
"Сделка по приобретению "Общей газеты" была закончена в мае прошлого года, в июне был сформирован основной состав редакционного совета нового издания. В редсовет вошли: Эдуард Месхидзе, Александр Тимофеевский, Дуня Смирнова и я. Татьяна Толстая стала председателем редсовета. Для разработки концепции будущего издания были привлечены также несколько PR-агентств. При этом я намеревался продолжать выпуск "Общей газеты", но прислушался к настойчивым рекомендациям членов редакционного совета и принял решение раскручивать новый брэнд - "Консерватор". 30 августа 2002 года вышел "пилотный" номер. Несколько первых номеров газеты наглядно показали, что "Консерватор" изобилует объемными, тяжело читаемыми текстами и что у него нет четкой редакционной политики. Редсовету было поручено привести издание к нужной, интересной форме. [...] Однако к ноябрю по-прежнему нельзя было говорить ни о повышении рейтинга цитируемости издания, ни о повышении уровня его продаж. При этом на проект уходило 250 тысяч долларов ежемесячно", - говорил Лейбман.
Поползли слухи о закрытии "Консерватора", сопровождавшие газету до самой ее смерти. ("Предстоящая смена главного редактора - событие очень значимое, но слухи о закрытии газеты в этой связи не имеют под собой никакого основания. Люди приходят и уходят, а проект остается и будет продолжать жить. Мы, как и прежде, будем выходить к читателям каждую пятницу с перерывом только в праздники", - обещало издание в ноябре.) Потом у газеты появился новый главный редактор. Потом - другой новый главный редактор. От прежней редакции вообще ничего не осталось, на ее место пришла новая, а главным редактором стал сам Вячеслав Лейбман. Тем временем, бывшие соратники по редакции газеты обвиняли издателя в слабоумии и предательстве идей консерватизма.
30 мая 2003 года на 18-м номере жизни "Консерватор" скончался.
Сайт издания держался дольше всех. Потом он тоже умер, а доменное имя кто-то выставил теперь на продажу.
Можно его купить и попробовать построить на этом месте новый проект. Но не удивляйтесь, если ночью по пятницам - особенно в полнолуние, - на его страницах будет появляться призрак белого бульдога, гремящего ошейником и протяжно воющем о повышении качества материалов, увеличении тиража и рейтинга цитируемости, создании новых каналов распространения, выходе на безубыточный уровень, возвращении вложенных денег и журналистов.
etot 3213123 domen $%^#% prodaetsia #$%^#$%^ pishite domainz[at]mail.ru
Breaking Rebecca Ch. 1 bluepervina 35 year-old professor gives & takes with young lovers. erotic stories, free, BDSM, sex, xxx, Breaking Rebecca Ch. 1, bluepervina This is a story about discovering the different flavors of power and pleasure. It contains domination, submission, bondage, and some pain. It also contains odor fetishes, foot fetishes, ass fetishes, and watersports. There is also recreational drug use. It is highly recommended that you read this after losing your sobriety, while an object of some kind is inserted and vibrating in some part of your body; however, these are only suggestions, not required. Feedback is welcomed. Enjoy! -Blue * * * Rebecca couldn't fight the urge anymore. Her job teaching English at the community college wasn't all that wonderful anyway. If she lost it, oh well! It would be worth it to have a chance at Brent…. Brent was just a first year student, but it was clear that he was only young in years, not in experience. He stood at 6' 4", with dark hair and blue eyes, chiseled good looks that belonged to a lumberjack in the woods, not a boy sitting in the first row of her class, his long legs stretched out, staring at her every move. He had a slow smile and rather cautious demeanor, for someone of his size and good looks. Rebecca could tell he was a confident guy, but very reserved, almost as if he played at being shy. He chooses to hide himself in the open, she would often think. People get lulled by a guy who lays low and says little. I'll bet he learns a lot about them that they never wanted him to know! Rebecca's mounting fascination with the 18 year-old began the very first day of fall classes. He came in early, silently slipping into the first seat in the first row, only a couple yards behind where Rebecca stood writing information on the chalk board. In her haste to get the board ready, she didn't hear him over the knocking of her chalk. That was not so remarkable if it hadn't been for the fact that Rebecca was feeling tremendously horny that morning--as she always did on a first day of classes. Just the thought of all the beautiful new young people coming to see her… she'd have months and months to spy out the cutest ones, get to know them a little, and add more fuel to an already blazing fantasy life. Every semester there were at least two or three students--both boys and girls--in each class that drove her to masturbatory distraction, so on that day she was focused almost as much on the prospect of upcoming good orgasms as she was on her lesson plan. "God, I hope at least one of these boys is hung," she muttered to herself, clattering away at the chalk board. "It would be nice to get to see the outline of a nice fat cock inside some jeans. Didn't really get much of that at all last Spring. Except for Camille, of course. But her cock was latex, for God's sake…." She finished her writing and turned around--and immediately dropped the chalk. Brent had already been there for some time behind her, apparently, because his backpack was opened and his notebook and pen was already out on his desk. He was looking directly at her, not smiling, but not frowning. He studied her as she collected her wits and picked up the chalk. "Well!" said Rebecca, struggling to regain her composure. She wasn't sure if she'd been talking to herself loudly enough to be overheard, but she was nevertheless very red-faced. "Good morning, Mr. Quiet!" Brent smiled, and Rebecca's knees wobbled considerably. "Morning, ma'am," he intoned, a precise and pleasant baritone that rumbled the air between them. Rebecca could swear she felt the vibrations of his voice in her cunt. "My name's Brent." His hands were broad and still, spread out on top of his open notebook, and Rebecca focused on them as continued to recover. He had a dark spot on the back of the middle finger of his right hand. The spot was much too dark and large for a mole or birthmark, she thought. It sat between the first and second knuckles and nearly covered all the skin on that part of his finger. Despite her nervousness--and her frustration at being so giddy right off the bat--Rebecca found herself wanting to know more about the mark. However, she still felt awkward, put off from her usual rhythm with a student. She decided to jump into a nice bland variety of small talk with him until the rest of the students showed up, and maybe later in the semester she'd recover enough gusto around him to start asking more personal questions. He still watched her, almost smiling, very calm. She let her eyes roam, as cautiously as possible, to his crotch. A big, broad, lump sat wedged inside his jeans. Rebecca turned back to the board to put away her chalk and flushed again. She was hooked on this boy; she was certain he would be number one this semester. For the first time in her entire career of fantasizing about--and sometimes fucking--students, she was worried. There was something different about it all this time. "Well," she stammered again, turning back to his handsome gaze. "I hope you enjoy the class." And with that she grabbed her purse and fled out the back door of the small auditorium to the nearby faculty bathroom, where she smoked three Marlboro 100s and stared at herself in the mirror. Her heart pounded! "You are a thirty five year-old woman, not a silly teenager," she muttered at her reflection. "Get a grip!" She looked herself over, comparing herself to the teenaged girls that Brent must have at his beck and call. She was tall, at 5' 10", and she knew that alone was a turn-on for some people. She still wore her dark auburn hair long and straight, almost to her waist. There were few lines around her grey eyes, and her neck had yet to show any of the characteristic folds, lines, or sags. Very firm, all around, she thought. Her breasts still rode pretty high and got her lots of complimentary looks when she wore tops that emphasized them. At school she usually wore a loose blouse or sweater, sometimes even a smart blue blazer, so a boy like Brent wouldn't get much of a chance to see how nice her tits still were. She might have to change her wardrobe a little, she thought. Rebecca stubbed out her third cigarette in the sink and looked at the rest of herself. Her waist was still relatively trim, right at about 32 inches, and her hips flared very sexily out to 38. Turning herself slowly, as if watching someone else, Rebecca gazed proudly at her high, hard ass. It swelled out nice and round and beautiful, and she was instantly the horniest she'd been in three months. The combination of that boy and thinking about her ass was too much. Within seconds she was in a stall, unhooking her long skirt and hanging it up on the hook inside the door. Being so proud of her ass, Rebecca almost always wore a thong, and in an instant it was yanked to one side as she bent over and put a hand against the cold block wall. With her other hand she rubbed the cheeks of her ass, closing her eyes and imagining it was someone else's hand, Brent's, anyone's, touching her so tenderly. It didn't take long for her index finger to slide down the crack and wiggle its way into her anus. Deeper and deeper she plunged her finger, rotating it around against the firm ring of her sphincter. She thanked God for the millionth time for her long arms, because she was able to get her finger buried all the way without any straining at all. Breathing deeply, suddenly very hot, Rebecca stroked the finger around and down, around and down, pumping her own ass. Soon a second finger was added, and she felt nicely stretched. Lost in her own pleasure, Rebecca began to shudder, and her legs almost gave out. She moaned and leaned over even more, propped against the wall with the one hand. As her orgasm approached, she pressed her cheek and breasts up against the frigid blocks of the wall. Straddling the toilet, lost in a masturbatory haze of hugging the wall and fucking her own asshole, Rebecca was sure she looked like a completely out of control whore. That thought, combined with the sensations in her ass and cold breasts, sent her over the edge. "Mmmmm….. Mmmmmmmm….. Mmmmmmmmm!" she moaned all the way through a very satisfying orgasm. She rearranged her thong and got back into her skirt, suddenly very aware of the time. Class was supposed to start ten minutes ago! Hastily, she rinsed her fingers in the sink and rushed back to the classroom. Completely forgotten, her purse sat on the floor beside the open stall door. Almost everyone was still there. Her roster was full for that section, and so most of the seats still held a body, albeit a grumbling body. It was never good on the first day of class to come off as unorganized or careless. Her saving grace was that she'd finished her board work, so most of the students were still answering the questions about their backgrounds and knowledge that she'd put up there. Brent still sat just as he had before, except now he had a paper full of answers to her questions. Rebecca had rarely ever been so eager to read one of her students' papers. Class progressed normally after that. Rebecca ignored the fact that she was late and carried on in her usual fashion. She was an excellent teacher. She loved her role in life and it showed, so most of the students were not annoyed at her for very long. Her confidence came back, too, as she settled into her familiar instructional shtick. She even found that she could make eye contact with Brent as often as she liked without the slightest flush or wobble in her knees. He took notes and simply watched her. At one point, Rebecca reached up to move a soft stray sheet of her hair that had fallen across her cheek. Disturbingly, she could smell herself on her fingers. Like lightning, her pussy flooded with juice, and she wanted to touch her asshole. It twitched between her cheeks like it was chewing on her lust. She paused in mid-sentence, turned her back to the room, and made a pretense of "losing her train of thought". She remained standing in a contemplative pose for a few seconds with one arm folded over the other, one hand cradling her chin, the fingers of that hand curled up under her nose. Rinsing her fingers that quickly had obviously not done much, but at least they looked clean. Besides ass-play, one of her favorite sexual thrills lay in scents, and at the top of her list was every odor relating to her own body. Sometimes she would lie in her closet for hours just sniffing her shoes and her panties from the dirty clothes hamper, masturbating with her fingers and vibrators over and over again. Trying to contain her excitement, Rebecca deeply inhaled the scent of herself several times before "remembering where she was" and turning back to the class. Then, with fifteen minutes still to go in her ninety minute class, Brent quietly got up with his things and left. He walked out the back door of the small auditorium, through which Rebecca had fled before. She paused, mock-dramatically, and watched his back as he departed. A few students chuckled at his boldness and her response to it. Normally, she didn't care if a student left near the end of class. She knew people had places to go. Still, she was almost hurt that Brent had left her. As she wrapped class up, she vaguely wondered if she'd done something wrong. It wasn’t until her next class had come and gone, with lunch approaching, that Rebecca realized she'd left her purse in the faculty ladies' room. Geez, she thought, I'm really losing it these days! She hurried from class as the last students filtered out, suddenly very afraid that a colleague might have found her purse and decided to go through it. You fucking dumb bitch, she railed at herself silently as she entered the bathroom. If any of those prudes go through my stuff…. Horrified, Rebecca stopped short. She stood just inside that doorway and could clearly see that her purse was nowhere to be found in the small room. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she burst back out the door and scurried around the faculty facilities, then outside on the sidewalks, into other buildings and rooms, looking and finding nothing. Her heart pounded, and she couldn't stop crying. Silly, stupid, bitch! she silently screamed at herself. In her purse there was a slender four-inch vibrator, a fat pink butt-plug, and at least three or four joints in a bag. At the very least, she was mortified knowing another person was looking at her driver's license, seeing her face, and knowing that this was a professional person who was nothing but a depraved slut. At the very worst, that person who'd be looking might be offended enough to get her fired. Skipping lunch, Rebecca went to the office phone and called her credit card company, among others. In a few minutes, all the necessary arrangements were made to protect her identity and credit, and initially she felt a little better. A few colleagues and secretaries strolled by every now and then as she sat making her calls, and she couldn't help but search out their faces for any signs of awareness. Of course, in every face she found some reason to be suspicious and afraid! It was maddening, and by the end of her calls she was a wreck all over again. Her dean came by and asked if she was all right. "No," she sobbed, "I've got to go home. There's been an emergency." "What?! What happened? Can I help?" exclaimed the dean, a good man. "Oh, God, I can't handle talking about it right now…. Please just let me go take care of it. Could you cover my afternoon class for me?" Within minutes, Rebecca had brought her dean up to speed on her lesson plan, given him the materials, and left in the auditorium. Even though it was just a community college, the campus was large and beautifully collegiate, in the classic sense. The buildings were of brick, and there were large common areas in which grand oak trees spread out and relaxed right along with the students. The faculty parking lot was at the far end of one such common area, and as Rebecca walked to her car she saw Brent sitting under one of the trees near the lot, his long legs stretched out before him. He was leaned back against the trunk in the shade, his eyes closed. He appeared to be sleeping. Despite her traumatic lunch hour, Rebecca felt herself going moist all over again. She passed by within twenty feet of where he reclined, and his cock was more pronounced than ever inside his jeans. It's got to be a delicious big thing, she thought, suddenly happy and realigned again. She walked very slowly and carefully past him, giving herself a long chance to glance repeatedly at his hunky bod. My God, she thought, as she finally got to the asphalt of the parking lot, What a boy! What a day! Unlocking her car, Rebecca found herself shuddering through yet another shock. There on the hood sat her purse! Whirling, she looked at Brent, but he was still fast asleep. Peering around, Rebecca saw various few students and others here and there in the parking lot and on the campus, but everyone looked just as suspicious as everyone else. Finally, she grabbed her purse and opened it, right there on her hood. The vibrator was there, the butt-plug was there, but the joints were gone. Of course. She checked her credit cards and other paraphernalia, but it was all intact. Super, but damn, she thought. I made all those calls for nothing. Oh well. My own stupid fault anyway. Regretting the loss of the weed, and still fearful that it was a colleague who'd been respectful enough to return her purse mostly et al, she slid behind the wheel of her gold Camry and cranked it up. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Brent's tree, and Brent was gone. Without reason or control Rebecca stared wildly all around, searching for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Her pussy was juiced up hotter and wetter than ever; Rebecca swallowed hard, backed out of the parking space, and drove herself and her knotted-up tangle of emotions home. * * * Rebecca lived in a cute stucco bungalow not more than a fifteen minutes drive from campus. Gardens in the front and back drew raves from her neighbors, and her various citrus trees were her pride. There was one each of lemon, lime, tangelo, ruby red grapefruit, and mango. The scent around her house was forever a wonderfully intoxicating blend. No matter what the season, something was always in bloom, and it never failed to cheer her up to pull into her driveway and take a long, slow, deep, breath. Once inside her house, she felt almost completely recovered from the shock of losing and then finding her purse. Grabbing a joint from her pantry, she fired it up and started running some bath water. The light was blinking on her answering machine in the kitchen, so she hit the button and stood next to it, smoking and undressing as the message began. "Rebecca, it's Camille. Can you call me tonight--or sometime--please? It feels like we haven't talked in forever…. I know you said to wait and let you do whatever you had to do, but can't we just talk for a while? Just on the phone?" There was a long pause. Rebecca was now naked and almost finished with the small blunt. A soft thudding happiness began to ripple it's way out from her center, despite this call from her estranged lover. She leaned against the counter and took one last drag on the marijuana, then flicked it in the sink. As her hand began to caress her puckering nipples, the message continued. "I'm sorry," Camille sobbed noticeably, paused again, then came back with more control. "Listen, just forget about it. I'm an ass. A bitch, all right? If I've just gone and screwed it all up, I'll never forgive myself…. You don't need to call me. Don't do anything. Just--oh God!--do whatever you want. Go fuck yourself, bitch!" The call message immediately ended, as if the phone had been slammed. The last sentence came across the answering machine so loudly that the message garbled and distorted it almost beyond comprehension. All wrapped up in her high, Rebecca continued running her hands across her breasts, not much shocked by what she'd heard. Same old Camille, she thought. I'll do something nice for her, I guess. The rest of the day possessed no more shocks or shouts. Rebecca sat in her bath for nearly an hour, hooking up her hand-held water massager and playing it repeatedly over her cunt until her muscles were absolutely screaming from the stiffness of so many orgasmic spasms. She was torn between reminiscences about Camille and fantasies about Brent, and in the end she combined them. In her stoned masturbatory imagination, Camille was tied naked to a tree in Rebecca's back yard, and she was muffled with a big orange ball-gag and forced to watch as Rebecca got on her hands and knees and let Brent take her from behind. Camille cried and tried to scream at her and struggled against the ropes that held her against the slender arms of the tangelo tree. Mosquitoes were biting Camille's thighs, her breasts, her face. A spider walked halfway down her torso and stopped, just above her navel, as if watching Rebecca and Brent itself. The waves of orgasm rushed over her as she imagined Brent's cock being so long that it pushed its head up into her cervix, splitting her open, that delicious sweet pain of uncomfortable pleasure. He would spit on her ass and wipe it onto her anus, pushing in his thumb as he fucked her. Roughly, he would yank up on his thumb as it sat buried, hooked up inside her asshole. The pain and throbbing ecstasy of that raping thumb would be too much. She'd feel an imminent opening of her ass, as if she'd shit any moment, but of course she wouldn't. Spasms would pound out from her rectum and wrack her with the strongest come she'd had in years. Camille, tied to the tree, covered in insect bites and a thin sheen of sweat, would just keep weeping and watching. Unconsciously, her hips would thrust and gyrate, and her nipples would be as fat and protruding as Rebecca's in the midst of her rut. Camille, forever the true lesbian, would be watching only Rebecca and hating Brent in his position over them both. Camille would think of her strap-on dildoes and how she used to fuck Rebecca that same way, and she would stand there immobilized and make herself come just from watching Rebecca's ragged breathing and the way her curtain of soft hair fell around her shoulders. Her cunt would drip, heavy thick drops shining in the moonlight, and at the height of her uncontrollable pleasure she would piss all over the ground between them. As the fantasy unfolded and the pot continued to fly her all around, Rebecca stiffened in the tub and raged into orgasm once again. Finally, utterly spent, she poured herself out of the bath and into her robe. It was barely after three in the afternoon at that point, but she was ready for bed. First, thought, she would definitely do something nice for Camille. Going into the kitchen, she stooped down and picked up her dirty thong. She'd gotten extremely juicy in it, of course, and it was still very moist. Raising it to her nose, Rebecca breathed her cunt's perfume for a good long while. Yes, she thought, this will be very nice. She took an envelope and addressed it, stamped it, and walked out to her mailbox. A school bus full of middle schoolers was unloading at the end of her street, and a few of them had spotted her. As she walked back to her house, barefoot, naked beneath her robe, her long auburn hair shining darkly wet, she could barely contain herself. Nevertheless, she did, and she was mortified that it was such a tremendous effort. Middle schoolers turning me on! God! she thought, Have I had a day! With that, she went to bed. She dreamt no dreams she could remember, and by four o'clock the next morning she was wide awake and ready to do something about Camille… and about Brent.