This was also from that old blog somewhere on the Interwebs. A piece of spontaneous fiction of which I’m still pretty fond. Little vignette, due to listening to ‘The Twilight Zone’ by Golden Earring far too much on repeat one evening. I’ve decided to share it with you here today.

Have fun.

-

Found inside the wall of a recently demolished hostel, eastern Kosovo, 1999. The handwriting analysis returns no match on any INTERPOL database network. The paper is worn, the ink fading before disappearing completely in the light of the sun.

Spies should never fall in love.

I have intimate knowledge of this, as my mother taught me early in life. The product of aftermath-adrenaline from a firefight in Kosovo, she made the crucial mistake of falling for her asset, who would become my father some months later, only to be revealed soon enough after that, that he was really working for the other guy, and my mother and I had an even shorter time to get out of the country alive. They gave me a name, but I don’t know what it is. And I’ve had so many since then, it hardly even matters. He has one, too. I never learned it. But I agree in some respects, it’s probably better that way.

Like so many kids, I was ensnared by the family business before I really had a chance to explore life outside of it. It was just as well; if espionage is genetically-encoded, then black ops is in my blood. I tried life as a civilian, briefly, before I realised it was a luxury that only others could enjoy, and I would be forever on the outside of it, looking in. Normalcy. Medocrity. Those wealthy beyond their dreams never do realise it. Honesty. Trust. Love. These things money really can’t buy, and are more grand and engulfing to ever fit on microfiche.

I used to want them. I was even in love myself. Once. It ended in disaster, as it’s wont to do. Terribly common in this business. Occupational hazard, one might even venture to assert. Trust is the deadliest ingredient in a cocktail fashioned solely for an operative’s demise. Trust. If you trust, then you get sloppy. You place aspects of yourself, your life, your well-being — who you are — in another’s hands. And when it all goes south — and believe me, it always does — then you’re left with a lot more than heartbreak and cynicism. That’s a civilian’s pardon. They get off easy. We don’t. At all. Six feet under; or burned, disavowed, if fortune is beaming down upon you, and you somehow have an inordinate amount of blackmail material on most of the intel-com. And even then, you’re playing with something a lot more deadly than fire with consequences to match. Love. Maybe Cash understood it best; it is a burning thing. Especially when you’re the one holding the match.

Boom.

Sorry, baby. That’s just the way it goes.

Sometimes, sometimes … I allow myself to wonder, in the dead of night after a long assignment, what if … what it could be like, were it different. Even if there is no such thing as real love at all; just fodder for bedtime stories fed to us as children in hopes we might grow to become normal, functioning cogs of the greater societal machine. Tick, tock. Sometimes, I catch myself at the window, my nose pressed against the glass, the star of my own personal government spook hell, Dickens’-style. That’s when I see them all, living their lives without me ever being a part of it. A ghost of my own existence, of my own design. But I remind myself that’s dangerous. Trust, love — that gets you killed. I may not have much of a life, but I’m still living. Breathing. Into the mirror of a rented motel room, in the still darkness, the neon buzzing outside. This far from the borderline.

Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?

Bang.

The gun’s always warm. It never cools. That’s my job. I must be the ice to the fire of this … this career, this calling, this circumstance. Only then is there balance. Only then is there chance that I just might retire from it some day — alive.

Trust. That’s another’s treasure. Not mine. It never can be. That’s not what I am.

I’m a spy.

(c) 2009 M Roulette Chatelaine
(Steal my shit, and I’ll be hunting YOU down.)

CHAPTER ONE —

. use me

I dig my heel deeper into the soft pouch of flesh between his legs, protected only by a thin layer of fabric, thanks to my generosity of allowing him to leave his pants on. Trust me, I didn’t have to. His eyes are wide, and he’d be begging and pleading with me to spare him the pain and humiliation, were he able to. I’ll have to remember to buy a new pair of hosiery in the hotel lobby, I mentally note before alleviating just enough pressure; it should allow the man to speak. Oh, except for the hose. I yank that quickly out of his mouth, enjoying the nice red lines that have formed at the outer edges of his lips due to him having to accommodate the big ball of lingerie.

“Well?” With my other arm casually against my thigh, pistol in hand, of course, I look right at him. Ready for my answer. Too bad for him, it appears he has nothing. Nothing doesn’t fly with me. Not in my work, and not in my play. I hate that I keep getting the two mixed up.

“She said … ” He begins.

“That’s right, Jimmy. You take a nice deep breath and think carefully about your words.” Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realise Cassandra would kill me, if she knew I was here. Not that I cared, or that it would stop me. Cass and I were friends. This is what friends do – when one of them gets date-raped, at least. “Do you think I have all day?”

“What?” He sputters. “I, I … I don’t even know who you are!”

Well, that’s a no-shit. Nor will he ever. If he wants to live. Against my better judgment, I’m not always a sadistic hell-bitch. I do ensure that the punishment fits the crime. And, well, California, and thereby, Los Angeles, isn’t going to make rape a capital crime anytime soon. Regardless of my own personal, albeit biased, feelings toward the subject matter.

“James. Listen up.” I lean into him; not that I want to, given that he still smells of cigarettes and hard liquor. “What’s the opposite of ‘yes’?”

He blinks at me, as if carefully considering his answer before continuing. (Good boy.) Attempting the first time … (Failing.) And then a second … “ … Like … the word?”

That’s it. Within seconds, my nails are buried more deeply into the fabric than my stiletto heel was even capable. (It wasn’t my fault the dude wasn’t wearing denim.) Once his tone returns to something near normal … enough, I holster my gun, and take a fistful of hair with my now free hand. (It was just for intimidation anyway. This guy was a total pussy – which I knew already from the fact that he raped my friend.)

“Okay!” He shouts. “Okay, okay, okay – ”

“Okay?” I laugh. Oddly genuinely. Okay? “The opposite of ‘yes’ is ‘okay’?”

“No! No! No, no, no, n-n-n-no, no, no. It’s ‘no’! It’s ‘no’! The opposite of ‘yes’ is ‘no’!” He shouts proudly, strangely reminiscent of that kid my partner’s second-grader is always tormenting. (It’s really cute, actually. Reminds me of me at that age.)

“Good, Jimmy!” I say, mussing up what had been my handful of his straight brown locks. “Fantastic. Now, what does a lady mean when she says ‘no’ … ” I paused before continuing. “James Walker Wilson?” People typically get freaked out when I call them by their full names. Especially when they’ve never told me, and I haven’t actually found the information anywhere. But we’ll get to that later. Of course, it has the exact effect I wanted it to, and he looks up at me, quizzical at first, and then a bit scared.

“ … Are you a cop?” Are the first words he can think of. It’s a common misconception.

“No, Jimmy. I’m a lot worse than a cop.” I lean into his ear – for no other real reason except it’s fun. And, well, that seems to be what they do a lot in the movies, don’t they? I don’t really know what purpose it serves, outside of giving the audio engineer the chance to amplify the speaker’s next words, creating an air of suspense and overall creepiness. (And it does, actually.) “I don’t have any rules that govern me.” And I smile at him really brightly. He looks as if he shits his pants. (He probably does.)

“I’m sorry!” He says, now genuinely afraid. Poor fuckwad thinks he’s actually going to die today – and, in all fairness, he could. Except that I’m on a schedule, his death is not on it, and I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Oh, and the fact that he didn’t actually kill anyone. Mostly that.

“What are you sorry for, Jimmy?”

“I … I shoulda stopped.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She said she didn’t want to tonight, and, and, and I should’ve stopped … ” His mind is trailing off. I don’t like that. Wandering thoughts always leave me feeling uncomfortable, and a little bit drained. I hate chasing after them. “But she just looked so fucking hot – ”

I sigh. God, is he stupid.

Hand, hair. Balls, heel. Screaming, crying – blah, blah, blah. Oh – I grab my pistol and jam it under his chin. That’s the right effect. Real tears. Good. I like to see real tears.

“Care to print a retraction there, James, or do you really want that going to the presses?”

“No!” He shouts, half-laughing. People do that when they’re scared shitless, I’ve discovered. They just start laughing – as if their terror is the funniest Goddamned thing they’ve ever experienced. As if the logic centres of the brain all check out for the time being, and raw instinct takes over. Raw instinct, on the other hand, is rarely rational, and can be very, very dangerous. Curiously enough, I love raw instinct. “No! I’m sorry! Goddamn it, I’m sorry, okay? You fucking crazy bitch – ”

Okay, I know I said it before, but I’ll say it again. Goddamn, is he stupid.

But just as the gun is cocked, my little stress-reliever is interrupted by the sound of angry (yes, angry – I’ll tell you later) footsteps, and a very loud hotel room door slamming against the wall. And … the even more angry (see?) voice of my partner.

I roll my eyes, turning to face him. He’s saying a bunch of stuff, but since it’s the same stuff he always does when he thinks I’m seconds away from losing my temper, I tend not to always listen. I sigh. “Did you even check to see if it was locked first?” I remark, regarding the now broken-down door. Hotels tend to like that so much, they show you their gratitude with an especially hefty fine.

Now, it’s his turn to sigh, momentarily out of breath. Probably from running up the stairs. I narrow my eyes at him for a second – yep, stairs. Too many people on the elevators. Too busy. He didn’t want to wait. He hates to wait. Hence … the door. So, running a hand through his hair, he straightens his tie – even though it’s hanging a good few inches down his neck.

“It’s more fun to kick it in.” He gives the air a good kick, just for emphasis.

“Of course, it is.” I shake my head slowly, rising from my previously kneeled position. I think Jimmy’s pissed his pants. Sure the fuck isn’t semen running down his leg. Last I’d checked, he had no masochistic leanings – which was what made my display all the more enjoyable. For me, that is. Walking over to Schyler Chase – AKA, my partner, I look up at him (since he’s a good foot taller than me). “I wasn’t going to kill him, Chase.”

He scoffs. “Sure, Dev. I believe you.”

“I’m serious. He raped Cassandra. I was just making sure he got to experience a similar terror, and possibly, somewhat lasting effects.”

“I have!” He assures, rather suddenly, from the floor. “I really have.” It’s quieter now, as if the realisation is setting in. Truly terrified. Mission accomplished. Boo-yah.

“Ember,” he begins, but on dangerous ground. He’d only use my first name – November – if it were really serious. Major-fucking-holy-shit-the-sky-is-falling-run-for-your-lives, serious shit. Oh, and about November – I dunno. My mother was on crack. Not literally, but she might as well have been. It was a statement, according to her. She didn’t get why only certain months were suitable for naming a child. What was wrong with fall? And why did winter get cut out of the deal, too? Sure, you don’t name your kid ‘March’ or ‘July’, but there are plenty of Junes, Aprils, and even some Mays. But the ‘-uary’ and ‘-ember’ months got left out of the whole equation. I tried to convince her it was with good reason, but she doesn’t listen to me – or anybody else. She’s also … kinda crazy. (Oh, surely, I jest. Only the most sane women name their daughters ‘November’.) It is with true kindness that Chase chose to truncate it.

“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. He knows I need say no more.

His eyes fall upon poor James Wilson. “Good point.”

But James gets the wrong idea entirely. “Oh, shit.” And … has the nutty notion that going out the window is somehow going to be his only way out alive.

“Hold it!” And even I stand in attention at Chase’s peculiarly commanding voice. Which has always freaked me out. Nobody can order me around – and it’s usually pretty ugly for them if they try.

But there are some advantages to being short, petite, and slender. You can weave quickly, are light on your feet, and capable of grabbing someone’s collar – and pulling hard. The expected choking noises were exactly what I wanted to hear, so I slam him over toward the single room’s modest full size bed – with horrendous seventies throwback floral print.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God … ” He whimpers and cries beneath my hands and Chase’s gaze. I sigh, rolling my eyes for the third time this evening.

“Do you realise, without question, that if you harm another woman, in your lifetime, that I will hunt you down and remove from your person your cock and balls?” This caused even my partner, who’s surprisingly badass for a genuinely nice guy, to wince. “Do you, James Walker Wilson?”

It flashes across his mind for just a moment: how would I know? Which is a very good question, but a dangerous track for him. I really didn’t want to have to keep him on my silent watch list. There were enough people on it already, and I didn’t have time, patience, energy, or enough of a give-a-damn for the ones already on it. But he didn’t know this, and, hell, I was so convincing that I’d believe me. And, who knows? I found myself in the mood to castrate someone disturbingly often. (But I was getting better.)

He swallows hard before answering – first with just a fast nodding motion, which made his entire face look suspiciously like a bobble-head – then with actual words. “Yes. I do.”

“Good.” I say, slapping him on the back and subsequently rising from the bed.

Chase then asks with just a hint of demand: “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

I eye him for the moment, crooking my brow. “Aww, are you bored already?” I grin, replying mock-sweetly.

“The only thing interesting about this was kicking down the door.” At least he’s being honest.

I shrug. “I’m sorry if my little detours don’t do it for you anymore.”

“Your little detours cause us to be off-schedule. Instead of doing what you should be doing, you’re off torturing some asshole for being an asshole.” I’m walking out of the hotel room now, leaving Jimmy and the memory of it all behind. He probably thinks we’re crazy. Of course, he wouldn’t be that far off.

Chase plants his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to change them, Devereaux. No matter how badly you terrify them, what fear of whatever all-powerful deity you put into them, or how much effort you put into reprogramming them.”

I turn to him, somewhat dazed. I really can’t keep doing two in a night like this without sufficient sleep the night before. He can sense my wobbliness and prepares to spot me – just in case. It looks a bit humourous – as if he keeps debating as to whether or not he should embrace me, or not. Like the most indecisive overture ever. Not that he’d ever make one. He just … Well, I don’t know. I never have. He’s too tough of a nut to crack. I can’t read him, and it’s always made me uncomfortable.

And fascinated. And a little bit attracted. But only because of that thing which is unknown. Exciting. Different. Uncharted. Possibly even … dangerous. But then the thought amuses me even more than his thoughtful attempts to keep me from careening into the wall. Chase? Dangerous? Yeah, right. He may not be an open book, but I know him incredibly well.

… Don’t I?

Sure, he could lie to me, and I wouldn’t know it. He was the only one that could do that, and it freaked me out. Freaked me out so much that … we joined forces. What sense does that make? Fuck if I know. I figured that if he was capable of destroying me, the least I should do is make him an ally. That way, he couldn’t. Right?

… Right?

“Ground control to Devereaux.”

Wow. Mind wandering. I really must be tired.

“Right. Can’t change ‘em. Shouldn’t even try.”

Oh, great. Now he’s pissed. “Are you even listening to me?” (No. Not really.) He sighs. “I didn’t say don’t try – you can always try. But if you’re going to up and go vigilante on me, the least you could do is send me a text.”

I stop. “And this differs from my regularly going vigilante … how?” He had to admit it was kind of redundant. We were already doing some kind of odd vigilante thing. “You mean the next time I go rogue vigilante to give you a head’s up ahead of time?”

He folds his arms and half-glares at me. I don’t know why I love it when he does that. Maybe because it’s kind of cute. He looks a bit pouty, and also kind of stern, and it’s oddly adorable – even for a guy in his late-thirties. (Especially for a guy in his late-thirties.) “Aren’t we supposed to be partners?”

Oh, here we go again. ‘You don’t include me enough.’ ‘I never know what you’re thinking.’ ‘I never know where you are.’ ‘Why don’t you make decisions with me?’ Fuck. Okay, I’m just tired. I’m not looking to take this out on him, he’s not the source of my ire, and he doesn’t need to be. I just really wanted some fucking sleep this morning, instead of chasing down some asswipe who’d forgotten the most basic rules of social conduct. But, no. I chose this. Hell, I chose all of it. We both did. It only made sense to combine our fucked-up powers of … what, being fed up with the human condition and a lot of unresolved anger? Yeah, but how many people actually do something with theirs? How many actually actively re-educate people? So much to the point where they have to put them on a schedule just to fit them all in? Why couldn’t we just hang out at home, like most normal people, and watch reruns of Lost? Just because we were both freelance professionals and set our own hours, didn’t mean we had to spend those hours we weren’t working tracking down and ‘re-educating’ those that either fell through the cracks in the system, or ended up having enough corrupt friends in the right positions of power to get off scot-free.

But the delicate balance of the universe just doesn’t work that way. No one gets off scot-free. I think he’s in it for the sheer purpose of experience. But me, I have something to prove. Maybe to myself. Maybe to them. Maybe to everyone; I don’t even really know yet. But I get closer each day to finding out.

“We are partners,” I say, finally. I don’t know what else he’s said during my silent pontification, but it doesn’t matter. “I was just being spontaneous. Like an ice cream run.”

He’s thinking he misheard me. “Okay, I know I must’ve misheard you.” (See?) “Like … an ice cream run?”

“Yeah.”

“Except tracking down and scaring the shit out of the guy who raped your friend.”

I smile before pressing the button to the elevators. “Exactly.” As we both get on, we’re outwardly silent, but his mind is absolutely buzzing. For the moment, we ride in silence. “Besides. I could use the practise.”

“Practise?”

“Yeah. You know. Proper interrogation technique, bondage and restraint; especially, the sadistic use of pain and psychological domination.”

It’s out before I can take it back, though. Almost as if tangible, the words hang in the now-silence between us. Great. But soon, the elevator car comes to a halt, and the doors open immediately thereafter. Saved by the fucking bell. I take one step out of the car, hoping to quickly leave the awkwardness in the cramped space behind us.

“Next time … ” He begins, stepping off next to me. I can feel the anticipation in his words, and it does things to me that I really don’t want to be thinking about right now. “You can use me.”

And … he walks off ahead of me. Which is a good thing, seeing as I have nothing prepared in response. Son of a fucking bitch. (But not really; his mother’s cool.) I drag a both hands along my scalp, digging my nails in, as if to physically erase the thoughts in my own head. Right. Like that’s gonna work.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

“Are you coming?” He calls from up ahead. Seeing as I took a cab (to avoid having to find a damned parking place) riding back with him is a really, really nice thought. Usually. But now? Pure, unadulterated terror.

Firing him a look that probably says a lot more than I can vocalise right now, I open the passenger side door and get in. Of course, just as the morning rush hour begins. He pulls away from the curb, blissfully silent – and continues to be for the remainder of the trip.

If only that didn’t make me want him more.

Fuck.

—

At first, he couldn’t believe it. After all of the years of carefully constructed identity concealment – the aliases, the false starts; the red herrings. In fact, he wouldn’t. It couldn’t be that now she would drop her guard. Drop everything. That now, after so many years of waiting – searching, and failing, that he could try again. And this time, he wouldn’t fail. But it was impossible. How? She had all but vanished. Disappeared. Gone – without a trace. He knew she had meant to be. Why. And that he was the reason.

Extinguishing his cigarette upon the soft flesh of the woman currently bound and gagged at his feet, he half-wondered why more individuals like himself (multiply murdering psychopaths) hadn’t gotten into this whole Master-slash-Dom business. It was almost too easy. Almost as easy as her becoming a dominatrix. To piece back the remnants of her shattered personality, he figured. Rebuild her confidence, and somehow, regain her esteem. After all, he’d worked rather diligently to destroy it. He had little doubt that someday she’d attempt to reclaim herself. He was almost proud of her. Strange … Of course, had she only complied the first time around, he wouldn’t be hating her now. Had she not refused him, done what he said, and made him part of her life as he had so very much wanted, he wouldn’t be continuing to seek her destruction.

Alas, he had learned in the time in-between that we are indeed each responsible for our own actions, and cannot expect to control or ensure the actions of another. Though, as he looked into the pleading eyes of the young woman in front of him, the rope beginning to tear at the edges of her mouth, staining the soft nylon with the faintest shade of pink, he had come to admit this was somewhat folly. In this context, at least. This stupid creature was willing to do anything and everything that he wanted. Fuck, she even asked to be tied up! It almost took the fun out of the entire experience. He knew she was pretending and secretly loving the pain, but if he only used the fullest extent of his imagination, he could fancy with lesser fervour that she was really in terrible, horrible pain, silently praying for death, and his unwilling, desperate captive. Too bad he’d never been that good at pretending, despite his quite vivid and definitely terrible imagination.

It didn’t help that when he smiled at her, she smiled back. Or that his smile hadn’t the slightest to do with her; not this wretched being upon his floor who loved every dehumanising, degrading, vile and despicable thing he should choose to inflict upon it. His smile matched his gaze, which was far from here, and hoping to reach wherever she was. She who had hid from him for so long. She who was fooling herself into believing she could ever fathom her own freedom. To have control. Dominion over others; most importantly, herself. He knew she hated pain. He knew how much, in fact, and the thought filled him with more joy than he could process. She would not smile back. Her desperation, her silent prayers, her pleading would be real. Elation. Oh, how he was so sick and tired of pretending.

Its eyes watched him as he began sliding the rope through his fingers, pulling swiftly; his eyes widening at the impressive red patches left in its wake. The creature appeared confused, but said nothing. He knew it wouldn’t dare.

“Go.”

He stood with the rope in his hands. The young woman was a bit perplexed as to why she was being dismissed so soon, yet knew not to question. Soon, she would gather her clothes from the other room, dress, and leave. She would later thank him in email for a frighteningly authentic experience of being kidnaped and held prisoner by a sadistic serial killer, since it appeared to be one of her many fetishes. They would laugh at his ability to play the part with such skill and believability. Then, he would find another — and another. And another. There were dozens. Far more than he could ever imagine that wanted such horribleness inflicted upon them. To give the illusion of relinquishing control. Of being taken against one’s will. Forced into humiliating, terrifying, traumatising scenarios, and able to explore the catharsis one gets from having survived such an ordeal.

Pretend. More fucking pretend. He wondered if they knew how stupid they looked, begging and pleading. He wondered even more if they were secretly imagining how they might look at any given moment. If their hair was out of place, or their eyeliner running down their face. He hated the fact that he knew they cared. More than that, that they were able to care.

He suddenly found that he’d answered his own question as to why more real psychopaths don’t bother with the practise of lifestyle BDSM, despite the ridiculously large number of willing victims. It was the willing part he could never wrap his brain around. It really did take all of the fun out of it.

Pretend. That’s all it ever was.

More so than the average social situation, though it fooled itself into thinking it was more authentic. That because people within its context were willing to disrobe, fuck, and inflict innumerable methods and amounts of pain to their persons and those of others – oftentimes by near strangers – it meant there were greater intimacy. Greater connection. More truth, honesty, and trust.

What a fucking joke. He liked to watch her dress after their scenes. He had contemplated many times of suddenly coming up behind her and slitting her throat, bringing her slowly down to the carpet while the fresh warm blood covered them both. She’d never had seen it coming, either. Heavenly. But he knew that her husband would ask to where she’d gone, and he really didn’t feel like getting all caught up in that again. She smiles to him, and he smiles back. Of course. Must maintain the pretense at all times. He finds it almost funny that she tends to leave with the statement that it’s “been real”.

Real. Sure.

Well, he knew she didn’t really want to know that he was a sadistic murderer, and thus, he felt no real need to confess it. He remembered how well things went the last time someone had found out. But of course, no one disappears forever. Especially not when they were hiding in plain sight. It’s almost too easy. Too easy. But then this whole thing was too easy. And fake. So fucking fake. Fake, and pretending to be real. It would be nice to be something again. Something that he really was. Sure, he’d entertained the thought of revealing his true self in the midst of them all one night – to watch them gape in horror, suddenly taking back all of their foolish, prideful boasting of how they could stand so much, and how they longed to be made less than human; forced, unwilling, desperate, objectified. Ruined. Destroyed. A shell of what they used to be.

Forced – indeed – to pick back up the pieces and attempt to fit them back together again so that they could continue living their fake, worthless little lives. They wouldn’t survive. So easily controlled. Too easily, in fact. He wanted a challenge.

He was done with pretending. He wanted something real again. He wanted her.

“Soon,” he said, tapping the screen with his finger. With that, he snatched up his extra special toy bag and headed for downtown, being especially mindful of the shadows; though, he began to soon fear even they were unable to disguise the depth of his own darkness.

I have also updated the Erotica RSS Feed to include this latest submission. However, I realize that a lot of you reading this site don’t really understand what that means. In fact, ad admirer of Mistress Roulette recently asked me during Dom Con to explain exactly what RSS is and how to use it.

In essence, RSS is a technology that allows you to subscribe to web content. This website currently offers three separate RSS feeds:

• One for Erotica
• One for podcasts
• And one for blog posts
  

So you can subscribe to any or all of those RSS Feeds and receive immediate updates whenever there is new content for you. For instance, if you had subscribed to the Erotica RSS Feed you would have known that Mistress Roulette recently published the conclusion to her story without having to look over that the fr33 pron tab.

The real beauty of RSS is that it essentially works like the opposite of email. With email, someone sends you a message. With RSS, you subscribe to content, and your reader goes out and grabs the content whenever there’s something new available. In an of itself, a single RSS feed is really not much of a time saver, but if you start to subscribe to multiple RSS feeds then you could just go to one place and see where new site had been added. For instance, here’s a picture of My Yahoo after I subscribed to Mistress Roulette’s Erotica. You can see it right at the top of the list informing me that “If You Only Knew, Part III,” was just released. Right under that, there are news feeds telling me the top stories from Reuters.

How did I subscribe to it using My Yahoo, you ask? Easy, I just clicked on the particular RSS Feed and used the menu at the top. Personally, I prefer an email reader such as Mac Mail so that I can get my email and my RSS updates all in a single place. If you are the kind of person that is trying to maximize your time, then RSS can be a real blessing because it can aggregate all of your interests into a single reader and save you the time of going to each individual website to check for updates.

As always, I welcome feedback. So, feel free to comment as desired.

Enjoy.