The Price: fed

(This is part of a series. The previous episode can be found here)

A knock on his bureau door, tore him away from the file in his hand he'd been aimlessly studying.

"Yes?"

"Uhm, everything is as you asked," said the male voice on the other side of the closed door.

"Ahhh, yes. Good. Excellent."

The unseen person's footsteps sounded off their departure down the hallway that extended from his private den. Almost with a sense of gratitude for the interruption, he closed the manila folder, sliding it onto his desk. He stared intensely at a spot on the wall just beyond the oak appointment, while his fingers drummed out the patter of calculation. He'd nearly forgotten about these arrangements as their reminder came as a pleasant surprise.

He lifted himself from his chaise and stepped into the corridor. As he strode down the long, empty lane, with each step, he ran his fingers along the textured surface of the wall. Turning into the downward stairwell, he placed his weight on the top step, then flicked the switch just to the right of his shoulder. The quiet cellar beneath him illuminated with a dim, yellow glow. Cool air accompanied the silence as his escort for his descent.

A thin, dripping sound greeted his arrival to the cellar. As he gathered his bearings, his eyes fell upon the door marked "Arrivals", just opposite the landing of the stairs. He approached the door, and slid open the eye-level wooden hatch. Peering inside, he saw her.

Naked.

Curled up in a ball, squinting up at the intrusion of sudden light.

She'd turned, at the sound from the hatch opening, toward the thick wooden entrance, but as he had designed it, the imposing, luminating fixture aloft kept her from seeing anything of real recognition through the momentary slot in the door. He quickly sliced the panel shut.

Just to the right of the entrance to the cell, on top of a flimsy metal stand sat the interned inhabitant's nighttime meal. As instructed, he noticed a complete lack of utensils accompanying the tray of warm morsels. Lifting the coiled leather whip hanging from the wall, he grabbed a hold of the modest meal, and undid the latch to the door.

Pulling the loaded portal open, he stepped foot into the small prison. His presense - his warmth, his commotion, his smell - caused the collapsed girl to shrivel even more into her epidermal ball.

"Hello."

He didn't wait for nor expect a response.

He paced about the room, tray in one hand, leather flogger in the other, looking for a suitable place to rest her food. He settled for putting it right in front of her, on the cold concrete floor. The figure before him moved not a single inch.

"I'm not sure you understand what is to happen to you. As it has been told to me, you gave your full consent. However, i've come to learn, that isn't ever something the gift-giver completely grasps."

He crouched down to one knee, lowering himself so that his face hung just above her arm-covered head.

"Look at me." He spoke with a complete absence of urgency or contempt. She pulled her head out of the nest of her arms, and gave him a first-time view of her stunning, chestnut brown eyes.

"I've heard you are refusing to eat. That can't continue," on this command, she looked down at the aluminum tray of food at her feet. "I must apologize for the lack of proper utensils."

He took the butt of the whip's handle, and dug it into the scoop of beans occupying the upper right quadrant. Lifting this upward to her mouth, he held it in front of her face. Gradually, she opened it, allowing him to slowly place the thick, leather stave inside. With the smallest of movements, she cleaned the sweet, briny beans from the handle.

"Good girl."

He laid the whip over the tray, and stood back up. He brushed his hand over her head, feeling the warmth exuding from her crown, then stepped towards the open door.

"I expect to hear that you've finished all of that."

When a kiss just isn't a kiss

All these whips and shackles and plastic sheeting present a very high maintenance view of my sexual countenance. I in fact have heard numerous times:

"Can you get off without all the gear and rigmarole?"

My immediate snide and sarcastic response would usually be,"Why would i want to?" And largely, that is true. I'm one who feels that this here world offers only so many opportunities for us to explore, expand and expedite these bodies we have - why waste them by first questioning my appetites and then follow that by not listening to them?

But, i recognize that by choosing a semi-public persona as established by this site i have a responsibility to my readers to be more forthcoming than the brash idiot above who rigidly rejects any deviation from his trajectory. For this reason, i feel the need to put to rest any notions out there that anyone might have of me constantly needing some level of SM-related paraphernalia or protocol in order for me to find my arousal. Certainly, painted upon the walls of my identity, my sexual graffiti has often come from the spraycans of a sadist. But, boy, if i'm not about the biggest romantic sap out there. Folks, let me tell you, i cry at sentimental scenes in romantic movies where the two characters come to the final realization that they'd found...the one.

The very same operates in my own life. My girl has the ability to arrest my heart with just a glance, a gesture, or even a passing image of her getting ready in the bathroom mirror as i prance down the hallway. I have often told her that (okay blamed her for them) i'm easy, and it doesn't take much to arouse me, to get me erect. I offer this warning to her both as a warning but also as an invitation to continue with her current behavior, because after a certain point, she will not have a choice as to the outcome.

Just this morning, we were sharing our morning ritual of coffee and breakfast on the couch. We were chatting about the upcoming day's events, and then suddenly, she leaned in and gave me the slightest, most tender and invigorating kiss on the lips. These were the jumper cables to my idle engine, the spark igniting a desire for more. We continued to kiss. Her lips pushing into mine as if they might merge, and before too long, i'd reached a point where there was only one possible discourse. I moved us to the bedroom, and proceeded to stretch that kiss into a long, dwindling crescendo of sexual intercourse.

For this moment, there was no power exchange. Just an unabiding, rapid and hasty race to become one. One. One. One.

you

you
to grab you
i want to grab you
telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
my stomach leaps as blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood, how badly, my stomach, telling me, grab you, how badly, gushes through, i want, how badly

Get right back on the horse

Unplugged. Disconnected. Distanced.

It was a week where many horrible and taxing events took place, and at the end of it, i not only felt myself worn down, but completely detached. From everyone - including my girl.

I experience these moments, when my body has sustained several blows, and my psyche takes even more. Fatigued from the struggle, i sometimes pull very deep inside myself. To the outside observer, i look like a shell, a mindless facsimile of my normal engaging personality. To her, it's even worse. She feeds off my energy, off our discourse and dance, off my direction. When i get like this, any attempts at re-establishing the connection feels dull, clumsy - even foreign.

But i could tell it was affecting her. More presciently, i needed her closeness and warmth. These moments serve up a very difficult predicament. I'm in dire need of repair. She instinctively intuits this and draws near to me, but because i'm three layers deep inside of myself i won't notice or respond in-kind. Drastic measures are required to pull me out.

I was fixing dinner for us, when she came into the kitchen and asked if there was anything she could do. Here, she was not asking if she could help set the table. She was asking for something much more base. Her tone, gravelly, a bit vulnerable, sent the perfect note that reached me through the walls of my inner sanctum. I looked up from my just simmering pan of onions and spices, and calmly spoke:

"Go stand at the end of the bed, and wait until i come in there."

As she retreated to the bedroom, i returned to my cooking, making the final touches before i could let it simmer for 20 minutes, unattended.

I took a long time walking our hallway that led to our pitch black bedroom. Each step, i spoke to myself, pushing me, prodding, trying to shake the heavy veil that had settled on my mind. I stood at the precipice of the bedroom, and examined the back of her body - stolid and stoic, in anticipation of my arrival.

I stepped quickly behind her and ripped off her clothes, tossing her dignified wardrobe to the floor without any concern for their well-being. I grabbed her throat from behind, and pulled my mouth to her ear.

"Don't move," i whispered.

I jumped to the side of the bed, digging in the nylon sack that lay there, finally producing the weighty bit-gag harness. I held it in front of her face where, without any urging, she parted her crimson-painted lips, opening wide her mouth. I made quick work of the half-dozen straps and buckles, tightening each with a growing awareness and warmth in my hands and fingers. I looked at her face, and already a small trail of drool had developed at the left corner of her taxed orifice.

I stood behind her, and gazed at a sight i'd seen many times before. This gorgeous, quivering ass, which was eloquently framed by the long, outstretched arms of her garters as they anchored to her thigh-high stockings, greeted me with a familiar rush of blood to my extremities. I took my hand and slapped it, like a match head, across the flint of her velvety peach flesh. A spark ignited, lighting a flame inside of me.

I slapped her ass. I swatted it. I smacked it with the full meat of my palm. My rigid hand slammed into it repeatedly, over and over, firing multiple shots against her rotund rump in all different directions. I didn't stop, not even for a chance for me to catch my breath. I just continued to lay into her backside. Finally, she reached a boiling point, spilling over with the absorbed energy displaced into her flesh. She stomped and kicked militantly into the wooden floor, spitting and loudly grunting through the gag vicing her mouth open. I stood back and watched this creature expel a week's worth of disgruntlement and pain.

I became suddenly apparent of the stiff erection stretching out my suit pants. I quickly stripped to the nude. Wrapping my hands on each side of her hips, i held them completely still, positioning her. Then, without any thought or question, i entered her from behind. My free right hand reached forward, grabbing a hold of her ebony mane, pulling her head back towards me.

Then, silently and thoroughly, i fucked her.

Taste

Of all the five senses, the one that resides in our mouths is the one most closely tied to satisfaction and satiation. Through taste i feed myself, i fill my insides with nutrients and sustenance. Obviously, it rides sidecar to the digestion function, but it makes that process meaningful and worthwhile. Without the sensory zones on my tongue, i might otherwise not adequately supply myself with nourishment. Interestingly, the main operation center for taste is the mouth, which is also one of the three orifices that satisfies another (i feel equally crucial) hunger.

I can tell immediately. I usually detect it first near the back of my throat and on the underside of my tongue. I develop a specific texture and flavor in my saliva when the hungers of arousal take over. I believe it's akin to the "mouth-watering" axiom so many fast food and grub hawkers have trotted out as their enticement to get you to sit down and feast on their fare. This heavy lubricant creeps up on me sometimes, catching me off guard. I'm not always prepared for it. My oral glands produce this rich, protein-drenched liquid, only to then impose on me its agenda. I can sense the force of energy that manifested this fluid suspended in it, and fully consent to the cue my body is sending. It signals me that it needs to exact some level of erotic release - i must act.

Then there are those times where my mind initiates the sexual campaign. These moments, my taste buds are slow to respond. My head, like the spunky and energetic member of a dogsled team, is doing everything it can to excite and motivate the rest of my body to pick up on the impulses it feels. My mouth, the Alpha leader of my body's pack, is usually the first to legitimize my mental urges. It fabricates this flavor that broadcasts to the other senses, ordering them to turn on their coital receptors. The flavor lingers, clings to the rear portion of my mouth, acting as the clearest indication that i've succumbed to overwhelming sexual impulse.

I won't say that the presence of this taste is what leads me to seek a cunt to fuck or an ass to slap, but more appropriately, this is a seasoning that fills the mouth unlike any sirloin or fillet ever has. When it arises, the thick notes of organic life that inform it strips my day and perspective of any pretense. I am transformed into a warrior whose only quest is copulation. I smack my lips, mix the saline flavors of this potion around in my mouth, and any civil reservations i may have for holding back are dissolved. I want to pillage the very nascent anatomy placed before me. I want to stab with all of my might my erect member into the targeted flesh. For a brief moment, i do not account for or care about the needs and wants of the receiving party. All those social customs are tossed aside, and my fucking ignites with a timbre, a rhythm that can only be referred to as beastly.

At these moments, when nary a rattle can be detected in my head, any images are blurred and grayed out, my ears have ceased absorbing any noise, the primal creature who's in control uses the savor in its mouth to guide and lead it to the magnificent finish.

The Lottery

A few more words from me, stormy. Deity will return soon, promise!

Robert and I have only known each other for about 2 months. He's a dominant man and I'm a submissive girl, but we are simply platonic friends. Yet that doesn't stop him from getting ideas in his head.

The other day, while I thought he was taking a moment of quiet reflection, he was apparently busy conjuring up a way to explain his own kinky idea of an Indecent Proposal.

"I had the most remarkable idea on the way home from work today," he said abruptly.

"I believe I shall win the lottery and purchase you."

Uh oh.

The terms: I would be 'acquired' for $1 million, for one year of service.

The conditions: I would receive no markings or body modifications for that first year; I would not be required to engage in any act that placed my life in danger or risked injury; and I could walk away at any time, with compensation for 'time served.'

Beyond those conditions, I would be owned in my entirety and used as he wished - and believe me, Robert has a very dark list of interesting activities he likes to indulge in.

This contract would be signed before a lawyer, the money placed in escrow, to be paid to me 365 days after signing. Then I could choose to sign a contract for a second year... but for only $1. Conditions to be renegotiated (and certainly not in my favor).

Hmmmm...

"Money isn't a big motivator for me," I said after some thought. "Why would you think I would ever agree to this?"

"Oh, because you want to," he answered.

Damn. And so now you know: Gambling really can be dangerous.

(Would you sign it? Personally, I find the idea terribly seductive... I'm just not telling Robert that.)

Sugasm #104

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #105? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Awkward Sex Attempts (and Other Common Experiences)
“This put a slight damper on the “sexy” feelings I was trying to work up.”

Do You Want Me To Call You A Whore?
“Who doesn’t like having their hair pulled during sex?”

Two Fer
“Neither of us heard the front door open when Jason’s roommate came home.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Girls and Guns

Editor’s Choice
Being a Feminist in the sex industry

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

BDSM & Fetish
Fucking machines

What's the French word for 'swagger'?*

Growing up, i had a rousing friendship with both the Disney family of cartoon players as well as the playful crew over at the Warner Bros. house. Every afternoon, i would carve out at least an hour of recreational television watching in great anticipation of seeing my favorite Donald Duck, Chip 'n Dale, Daffy Duck and Foghorn Leghorn slapstick (i didn't care much for Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny because they too closely resembled the good guys). All of these jesters were placed in the most aggravating, conflicting and trying situations with obstacle after obstacle tossed at them which i deeply related to. It now occurs to me the oddity of my young self relating more to these 2-dimensional celluloid illustrations than the flesh and blood that marauded around me, but nonetheless it was very true. I sought the animated teleplay of underdogs rather than interact with the real life bullies and unpredictably feral schoolmates.

Of all the regular set of characters i came to enjoy and even emulate in my own behavior, there was one that struck a nerve that these four chums somehow didn't. I related to this quartet by way of their unkempt state of always being on the wrong foot, singing a song slightly off-key, skipping to a beat that drew unneeded attention to them. However, this one fella struck a chord in me i couldn't identify at the time. His scrapes didn't involve dashed get-rich schemes and top-your-neighbor foibles. Instead, his purr-suits were exclusively that of the opposite sex.

Of course i speak of Pepe le Pew:



In this cartoon, as in most of his performances, the discovery of his existence immediately elicits distress calls from the poor discovering sap. They freak out when they identify him as "Le pew" or in the anglicized version of French, a skunk. His stench identifies himself as a monster. So many of my own stubborn views and ticks invited similar disparagement, as a result his alienation became an instant brotherhood for me to latch onto. There were many days of social solitude and isolation that caused me to wonder if i smelled awful, but even then, that didn't ignite my attachment to him and his cartoon saga.

Every episode where he starred that i remember involved him relentlessly pursuing a female (a pussy, at that). Such blatant sexual conquests had never been re-enacted in a way i could enjoy. Like most kids, i pinched my nose in utter dramatic contempt when the movie got to the kissing part. I did it because i didn't understand why the two characters wanted to do that, but also, because other kids around me were doing it, and at that age, i tried to minimize the amount of negative attention i attracted. Monsieur le Pew, however, made it acceptable to enjoy the hunt of the female species.

I loved the way he jaunted after them, with such persistence, such effrontery and patience, and such, such confidence. His "swagger" consisted of a calm, ballet-like bounce, whereas the targeted female was racing with haste and frenzy. He knew that once he set his sights on her, he would have her. I'm not certain whether i related to this so much because i naturally felt this way myself, or because i learned this from Pepe. Either way, caper after caper, i treated his cartoons less as entertainment, and more like visits from a kindred spirit. The only parts of his episodes i didn't care for were the ones where he'd get the girl only after he'd changed (i.e. dipped in paint, de-scented, shaved, etc.), and for that matter, she would too.

I've always approached an interaction with a female with a blind sense of faith that it will go favorably. I assume that they'll find something interesting about me, keeping them open long enough to chat. This isn't as brashly arrogant as it seems, but actually stems more from the fact that i get along with the opposite gender so well. Some aesthetes have the ability to walk up to an instrument they've never played and make angelic music with it. Some can advance on a wild horse, whisper in its ear, and lead it off the meadow to a new way of life.

*Answer: épate

Fucking machines

As much as i would like to release a manifesto raging against the encroachment of industrialized automatons on our organic lives, this thesis, unfortunately, isn't it. Rather, i shall use my stores of energy to scribe a long tome to the phenomenon that has entrenched itself deeply in the world of kink:

the fucking machine

...as in a contraption manufactured to administer a solid and righteous sexual penetration. Now, loosely defined, a device can satisfy the basic guidelines needed to qualify as a machine if it has " rigid moving parts that perform or assist in performing some work". Quite frankly, a wooden spoon could qualify as a machine. Clearly, we are not interested in fetishizing the creation of puddin', so the common, ordinary, basic kitchen supplies won't be the focus of this essay. Following along these rigid lines, it goes without saying (and yet, ironically, it goes said) that i do not mean to also discuss vibrators and other masturbatory contrivances. Surely, these are fucking "machines", but most commonly are auto-administered. What i find most exciting and enthralling are those gadgets devised to target the female genitalia when the proprietor of said erogenous zones is restrained and unable to stop this encroachment.

I don't care much for those Deus Ex Fuckina's like this or this where the girl largely straddles the apparatus and let's the vibrations deliver her to O-town. Mind you, when i say "i don't care", i mean, i get very little pleasure from witnessing this act. I'm all for a girl taking the business end of these toys and shoving them all up in their business. However, what i prefer is when she's bound, THEN fucked. There is something quite moving in anchoring a girl to complete suspended animation, with her parts prone, only to slowly dissolve her into a pile of vibrating, screwed gelatin, unable to move away from her penetrator, let alone decide when she's had enough.

It's at this point where i pause and ponder the accumulated imagery i have that forms the footnoted citations of my viewpoint. I look over the black (well, grey as i draft it) wall that i've scribbled on and wonder if i've accomplished the proof of my thesis. What, you may ask, is my thesis? And i would respond by speaking to the empty air that lies around me (as i try not to notice that i'm talking out loud to a keyboard and monitor) with the same single word my thesis often inhabits:

Why?

To view a female who has submitted to being bound in an open and vulnerable position, only to have a mechanical device simulate the act of a rather hard and rough coupling, represents to me about as clear a no-brainer stimuli that exists. But, i have a responsibility to acknowledge that my perspective is one much more exposed to these sort of renderings than others. Therefore, i recognize i must offer my reader something more than just a long casual chat about motorized sex contraptions. To some people there is no such thing as a casual chat about this subject.

I myself have never owned or used one. I have been witness to a few live sessions and have viewed countless videos of the same kind. The basic formula that never fails to arouse is as such:

Girl led in and bound
+
pistoning engine with a dildo attachment positioned at chosen orifice
+
initiation of sequential mechanical humping
---------------------------------
girl becomes extension of machine

And that's the key, i believe. Any number of tweaks to the three components can occur, but only tweaks. Their basic anatomy must remain in order for the expressed sum to materialize.

girl becomes extension of machine

Even as i type that, i feel a growth of arousal. I'm not physically touching her, in fact, i'm specifically avoiding that, in order not to taint the assimilation. I am positioning her then abandoning her to the electrical device pounding into her immobile cunt. In the few times i've seen this in person, i'd watch as the somewhat startled girl vanished, leaving behind a copulating humanoid, and then i myself would leave. I'd go into a neighboring room, not too far, so that i could still hear the sounds of the air puffing out of the engine, and the real prize:

the occasional grunt and moan of a die-cast lifeform.

The knife

A master had carefully watch’d his pupil develop before him over the years. The student had shown great capacity for understanding their lessons, but an even greater deference to the silence one must possess to learn. The Master decid'd that the pupil was ready to prove their full worthiness. He told the pupil to craft a knife. He want'd the knife to be of exceptional beauty but also razor-sharp. He told the pupil that they had two days to prepare the knife, and that when they return’d, they were to prove the quality of the weapon. They would first showcase its beauty. The Master would then produce through which the knife must cut, two items.

Two days pass’d. The pupil quietly enter’d the main hall of the temple, moving to the stool just outside their Master’s chambers. The pupil sat quietly, waiting to hear their Master’s call. After many minutes, the Master beckon’d the pupil to enter. Upon entrance, the pupil saw their Master prostrating in deep reflection. The pupil join’d him. The Master stood up to reveal two items his cloaks had conceal'd on the floor behind him; A rock the size of his fist made of granite and a similar-siz'd piece of shiny obsidian.

The pupil lift’d the granite into their right hand, and with their other hand, pull’d the most intricately, beautiful knife the Master had ever seen from an immaculately craft’d holster on their belt. It had a long ivory handle, sculpt’d and shap’d to match the contours of the pupil’s hand and fingers. Each impression was emboss’d with dazzling rivulets of gold. The blade itself struck glory and fear in one’s heart just by the arch’d length of it. The pupil touch’d the brilliant blue-steel blade to the rock with the slightest amount of force, and instantly split the granite in two. The Master remain’d silent as he watch’ d both halves crumble to the floor. The pupil then pick’d up the obsidian, and 'gainst the surface, plac’d the blade.

The obsidian, however, did nothing. The pupil endeavor'd to slice through the obsidian, but all he creat’d were fine particles of dust and metal shavings. The blade would not go through the glass-like rock. The Master had anticipat’d this, and thus was not disappoint'd. "Two more days," he instruct'd his pupil to improve this knife and then return.

The pupil would repeat this feat several times. Each time they return’d, following two solid days of working on the dagger, they would easily slice through the first object their Master had laid out, but make no dent in the second item. And each time, the Master would, for two days, send them away.

Months pass'd.

As the time went on, th’once glistening appearance of the knife began to degrade. The ivory on the handle no longer shimmer’d, and the jewel’d ornamentation became dull, filthy and cak’d with grime. The blade itself, once a ferocious deterrent to any who might strike, became but a mere shadow. ‘Stead of a proud, two hand's length of solid steel, it had wither’d to a flimsy strip smaller than a thumb. The pupil, too, show’d the same disarray. Their hair now hung muss’d and filthy off their head, and the pupil's clothes clung to them, greasy and tatter’d.

One afternoon, the pupil enter’d the great hall once more, but rather than dutifully waiting for their Master’s summons, the pupil's fatigu'd frame crumpl'd into a ball, clumsily falling asleep on the stool just outside. It took their Master shaking the pupil to wake from their slumber. Upon their groggy entrance, the pupil saw that which the knife must address. The first was a pile of sand from the nearby shore. The second object was a large glycerin bubble craft'd by the pupil's Master just before he'd call’d out into the hallway. The pupil sat in silence, pausing for the first time in many months to reflect. He took out his pitiful knife from its now decrepit holster, plac’d it on the ground, remain’d looking at the floor and said:

“I yield.”

Their Master, upon his face, a great smile grew. Finally, his pupil had shown their greatest capacity.

Terms of surrender

It has come to my attention that things have changed between us. The persona you have played exclusively in the bedroom for many months has spilled out onto the floors of the rest of your life. I can view this in the ways you are dressing yourself. It is clear in the images of women that draw your attention. Your posture even assumes a difference when i come into the room. Patterns of breathing i'd seen only in your throes of passion now appear as we walk together.

Because of this, i offer you the following terms:

You will no longer view yourself as an autonomous being. From this point on, you will see yourself as owned. You are an object, to be held and monitored and cared for. Your needs exist outside of you. On a regular basis, you will submit to exercises that test, confront, challenge and ultimately shatter the once strong sense of free individuality you came to me with. You will live as my doll.

You will wear the clothes i choose, arrange your appearance by my specifications, and no longer own your physical identity. When you look in the mirror, you will see the alterations i have made, and you will know that you are my toy. You will gradually experience physical modifications that will take on greater and greater permanence, further marking you as mine.

You will submit to regular corporal discipline sessions, to enforce your status as the directed. At any moment, you will be asked to offer yourself, and expected to wait with your body positioned in preparation for a thrashing. You will submit to the pain, letting it guide you in the process of letting go. You will submit to the humiliation of being regularly spanked, letting it loosen your grip on your former, artificial ego. You will submit to the degradation you will feel when you realize you need this correction, letting it remind you of your place as my hungry, needy, desperate fucktoy.

You will be my possession, my property.

These terms are unconditional and non-negotiable.