#iron and steel company

[antara93]

What is the difference between steel alloy and cast iron?

To begin with, steel alloy and cast iron are both types of metal alloys that are widely used in various industries. Although they share some similarities, there are significant differences that set them apart. Steel alloy is made by combining iron with other elements such as carbon, manganese, and chromium. Steel typically contains less carbon than cast iron, making it more ductile and malleable. Its tensile strength is higher, and it's more resistant to corrosion, making it ideal for use in building structures, machinery, and automobiles.

Cast iron, on the other hand, is formed by melting iron and adding carbon, silicon, and other elements. Cast iron contains a higher percentage of carbon, making it harder and more brittle. It is generally used in applications where high compressive strength is required, such as in the production of engine blocks, cookware, and pipes. Cast iron is also more prone to cracking under pressure or impact than steel alloy.

In conclusion, the differences between steel alloy and cast iron are based on their composition and properties. Both materials have distinct advantages and disadvantages, and their suitability depends on the specific application. By the way, after talking about it, only one company name comes to my mind that is Datre Corporation Ltd, is a leading manufacturer of high-quality steel casting products that meet the highest industry standards in Eastern India. So you can confidently utilise their products for your industrial needs.

Company name: Datre Corporation

Address: Falta Industrial Growth Center (F.I.G.C), Sector — III South 24 Parganas, Pin — 743 504, West Bengal, India

Phone No: 7605087010, 7605087007, 7605087008

Landline No: +91 7605087008

Email id: purchase@datre.com, sales@datre.com, hr@datre.com

[rmwindustriesllc]

Wrought Iron Works in UAE

Wrought Iron Works in the UAE offers high-quality, custom iron designs for gates, railings, balconies, and decorative elements. Known for durability and elegance, wrought iron adds timeless style and security to any property. With skilled craftsmanship and attention to detail, clients receive beautiful, long-lasting solutions tailored to their needs.

[coolfoxykitkat]

Now that I’ve actually quit my job it is suddenly dawning on me just how fucking insane it is to just. quit your job and move across the country.

[erm-groups]

The Intersection of Geopolitics and Economics: ERM's Mining Solutions for a Volatile World

The mining industry operates within a volatile and intricate web of geopolitical and economic forces. Constantly evolving regulations, trade tensions, and rising resource nationalism present ongoing challenges. Amid these uncertainties, ERM Minerals and Resources stands out as a leading force adept at navigating this complex landscape. This blog delves into how ERM successfully manages these challenges and positions itself at the forefront of the industry.

ERM: A Global Leader in a Dynamic Environment

With a presence in over 150 countries, including India, ERM Minerals and Resources has unparalleled insight into the geopolitical and economic factors impacting the mining sector. Their comprehensive suite of services—including resource evaluation, due diligence, and environmental and social impact assessments—equips them to address the multifaceted challenges of modern mining.

Major Challenges in the Mining Sector

Resource Nationalism: Countries are increasingly asserting control over their natural resources, creating hurdles for international mining operations. ERM helps companies navigate these shifts by providing strategic insights and developing adaptive approaches to manage resource nationalism.

Trade Tensions: Global trade conflicts can disrupt supply chains and affect commodity prices. ERM supports companies in mitigating these risks through strategic market analysis, alternative sourcing strategies, and dynamic response plans.

Regulatory Uncertainty: The mining industry faces evolving regulations related to environmental standards, social responsibility, and taxation. ERM helps companies stay ahead of these changes by ensuring compliance and adapting to new regulatory landscapes.

ERM's Strategic Approaches

Building Local Partnerships: ERM emphasizes the importance of forging strong relationships with local communities and governments. This approach not only fosters trust but also ensures that mining activities generate positive economic impacts locally.

Commitment to Transparency: Upholding high standards of transparency and adhering to international regulations, ERM ensures that their operations are ethical and compliant, reinforcing their reputation as a trusted industry leader.

Sustainability Focus: ERM prioritizes sustainability, helping companies minimize their environmental footprint and address challenges related to climate change and social activism. Their focus on sustainable practices supports long-term industry viability.

Navigating Critical Minerals: With the global shift towards clean energy, ERM is instrumental in managing the geopolitical complexities surrounding critical minerals. Their expertise helps companies secure and responsibly manage essential resources.

Case Study: ERM’s Impact in India

India's mining sector, rich in potential but fraught with regulatory and nationalist challenges, benefits significantly from ERM’s expertise. For instance, ERM played a pivotal role in supporting Vedanta Limited with obtaining necessary permits and ensuring compliance with stringent environmental standards for their copper mining projects. This case highlights ERM's ability to facilitate responsible and sustainable mining operations even in complex environments.

Looking Forward: Embracing Collaboration

Successfully navigating the geopolitical and economic landscape of mining requires a collaborative approach. ERM advocates for dialogue and cooperation among governments, companies, and communities to establish and maintain sustainable mining practices.

In conclusion, as the mining industry grapples with a rapidly changing geopolitical and economic environment, ERM Minerals and Resources exemplifies how strategic foresight, robust partnerships, and a commitment to sustainability can drive success. Their adept handling of these challenges ensures operational excellence while upholding the highest standards of responsible mining.

[the-bridgehunters-chronicles]

Unassuming Bridge, a Rare Survivor of Motherwell’s Legacy- Bridges and Tunnels

The modest Pratt through truss spanning Oldtown Creek in Logan, Ohio, stands as the last extant bridge constructed by the Motherwell Iron and Steel Company, a once-prominent regional manufacturer. Founded in Lancaster in 1867, the Motherwell enterprise commenced operations producing shovels and scrapers under the moniker Motherwell Brothers. Expansion followed in 1874 when the firm reorganized…

[ironmetalcraft]

Iron Metal Craft

Website: https://www.ironmetalcraft.com/

Address: 889 Clarkson Ave Suite 103, Brooklyn, NY 11203

Phone: +1 347-903-6763

We specialize in Welding, Fabrication, Window Guards, Storm, Gates, Fences, Handrails, Cellar Doors, Fire Escapes, Stairs and much more. We cater to both Residential and Industrial. We cater to both Residential & Commercial. We specialize in Welding, Fabrication, Window Guards, Storm, Gates, Fences, Handrails, Cellar Doors, Fire Escapes, Stairs and much more in Brooklyn NY.

[comatosebunny09]

hoodie | sylus

summary: you just wanted to return it. but your neighbor wasn’t buying it. cw: female reader, gendered terms, neighbor au, p-in-v, cowgirl, bodily fluids, slight choking (if you squint), explicit language, size difference, sylus is a down-bad lover boy consent king who loves to please wc: 2k notes: for @leighsartworks216 and the anon who triple dog dared me to write this. tunes: keep me up - b.i

“—wanted to give it back.”

Sylus quirks a brow. Huffs a soft sound, peering at you through the wet cling of his hair. He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe of his apartment in an easy slouch, that customary smirk on his face.

“You wanted to give what back, sweetie?”

You swallow, studying your feet. Shift your weight between them, toying with the hem of your—his—hoodie. You pull at some loose skin on your lip with your teeth before continuing.

“Your hoodie.”

He scoffs. Gives you a once-over. “How do you expect to return it when you’re still wearing it?”

He’s asking too many questions. You make the mistake of looking at his face, your insides turning to ice. 

He’s fresh out of his shower, water droplets easing down his jaw and neck from his hair. He smells divine—the broken skin of bergamot and something forresty. Looks amazing, his black t-shirt and grey sweats doing little to disguise the devastation of his body. 

He studies you with a challenging gleam in his eyes. He knows, and he’s going to make you use your words tonight. He’s been doing that a lot lately—squeezing things out of you little by little. You’re in the early stages of your relationship, so he’s still trying to feel you out. Trying to see what makes you tick, slowly drawing out your wants and desires.

“I’m a pretty present wrapped up tight,” you say around a smile, shifting gears from your nervousness. You twirl around, making a heart shape overhead when you pose. 

He chuckles. Sees through your attempt to change the subject, but he steps aside to let you in, anyway. You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise, he’d leave you in the breezeway looking like a jilted fool (he wouldn’t).

You lean against his counter like it’s your second home (it is), trying to play it cool. Watch him towel off his hair, pretty lashes curling, bicep flexing. 

The sleeves of his hoodie fall past your fingertips. Its hem teases your knees. It swallows you whole in brushed cotton and stale cologne. 

He gave it to you a few nights ago after your last visit. Your clothes were wet from the rain. To worsen matters, you ran out of input attempts for the keypad for your apartment. The security company didn’t come until morning to reset it. Luckily, your neighbor-turned-boyfriend was home to rescue you. To warm you up in more ways than one.

It was comical, cute, watching you tiptoe across the hall after they reset your pin the following morning, donned in nothing but Sylus’ old college hoodie. The sight stirred something primal in him. He was grateful he never threw it out—it looked better on you, anyway.

He moves your way, a flash of amusement and smoldering red. You turn away. Fiddle with some decor on his countertop, playing coy. You know what you’re doing. You’re not wearing anything underneath, are you? He senses it. The static from his proximity prickles your naked skin beneath. 

He’s hot behind you. Rigid. Massive, spilling over you like liquid sin. His palms roost on the countertop, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles. The sight and size of his hands make your throat dry. 

His lips brush your ear. You’re stiff as steel, biting your lip when his teeth pinch the cartilage. “You don’t need an excuse to come see me, sweetheart,” he says, breathy, voice crackling like that of a campfire. “My home is as much yours as it is mine.”

You’re dizzy. Spinning. Legs nearly give way. Lips part with a shaky breath. Instinctively, you lean away to grant him more of your neck as he roots his nose along it. Lips burn like branding irons, teasingly brushing the flexing tendons there.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I just wanted to give your hoodie back.”

He chuckles. The sound of it puddles between your legs. “Sure you did. And that’s why you’re bare underneath, isn’t it?” 

His thumbs knead your hip bones as if to test his theory, burning through the drape of his hoodie. He exhales, open-mouthed and playful, dragging his lips over the space behind your ear, over your hair. He pushes your hips into the counter’s edge with the light roll of his pelvis, and you feel the thick of him throbbing against the cleft of your ass.

You release a breath. Eyes shutter, and you feel drunk. Okay—maybe the hoodie was a shit excuse to see him. To feel him. You could very well ask for a repeat of the other night, and he’d gladly give it to you. Doesn’t mean you don’t get to play innocent from time to time.

Emboldened, you turn. Snake your arms about his brawny shoulders, wrists crossing behind his neck. His eyes fall to your mouth. You smile something smug, ghosting your lips over his, turning the tide.

“Kiss me?” you breathe, as if it has to be asked.

“Of course,” he husks. Slides his hands down to your waist, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you onto the countertop. 

It’s a cool contrast to your inflamed skin. Pales in comparison to the molten caress of his mouth, to the breath he huffs out through his nostrils as he kisses you with the fervor of a man starved. 

You rake your fingers through his hair. Pull him close to you, never getting enough. No matter how much you touch or feel, it isn’t enough. He feels the same, never once breaking the union of your mouths as he hefts you into his arms to carry you deeper into his home.

You’re a mess of teeth and hair and breathiness when you fall beneath his bedroom’s ambient, amber veil. He spins you, plopping on the edge of his bed with you in his lap. His hands are everywhere, pulling, tugging, bunching. He grows even harder, the thought of his hoodie grazing over your knotted nipples, your lush thighs, the swell of your ass, driving him insane.

He pushes a bitten-off growl between your teeth. You shove him back until his spine acquaints itself with the mattress. He blinks rapidly to dispel the haze, the bleariness. Confused. The look on your face makes him twitch beneath his sweats. He loves it when you take control. 

You loom over him like something predatory, the color of your eyes catching just right in the light. His fingers curl around your thighs, encouraging you closer. And he’s enamored by how the doughy flesh craters beneath them. How you lean down to siphon his breath with another kiss, rolling your body against his like the lazy lick of a wave. 

He’s out of his mind—you both are. But you feel so good, pushing against him like that. You’re not wearing panties, the hot drip of your essence soaking through his sweats, intermingling with his pre-spend. You push your palms against his chest, breaking your lip-lock with a sticky click. Continue that maddening wind of your hips, leaning back on your hands fastened around his shins, and he’s drunk off the feel of you. 

“Did you want to take it slow this time?” he rasps, meeting you knock for delicious knock. 

He’s delirious. Swept up in the tide of pleasure as he holds your hips, but he’s still considerate. He’s desperate for you. Eager to feel you greedily sucking him in. But reassurance is his love language. He’ll ask you if you want him until he’s blue in the face. 

You shake your head, sucking your lip between your teeth. Your hair falls onto your features just right. Your body burns. It’s a mystery how you can manage to look adorable yet sexy all in one breath. 

“Then what are you waiting for?” he asks through a chuckle. Neediness seeps through. 

He’s trying to remain in control. Trying to rein himself in. But his desire leaks through those layers of bravado, and it’s all because of you, just for you.

He’s remiss of the hot grind of your cunt when you dismount him. Don’t leave him waiting long, tugging at the rim of his sweats, the pair of you giggling and fumbling about like two enamored youths. He helps you pull them down just slightly, enough for his pretty girth to bound free. It slaps against his abs, the tip of it gleaming with a gossamer bead of pre. 

You straddle him once more, lubing up his shaft with your slick. On one particular shift of your hips, your opening catches on the head of his cock, the sticky sound of the meeting obscene, and fuck. You groan in tandem, throwing your heads back at the delicious friction—the threat of a union. 

Neither of you can take any more teasing. So, he helps you ease him home. Inch by maddening inch, you sink onto him. He can’t breathe. You feel so good, blanketing him like that. Pulsing around him, the swollen head of his cock kissing your cervix. 

He grants you time to adjust to the intrusion. Rubs reassurance into your hips with his thumbs. His hoodie is bunched up around your middle, revealing the pretty meat of your belly. He slides his hands up the notches of your rib cage to cup your breasts. Weighs them, kneads them. Swipes his thumbs over your nipples to soothe the ache. You pulse from the feeling, wringing the prettiest sound from his throat.

You start moving when you’ve grown accustomed to his size. His heat. You take him so good, so deep. He sees stars—phosphenes dancing behind his lids. He throws his head back, catching his lip between his teeth, palms fastened to your waist. He moors you to him, rolling his hips in time with your bouncing, a practiced dance, a rehearsed symphony. 

The clop of skin against skin salts the humid atmosphere of his bedroom. Your voices intermingle, his deep and crooning and praising, yours high and light and desperate. 

You interweave your fingers with his, pressing his hands into the mattress beside him as you lean forward to ride him faster. His tender instruction is too much. His soft approval. A beautiful flush powders his cheeks and ears to match the soft smolder of his eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take me. Take what you want from me. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

You rock your hips just right, spurred by his guidance. Steal the air from his lungs as your clit drags against his pelvic bone with each roll. That familiar feeling sparkles between where your bodies meet. It sinks its talons into your belly, hauling itself upwards. You throw your head back as the rush spills over you. His fingers loosely clasp around your throat, your pulse rabbiting beneath his palm. 

He fucks you through it, the slow, consuming creep of your orgasm, his thumb digging into your throat. You’re so beautiful when you cum. When you let yourself go like this, and you drag him into the abyss with you.

He pulls you off him in time for hot spurts of cum to adorn his hoodie, to burn your belly, to leak down your thighs. And the image of you swallowed up in it, panting, laughing, burning hot, shaking in the aftermath of your orgasm with his cum staining the faded fabric makes his heart pinch.

You lay your cheek between his pectorals as you come down, chasing the steady rhythm of your breaths. He strokes over your hair, pressing a kiss into the crown of your head, whispering encouragement into it.

“Did you still want your hoodie back?” you taunt against the unbroken thrum of his heartbeat, drawing nonsensical patterns on his chest.

His lips quirk. Still cheeky even when you’re spent. He’ll have to do a better job of tiring you out next time. There will be a next time. And another time after that.

“Keep it,” he rasps, smoothing his thumb over your cheek. “It looks better on you.”

It’s an excuse to see you again. Not like he needs one.

[houstonindia]

We are a reliable name in grey iron casting Manufacturing in West Bengal, India. Established in the year 2000.

[ibeforg]

Top Steel Producers - IBEF India

The top steel producers in the world are key players in the global steel industry, commanding significant market share and driving innovation. With state-of-the-art facilities, advanced technology, and a skilled workforce, these producers consistently deliver high-quality steel products to meet diverse industry demands. Their extensive product portfolios cater to various sectors, including construction, automotive, and infrastructure. To get more information on tata steel india, visit the India Brand Equity Foundation website.

[rmwindustriesllc]

Wrought Iron Works in UAE

Discover exquisite craftsmanship at our Wrought Iron Works in the UAE. Melding traditional artistry with modern design, we forge intricate and durable wrought iron creations. From elegant gates to ornate railings, our skilled artisans bring timeless beauty to homes and businesses, seamlessly blending aesthetics and functionality with meticulous precision.

[redbowedblogger]

The thought of mer!prowl having to teach Jaz to hunt in @keferon 's post apocalypse ponyo au. Just like he probably had to teach his little brothers. Jazz not knowing what or how to eat. So I did a thing

"Prowl.”

“What-?” Prowl was frustrated. This whole damn mess was going on for far longer than he had ever feared. He needed to get back to his pod. His family. Those fragging humans and their twisted sense of “mercy” had almost trapped him in a life of servitude and solitude. All over a little damage to his melon, nothing a proper mer healer couldn't fix, but clearly beyond their limited medical knowledge. And then everything changed when the wave had hit.

Calling it a wave felt a bit misleading. A miles high flood of oceanic rage that all but wiped the human city off the coastline and allowed for his escape. Their escape. This poor strange mer he had met in that box of stone and steel and glass. The one who had weak fins and an iron grip and no memory of the ocean. Jazz, who had been so excited to meet him.

He had been useful enough at the start. Practically hauling prowl along the dry rough pathways before they could reach the floodways proper and swim away. And it was handy to have one person with functional echolocation as they swam through the worst of the wrecked buildings, But after that he had unfortunately become quite the nuisance. Flighty and distracted by every flashy bit of detritus in the water, startled by fish a quarter of his size, and the talking. Relentless jabbering about everything and anything, occasionally bursting into one of those strange human songs, their tones and rhythm poorly suited for an aquatic environment. Prowl didn't really know why he had continued to let this stranger swim with him. Perhaps it was a debt of gratitude for helping him survive and escape. Perhaps it was his sense of duty, this jazz was ill equipped to survive on his own and had almost perished the first time they had hit a rip.

Perhaps it was because he was the only company in these waters that wasn't a bloodthirsty mutation, a shambling wretched gasping thing that was not mer not human not fish but some horrific combination of the three with their gangly limbs, razor claws and rows and rows of serrated ripping teeth.

And his singing was really good, when he chose the right song.

“Prowler I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat?” jazz asked, his posture meek as he floated neutral in the water.

“Of course there is. Just grab something and let's go. We are losing daylight and i'd like to find somewhere safe to camp before it gets dark.”

Dangerous things swam in the dark waters.

“What do you mean?” Jazz asked, thoroughly confused.

“Jazz we are surrounded by fish right now. Pick one and let's go.” prowl gestured to the schools of shimmering fish surrounding them. They were swimming through what had once been a park, the vegetation on the trees now replaced with algae and budding coral growths, the streetlights crusted with barnacles, and what was left of grassy fields struggling to survive as crabs and rays scuttled among the waving green vegetation grazing.

“Yeah that. How do I know which ones are good to eat? And how exactly am I supposed to just ‘grab one' they are all wicked fast.” Jazz pouted.

Prowl closed his eyes and counted to ten, digging deep for the well of patience typically reserved for only the youngest pod members before facing the mer behind him.

“You're a mer. We are the top predators of our natural environment. Everything is good to eat. Well, most of it. Watch me.” Prowl instructed as he swam off a few clicks. His echolocation was still trashed and would be until he could get back to his pods healer, so he would have to hunt by sight. Spotting a fish he liked he swiftly maneuvered around the school, herding them towards an algae covered statue to separate them. With a powerful flick of his tail he changed direction to head the stragglers off and turn them towards the branches of a tree. With another casual turn he isolated the one he wanted and with an effortless burst of speed; caught it in his claws and ripped its head off with his sharp teeth.

Jazz was in awe. Prowl moved so fast! The speed and grace in his turns as he effortlessly put the fish exactly where he needed it.

“Woah! That was slick, man I mean slick. How’d you do that?” Jazz asked with an excited shout and a backwards roll. Prowl finished the fish with a roll of his eyes.

“Everyone can do that. You can too, I know you have the agility for it. It's no harder than those silly dances the two legs made you do.”

“I don't know…”

Prowl sighed. This mer, This clever, happy, sociable mer, had been deprived of nearly every aspect of life prowl took for granted.

No open waves to surf.

No territory to call his own.

No pod to care for him.

He couldn't even hunt his own food.

They had enough time before they needed to bed down for the night.

“Here let's practice.” Prowl offered as he flicked another fish from the herd. Except this time, instead of decapitation he clipped one pectoral and half of its tail fin. As he let it go the fish wobbled back into the school, its progress hampered. When the others zigged it tended to zag.

“Catch the fish. Use any trick you can think of. Flips, rolls, dives. Whatever. Just remember that sight hunting is all about focus. Don't take your eyes off your prey for a second. Catch the fish and you will eat.” Prowl instructed.

Jazz hesitated for a moment. Then the hollow call of his stomach galvanized him to action.

Jazz bolted after the lamed fish and something began to sing in his veins. That feeling started deep in his bones and radiated up to tingle just under his skin. It electrified every muscle in his body from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose. He had never felt so at ease in water. He could feel the movement of the currents and somehow he knew exactly how to play off it. He dove and twirled and the fish scattered in a fluttering cloud of silver. A flick of his tail and he separated the other half of the herd.

He smiled as zeroed in on his target.

This felt good.

This felt right.

This felt fun.

The taste of silver fish in his mouth had never been so sweet.

[erm-groups]

From Manual to Machine: The Evolution of Automated Mining

Mining, a cornerstone of human civilization that provides essential resources across all sectors, is on the cusp of a revolutionary transformation. With the advent of automation driven by cutting-edge technology, mining operations are set to change in unprecedented ways. This article explores the impacts and opportunities of automation in mining, with a special focus on the ERM Company.

Impacts of Automation in Mining

Enhanced Safety

Automation significantly reduces the need for human presence in hazardous environments, thereby minimizing the risk of accidents and injuries. Drones and autonomous vehicles, with their superior navigation capabilities, enhance safety in mining operations. For ERM Groups, this means navigating challenging terrains without endangering human lives and fundamentally improving worker safety.

Increased Efficiency

Automation transforms operational frameworks, resulting in heightened efficiency. Autonomous equipment operates continuously without breaks, optimizing resource extraction and processing. This continuous operation aligns perfectly with the efficiency goals of the ERM mining industry, ensuring a steady stream of productivity and higher output.

Cost Savings

Automated mining operations lead to substantial cost savings by reducing labor expenses and increasing productivity. The precision of autonomous machinery in performing repetitive tasks minimizes errors and maximizes resource utilization. This creates a financially sound operation that resonates with the objectives of ERM mining companies, driving profitability.

Environmental Sustainability

Automation plays a crucial role in promoting environmental sustainability. AI and data analytics work together to optimize resource extraction while minimizing environmental impact. ERM iron ore mining companies, with their eco-conscious ethos, benefit from automated practices that reduce waste and enhance energy efficiency, contributing to a greener future and sustainable operations.

Data-Driven Decision Making

Automation enables real-time data analysis, providing a comprehensive overview of mining operations. This data-driven approach aligns with ERM Groups' focus on analytical excellence, allowing for predictive maintenance and process optimization. The ability to anticipate equipment needs and streamline operations enhances overall efficiency and effectiveness.

Opportunities in Automated Mining

Technological Advancement

Automation paves the way for continuous technological innovation. Companies engaged in automation research and development are at the forefront of creating advanced solutions for mining operations. This innovation narrative is particularly relevant for ERM mining companies, as they seek to stay ahead in the competitive landscape by adopting the latest technologies.

Skilled Workforce Development

As automation becomes more prevalent, the demand for skilled workers increases. Training and education initiatives are essential to equip individuals with the necessary skills to thrive in an automated mining environment. ERM iron ore mining companies are particularly interested in fostering this skilled workforce, ensuring a smooth transition to automated operations.

Remote Operations

Automation enables centralized control of mining operations, reducing the need for on-site human presence. Control centers can manage operations remotely, enhancing efficiency and safety. This shift towards remote management is of great interest to the ERM Company, as it streamlines operational oversight and improves response times.

Collaborative Innovations

Mining companies are increasingly collaborating with tech firms specializing in robotics, AI, and automation. These partnerships lead to tailored solutions that address specific challenges in the mining industry. The collaborative efforts between mining and tech companies present a promising narrative for ERM mining companies, driving innovation and efficiency.

Conclusion

Automation is poised to revolutionize the mining industry, bringing both opportunities and challenges. While it promises improvements in safety, efficiency, and cost-effectiveness, it also necessitates adapting to new skill sets and technological advancements. Collaboration, innovation, and a commitment to sustainable practices are key to unlocking the full potential of automated mining operations. As ERM Company leads the way, the mining industry is set to redefine traditions and unveil a more efficient, safe, and sustainable future. The transformative journey of the mining industry promises a brighter horizon for ERM mining business, poised at the forefront of this new era.

[mensministry]

"Stella the Stargazer"

Ample was commissioned to design a lovely tiny home for the Australian tourism and events company Visit Victoria.

It is based on a triple-axle trailer and features a length of 32 feet and a width of 7.8 feet. Old sections of steel were sourced from an abandoned farm shack in rural Penshurst, Victoria and they were used to build the home.

Reclaimed corrugated iron and hardwood from the same site were utilized as well, giving the tiny home a shed-like aesthetic.

The tiny home can run off the grid using a solar panel system and batteries. It also includes a generator that will work when needed. A rainwater collection system has also been integrated, as well as tanks to hold greywater and waste.

Stella the Stargazer can be booked and moves around in different locations.

Courtesy: Ample

[charl0ttan]

i have kept this thought bottled up for too long. one of the main manufacturers of steel, iron, and pvc piping and tubing for sprinkler system and plumbing applications is a company called Charlotte Pipe, and every time i see one of those pipes on a job site (i work construction) my brain produces a mp4 file of your pfp saying the words “pipe from a girl named charlotte” with incredibly bit crushed audio. phew. thanks for letting me get that off my chest

LMAO

[scotianostra]

January 29th 1848 saw the first adoption of GMT by Scotland. The subject has been the source of controversy ever since.

The change had broadly taken place south of the Border from September the previous year with those in Edinburgh living 12 and-a-half minutes behind the new standard time as a result.

Some people in those days were still using sundials to tell the time, Scottish inventor Alexander Bain had only given the world the first electric clock 7 years previously. Sundials were criticised for being poorly made and set by "incompetents" among those who supported the move to GMT in the 1840s.

The discrepancy grew the further west you moved, with the time in Glasgow some 17 minutes behind GMT. In Ayr the time difference was 18-and-a-half minutes with it rising to 19 minutes in the harbour town of Greenock.

All these lapses were ironed out over night on January 29 1848, but the move wasn’t without controversy as some resisted the move away from local time.

Sometimes referred to as natural time, it had long been determined by sun dials and observatories and later by charts and tables which outlined the differences between GMT and local time at various locations across the country.

But the need for a standard time measurement was broadly agreed upon given the surge in the number of rail services and passengers with different local times causing confusion, missed trains and even accidents as trains battled for clearance on single tracks.

An editorial in The Scotsman on Saturday, January 28, 1848, said: “It is a mistake to think that in the country generally the change will be felt as a grievance in any degree.

“Probably nine-tenths of those who have clocks and watches believe that their local time is the same with Greenwich time, and will be greatly surprise to learn that the two are not identical.

“Even if they wished to keep local time, they want the means.

“Observatories are only found in two or three of our Scottish towns.

“As for the sundials in use, their number is small, most of them, too, are made by incompetent persons and even when correctly constructed, the task of putting them up and adjusting them to the meridian is generally left to an ignorant mason, who perhaps takes the mid-day hour from the watch in his fob.”

The editorial added: “For the sake of convenience, we sacrifice a few minutes and keep this artificial time in preference to sundial time, which some call natural time, and if the same convenience counsels us to sacrifice a few minutes in order to keep one uniform time over the whole country, why should it not be done!”

Mariners had long observed Greenwich Mean Time and kept at least one chronometer set to calculate their longitude from the Greenwich meridian, which was considered to have a longitude of zero degrees.

The move to enforce it as the common time measurement was made by the Railway Clearing House in September 1847.

Some rail companies had printed GMT timetables much sooner. The Great Western Railway deployed the standard time in 1840 given that passengers on its service between London to Bristol, then the biggest trading port with the United States, faced a time difference of 22 minutes between its departure and arrival point.

Rory McEvoy, curator of horology at the Royal Observatory Greenwich, said travel watches of the day had two sets of hands, one gold and one blue steel, to help measure changes in local time during a journey.

Maps also depicted towns with had adopted GMT and those which had not, he added.

There was information out there for determine the local time difference so they would know the offset to apply to GMT before the telegraphic distribution of time.

Mr McEvoy said different towns and cities in Scotland would have had their own time differences before adoption of GMT.

Old local time measurements show that Edinburgh was four-and-a-half minutes ahead of that in Glasgow, for example.

Mr McEvoy added: “I think it is fair to say there was no real concept of these differences at the time. It was when communication began to expand quite rapidly that it became f an issue. I think generally, you would be quite happy that the time of day was your local time.”

Pics are the station clock at Glasgow Central in the early 1880s and the sundial at Stonehaven Harbour, Aberdeenshire.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Sweet revenge

Pairing: Valentin x reader (female)

Authors note: this is me processing the S3E5 of The White Lotus.

Warnings: SMUT 18+. I keep thinking of Valentin as a dom, I don't by his polite smile. Even if I usually enjoy dom reader more, with him it just doesn't work. 😅 So sub/dom vibes, slight degradation, oral m receiving, fingering, p in v

Word Count: 5,4 K

Summary: your marriage is a farce, your husband ignores you, and you are fed up with this mundane existance of being simply unseen until a certain sexy health mentor notices you

“Ready for some yoga, today?” The smile the handsome health mentor beams at you could probably melt an iceberg but it is helpless against your brooding mood. The familiar aroma of fresh coffee hits your nose as you raise the cup to your lips and take a slow, savouring sip, while your eyes wander to the other side of the table.

He’s always busy. Your husband. Even now, sitting within arm’s reach, he’s hidden behind a massive morning newspaper, his only response to your question about visiting the famous Buddhist temple around the corner – a barely audible "Khm." 

You wouldn’t be surprised if his choice of hotel for your second anniversary had been dictated by its strict ban on electronic devices, so that he could perfectly hide himself and keep avoiding you even during breakfast – the only time you actually spend together – buried behind that stupid newspaper.

The thought of enduring another day of yoga, meditation, and stress management sessions makes you want to scream, and you are quite sure even the threat of execution wouldn’t make you sit through it again. No wonder the smile you force onto your face barely holds, drawing a slight furrow of concern from your ever-charming instructor.

“Lady is not feeling well today?” he asks suddenly, and you nearly choke on your coffee. Is it that obvious?

No, you are not feeling well. You fucking hate this stupid hotel. You hate the so-called healthy breakfast, the endless polite smiles and shallow bows.

And most of all, you hate the man sitting across from you, pretending you don’t exist.

“I think I want to do something fun today,” you look up from your coffee cup, watching as the fine steam curls in the bright sunlight, casting a shimmering silver veil over your health mentor and making him look somewhat mysterious. “I think I might skip the yoga.”

You wait. Will there be a reaction from the other side of the newspaper? A word? A glance? Anything?

Nothing. Sometimes, you wonder if he even exists, or if he’s just a phantom conjured by some cruel, unending nightmare.

It had never been about love, that much was clear from the start. This was a deal, a calculated merger between the two wealthiest steel companies, sealed in marriage.

And yet, you had hoped. Even if there was no passion, no fairytale romance, you had hoped the two of you could at least be partners, friends and allies in business and in life.

But it became very quickly painfully obvious that was never on your husband’s agenda. 

The silence from behind the newspaper stretches unbearably long, you exhale slowly, pressing the edge of your cup against your lips. The coffee burns, searing hot—but you barely notice. You’ve learned to love the pain. At least it reminds you that you’re still alive. Sometimes.

“Maybe I’ll visit the temple,” you add, more to yourself than anyone else.

Still nothing.

Valentin, it’s the name of the health mentor, assigned to you by the over caring manager of the hotel, clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly, his mismatched eyes flicking toward you with the kind of polite curiosity he reserves for hesitant guests. “Would you like me to arrange transport?” he asks, his voice smooth, professional.

You shake your head. “No need.”

You don’t want another carefully curated experience, another guide leading you through the motions of enlightenment, you just want something real.

Isn’t that ironic? You had once thought marriage – this marriage – would be the real part of your life. That despite its transactional nature, despite its calculated foundation, you could build something meaningful within its walls.

But walls don’t build themselves and your husband never even picked up a brick.

The rustling of paper draws your attention and for a fleeting second, you think he might actually lower it, might actually speak. Your breath catches.

But no. He merely folds the page, shifts slightly, and continues reading.

—------------------------------------------

The simple sand road to the monastery isn’t particularly long, but with no shelter from the relentless sun, it feels endless. Sweat clings to your skin, your breath turning shallow as the heat presses down on you, and the journey takes longer than you expected, the afternoon already slipping into its golden haze by the time you reach the base of the massive stone stairs leading to the temple.

A small cloud of dust swirls beneath your foot as you step onto the first stair. You pause, staring at the ancient, timeworn stone beneath you.

Then, you start counting. One. Two. Three.

You need something to anchor yourself, something to focus on, because the last thing you want to do right now is think.

Four. Five. Six.

You don’t want to think about the suffocating silence of your marriage. About the man who sits across from you every morning yet feels a million miles away. About how, somewhere along the way, you’ve started measuring your own existence by the small, sharp edges of pain – hot coffee against your lips, the sting of too-bright sunlight, the ache in your calves as you climb. Or about how you have to force yourself to look away from the perfectly sculpted abdomen of your personal yoga instructor, health mentor, confidence booster, and walking temptation all in one.

You’re sure he says the same flattering lines to all his clients, yet you still can’t stop the slight curl of your lips when he praises your form, marvels at your fitness levels, or sounds genuinely impressed by how well you hold a downward dog.

It’s ridiculous, and yet, for the briefest moment, you almost feel seen.

Twenty. Twenty-one. The numbers pulse in your mind like a prayer and by the time you reach the top, your breath is uneven, your heart hammering against your ribs. You press a palm against your chest, as if to steady something deep inside yourself, then lift your gaze.

The temple stands before you, ancient and unmoving, the air is thick with the scent of incense, a soft curl of smoke drifting from the entrance and monks move silently through the courtyard, their robes whispering against the stone. 

The sight is so starkly different from the artificial luxury of the hotel that for a moment, you hesitate. You don’t belong here. And yet, you’ve never felt more drawn to a place in your life.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find something here, something real. Something that doesn’t hurt. You take a slow breath, preparing to step forward, when a voice, soft and familiar, halts you in your tracks.

“Skipping yoga and running off to find enlightenment instead?”

Turning slowly, you find Valentin leaning casually against one of the temple’s carved wooden pillars, arms crossed over his chest, an amused glint in his mismatched eyes. 

He looks different. With the stylish light silk shirt, showing off his extremely well built frame,  and black sporty trousers he looks infuriatingly out of place here – too vibrant, too much a reminder of the life you were trying to escape, even if only for a few hours.

You exhale, masking your surprise with a sigh. “Valentin, what are you doing here?”

He tilts his head, as if the answer should be obvious. “Guiding lost souls toward balance and inner peace.” Then, with a small smirk, he adds, “Or at least keeping an eye on the ones who suddenly decide to abandon their wellness retreat without warning.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. “I needed a break.”

“From what? The relaxation?” His voice is teasing, but something in his gaze lingers too long, as if he sees more than you want him to.

You shift uncomfortably, the last thing you need is for Valentin, your overly attentive, far-too-charming health mentor, to start analyzing you.

“I just wanted to be alone,” you say, more firmly this time.

To your annoyance, he doesn’t look deterred, instead, he takes a step closer. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

The question hangs between you, heavier than it should be, because no, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You glance toward the temple entrance, where the scent of incense drifts in the warm afternoon air, your imagined refuge, a place of stillness, but now, with Valentin standing here, watching you like he’s waiting for an answer you don’t have, the ground beneath your feet feels anything but steady.

He sighs, tilting his head toward the temple steps. “Come on, then.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re going to search for something real, at least let me make sure you don’t pass out on these stairs first.” His smirk softens just slightly. “Consider it part of my job description.”

A reluctant laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Damn him. Still, you hesitate.

Following him means acknowledging the pull between you, the quiet, unspoken thing that has lingered in the spaces between conversations, between his casual touches as he adjusted your posture, between the way he always seemed to notice when you weren’t okay.

But walking away means going back to the emptiness you came from, and you’re not sure you can do that, either.

—--------------------------------------------------------

The rhythmic thump of bass vibrates through the wooden floorboards, mingling with the crash of waves in the distance, and the air seems thick with the scent of salt and citrus, the heat of the day fading into the electric pulse of the evening.

You sit at the bar, ice clinking in your glass as you swirl the liquid inside. A mojito, Valentin’s choice for you. “Something refreshing,” he had said with that ever-present smirk.

Beside you, he leans back against the bar, one elbow resting on the counter, watching the dance floor with lazy amusement, the half unbuttoned stylish silk shirt reveals his sun-kissed skin and toned forearms. He looks completely at ease here, as if this place, with its neon lights and reckless energy, belongs to him. And maybe it does.

You take a slow sip of your drink, the coolness a sharp contrast to the warmth buzzing beneath your skin. “I thought you were all about health and balance,” you muse, raising a brow at him. “This doesn’t seem very… meditative.”

Valentin laughs, low and easy. “Balance means knowing when to let go.” He gestures toward the dance floor, where people move with uninhibited joy, bodies pressed close, arms lifted to the sky. “Besides, what’s the point of a healthy body if you don’t use it to feel something?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips, and to your surprise, he suddenly turns toward you. “Come on.”

You blink. “Come on what?”

His grin is pure mischief. “Dance with me.”

You snort. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Valentin doesn’t argue, he simply takes your hand, your small palm disappearing into his large one and suddenly, you’re not sitting at the bar anymore, you’re being pulled onto the dance floor, the press of bodies and the thrum of music wrapping around you like a second heartbeat.

You open your mouth to protest, but then his hands settle lightly at your waist. 

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “Just move.”

So you do. At first, it’s awkward, you’re stiff, hesitant, too aware of him, of the heat between you, of the way his fingers press just lightly enough to steer you but firmly enough to keep you close.

But then the music shifts, and something inside you does too, the beat takes over, drowning out everything else – the noise in your head, the weight in your chest, the echo of a marriage that feels like a ghost haunting your every step, and for the first time in longer than you can remember, you don’t think. You just move.

Valentin’s gaze never leaves you, his expression switching between approval, awe and something else, something deeper, dark and intensive, something you’re afraid to name but it makes your skin tingle.

The song changes, but you don’t stop and neither does he.

—-----------------------------------------------------

His lips are scorching against your skin, taking, demanding, yet somehow just as giving, as every kiss, every flick of his tongue, every sharp inhale between parted lips feels like breathing in life itself, like drawing a fresh breath after eternity of drowning.

You moan as your back meets the wall, it’s so cool against your overheated skin, while Valentin presses his body against yours, his thigh between your legs, spreading them open. 

His name is barely more than a whispered breath against his lips, but he hears it, and the way you say it, so desperate, so wanting, so surrendering, makes him groan into the kiss, as his hands grow restless, tracing the curves of your body. 

His fingers roughly dig into the soft flesh of your hips, and you can’t bite back the moan that claws through you, the raw and unfiltered sound slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

“You like playing games, don’t you?” It’s not really a question, it’s more like a realization, and there is something in Valentin’s voice that makes you shudder.

You know what this is, what it could be, what it will be if you don’t stop now, but you don’t want to stop.

“I do,” you breathe, and the moment the words leave your mouth, Valentin’s hand moves, wrapping around your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse stutter.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, not from fear but from the way your body reacts, heat suddenly coiling low in your belly. 

“Then let’s play,” Valentin murmurs and his voice feels like a rustle of silk over steel, sending a shiver down your spine.

Stepping back, Valentin grabs your wrist, and a soft whine escapes you as he withdraws his other hand from your throat, leaving your skin tingling.

Your weary eyes follow his every move as he leads you out of the dimly lit comfort of your villa bedroom, across the courtyard. It isn’t until you reach the villa on the other side that realization dawns, and you suddenly know where he’s taking you.

The massive terrace doors slide open soundlessly, as Valentin releases your hand, stepping inside without the slightest hesitation and heading toward the large, imposing oak desk – the very heart of your husband's domain.

Leaning casually against the sturdy edge, he turns to you, watching and waiting while you hesitate at the threshold. This is his realm, his villa, his study. He always insists on having one, no matter where you travel, it’s his excuse to remain occupied, to bury himself in work, to keep pretending you don’t exist.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, while Valentin keeps watching you in silence.

Slowly you step inside, sliding the heavy glass doors shut behind you, the quiet thud reminding you of a trap snapping closed.

“Onto your knees,” Valentin’s voice reaches you the moment you turn toward him again.

You lift your gaze to meet his, and before your mind can even process what he’s asked, your body obeys and you slide down. Your knees hit the floor, but you almost don’t notice the impact through the haze of anticipation, curling around you like thick smoke.

Valentin’s lips quirk in the faintest hint of satisfaction as he shifts slightly.

“Crawl to me,” he commands and you do, smile tugging on your lips, the smooth wood cool beneath your palms as you move, each shift of your body slow, teasing, testing.

Valentin doesn’t move, doesn’t rush you, he simply watches, leaning against the massive oak desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface, he lets you play, lets you draw it out, watching with that quiet, knowing patience that only makes the air between you heavier.

Your gaze drops, landing on the noticeable strain against his trousers, the hard outline pressing insistently, demanding release, and a fresh wave of anticipation rushes through you, mingling with the slow burn already curling in your veins, your knees ache, a beautiful reminder of presence, of being alive and wanted, of the serenity of submission.

You reach him, and his fingers slip into your hair, claiming control, tilting your head up until your eyes find his, and the amusement in his expression is unmistakable.

“Lady enjoys testing limits,” he muses.

Your lips part, a response forming, but he runs his thumb over your lower lip, silencing you before a single word escapes, and a thrill shivers through you, the slow, intoxicating game settling into place.

“You’re not the only one,” Valentin murmurs, his thumb pressing just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you of exactly what you both are in this delicious exchange of power.

His free hand moves achingly slow, tracing the curve of your jaw before gliding down your throat, as his fingers linger precisely where they had claimed you before. You swallow hard, and he watches the flutter of your pulse beneath his touch, his lips curving in satisfaction.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” He doesn’t really need to ask, the answer is already written in the way your fingers move, deft and eager, working to free him, in the way your lips part, a greedy moan slipping past them before you even realize you’ve made a sound.

But just as your lips part fully, just as your tongue flicks out, his grip in your hair tightens, not painful, but firm, controlling, and he tilts your head back, forcing you to look up at him again.

“Look at you, so eager, so needy,” Valentin muses. “Patience,” he hums. “You wanted to play. So let’s play.”

A flush burns through you, the heat in your belly growing with each passing moment, you close your eyes, your nails dig lightly into the fabric of his trousers, a silent plea. He chuckles, low and indulgent, thumb swiping over your lip again, smearing the moisture left behind by your tongue.

Valentin finally releases the tension in his grip, just enough to let you move, to let you take what you’ve been craving and you don’t hesitate, your tongue flicks over the tip of his cock while your fingers wrap around him, and the sharp breath he draws is like music to your ears. 

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice huskier now, and you glance up at him, drinking in the sight – his tousled dark hair, the sharp angles of his face, the way his mismatched eyes flicker with something dangerously close to ruin, but he’s still composed, still in control.

That won’t do, with a teasing slowness, you drag your lips over his length, just barely touching, just enough to make his fingers tighten in your hair again, his other hand gripping the edge of the desk behind him.

A flicker of frustration crosses his face. Good. You like it. Your tongue flicks over him again, featherlight, and his grip jerks, his hips shifting forward just slightly.

A breathy chuckle escapes you. “I thought you said patience?” 

His eyes darken.

“I did.” Valentin agrees, his voice impossibly smooth. Then, before you can react, his hand tightens. “But patience,” he whispers, “is something I teach, not something I practice.”

He pulls you closer, and the next moment his cock fills your mouth, stretching you, pushing past your lips until the burn at the corners of your mouth becomes a delicious ache. He’s big, thick and heavy on your tongue, and you can do nothing but take it – let him guide you, move you, use you because there is nothing more intoxicating than surrendering to someone who knows exactly how to wield power.

His first thrust is slow, measured, testing your limits, then another, deeper this time, until he finds the perfect rhythm, until your body learns to follow his lead.

Your only response is a low hum around his length, the vibrations making him curse under his breath. You don’t dare to stop him, you don’t want to stop him. The ache in your knees, the burning stretch of your lips, it all blends into the dizzying pleasure wrapping around you like a thick fog, pulling you under, making you pliant, making you his.

Saliva spills from your lips, dripping down your chin as you take him deeper, bobbing your head along his length, the slick, obscene sounds filling the room, and your fingers dig harder into his thighs, nails pressing into firm muscle as you hold on, as you let him use you.

Then it happens – the first raw, unrestrained moan slips from his lips, rough and unexpected, and in the same moment a rush of satisfaction surges through you, making your limbs tremble as pleasure pulses through you.

You’ve undone him, even if only for a moment, and God, it’s the sweetest kind of victory.

_____________________________________

Valentin watches you, completely absorbed in the way you give yourself over to him, the way you need him. 

He has seen loneliness in many forms – restless indulgence, desperate validation, quiet self-destruction – but yours is something else entirely. It’s not the loneliness of someone abandoned, not the aching void of someone craving affection, it’s the loneliness of a woman unseen, of someone who exists in the periphery of her own life, a shadow in the grand, empty spaces your husband refuses to fill.

And now, here you are, on your knees before him, surrendering, not for him, not even for pleasure itself, but for the feeling of being claimed, of belonging to something.

You don’t even realize how much he understands, how much he wants to give you this, not just the rawness, not just the sharp edges of control and surrender, but the pleasure – the real escape.

Every unrestrained sound that escapes your lips, every shudder that runs through your body, every moan that vibrates against his cock – it’s all a silent plea for oblivion, for something that makes you forget, and he’ll give it to you.

His grip tightens in your hair, just enough to remind you that you’re not lost, that you are here, you’re his in this moment, and you’re going to take everything he gives you.

He forces himself to breathe through the heat coiling in his gut, the heady mixture of control and restraint pushing him slowly to the edge, but he won’t let go first, not until you do, not until you have got what you crave for.

"I know you can take more. Don't hold back, sweetheart," Valentin’s voice is still smooth, but there’s something raw beneath it, something unraveling.

His head tips back as you take him deeper, swallowing around him, forcing yourself to relax, to ignore the way your throat tightens whenever his tip grazes too far. You feel his fingers tense in your hair, his breath turning uneven, his control fraying at the edges, you feel the slight twitch of his cock inside your mouth, the way his grip tightens just a fraction more. He’s close, so close you can almost taste the victory.

But just as the triumph starts to settle in your chest, just as you think you’ve won this game, Valentin moves, his grip suddenly becoming unyielding as he pulls you off him.

A gasp rips from your lips as your head tilts back, a thin trail of saliva still connecting you to his cock, your breath is ragged, your lips swollen, the loss of him sudden and jarring, as your eyes flick up, searching his.

His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths, his jaw tight, his fingers still buried in your hair, holding you in place. 

“You thought I’d let you win that easily?” he murmurs, and your stomach tightens.

Of course, it would have been too easy, but it’s not over, and you feel the slight tinge of excitement back in your shaking limbs.

Valentin releases your hair slowly, tracing his fingers down your cheek, tilting your chin up so you’re looking only at him.

“Get up,” he orders, and your legs shake as you obey, rising to your feet, anticipation thrumming through every inch of you.

His eyes never leave yours as he steps aside the heavy oak desk, his palm smoothing over the polished surface before he gestures to it with a slow, knowing smile.

“Now,” he breathes, the words sinking into your skin, into your bones, “Bend over.”

Your breath is shallow, pulse hammering in your throat as Valentin watches you. You should hesitate, should second-guess this, but you don’t, there is something in his voice, in the quiet certainty of his presence, that makes you want to obey.

Your palms meet the smooth, polished surface of the desk as you lean forward, the cool wood welcoming your body, humming with anticipation, your heartbeat a steady drum in your ears.

Behind you, Valentin doesn’t move right away, he takes his time. You hear the subtle shift of his breath, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusts, as he watches, you can feel his gaze sweeping over you, mapping your curves, taking in every shallow breath you take, and it’s almost unbearable, this waiting, this cruel stretch of silence he’s using to unravel you even further.

His hands reach you first, slow, teasing, fingertips ghosting over the small of your back, trailing lower, skimming the curve of your hips before hooking beneath your silk underwear as he pushes the fabric up, peeling it away, baring your ass to him inch by inch.

A shiver ripples through you, and he notices, of course, he does.

“You’re trembling,” he muses.

You swallow hard. “You like that?”

A low chuckle: “Oh, I love that.”

His palm slides up your spine, fingers splaying, pressing you further into the desk, you inhale sharply, the sheer presence of him behind you, surrounding you, making you dizzy, and then – nothing, his touch disappears, the absence of it sharp, almost aching.

You shift slightly, seeking it back, but he tuts softly. “So impatient,” he murmurs, dragging a single finger down your back, and you can't help but whine in frustration or need, or something between the two.

Valentin leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I told you, sweetheart…,” his hand on your back gets heavy, a sharp contrast to the featherlight touch before, “this is my game.”

You cry out as his palm cracks against the soft flesh of your ass, the sharp sting blooming into heat, the sound echoes through the dimly lit study, swallowed by the thick walls.

His other hand presses you firmly against the rough surface of the desk, holding you exactly where he wants you, where you need to be.

"Beautiful," Valentin murmurs, his voice like molten honey, seeping into your dizzy consciousness, while his fingers trace over the mark he’s left, soothing, teasing, before his palm lifts again.

You barely have a second to brace yourself before he strikes once more, the jolt of sensation makes your body tense, your fingers curling against the edge of the desk, a whimper escaping your lips, not just from the sting, but from the sheer intensity of it all, from the way he makes you feel owned without ever needing to say the words.

"Good girl," he praises, his hand lingering, squeezing your buttocks. "I knew you'd take it so well."

A shiver rolls through you at his words, at the quiet, knowing amusement in his tone, as if he’s been waiting for this, as if he knew from the moment he first saw you that you’d come undone for him like this.

Valentin hums in satisfaction, his fingers trailing lower, teasing, ghosting over your folds before dipping into your slick, aching core, and a sharp gasp escapes you, your body instinctively pressing into his touch, craving more.

“You’re drenched,” he muses, dragging his fingers through your arousal, spreading it, playing with it. “I think you like this more than you’re willing to admit.”

He leans forward, his body a solid wall of heat against your burning ass and back, his lips graze your ear. "Tell me how much you like it."

It’s not a request, your breath shudders as you turn your head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of him through hooded eyes. "I…" you swallow, your voice breaking on the admission. "I love it."

A moan slips past your lips, unbidden, as his fingers start moving in and out of you.

"Let’s see just how much more you can take," Valentin’s voice reaches you as if from a dream – distant, intoxicating, pulling you deeper as his hand comes down again, heavy, punishing, liberating, the sharp smack echoing through the room and this time, you don’t even try to stifle the moan that rips through you. 

Valentin’s fingers start to work you open, drawing you under in that beautiful space where the world outside this moment fades, dissolving into nothing but the pure sensation of his touch, his voice, the way your body responds without hesitation, without thought.

His other hand slides up your body, wrapping around your throat, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he holds you down against the table, making your pulse race and your head swim, and soon there is nothing else left, just the heat coiling in your core, your walls clenching around his fingers, and his grip making your body melt. The edges of reality blur and your mind floats, you are weightless and you are his.

The pleasure is thick, dizzying, curling around you like a cool, silken cloud and you barely register the sounds falling from your lips – moans, pleas, shameless whimpers – but Valentin does.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his tone full of satisfaction. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You buck your hips against his hand incapable of speech, you don’t care anymore, there’s no holding back, no shame, just raw, consuming need.

And he loves it, he presses deeper, stretching you, teasing you until you're trembling, whining mess before him. Suddenly without a warning he pulls his fingers away, leaving you empty, desperate, and a frustrated whine escapes your lips, but before you can beg, before you can even catch your breath, you feel it. 

The head of his cock, thick and hard, is pressing against your soaked entrance.

“Breathe,” he commands, voice smooth, firm, the last tether keeping you connected to this world. “Take me.”

And then he thrusts, a cry rips from your throat, pleasure blooming so violently it borders on pain, as he fills you completely, stretching you to the point of perfect ruin, and you can do nothing but take it.

He doesn’t start slow, doesn’t ease you into it, he fucks you relentlessly, unyielding, thrusting into you with a punishing pace, each snap of his hips driving you harder against the edge of the desk. 

The wood bites into your soft skin, a dull ache mixing with the overwhelming pleasure, blurring the lines between pain and bliss, and the room is filled with the sound of the sharp slap of skin against skin, your desperate moans, the rough scrape of the desk beneath you as it all melts together into something filthy, something primal, something beyond anything you’ve ever felt before and you never want it to stop.

You don’t hold back, you can’t, your moans grow louder, shameless, broken, echoing through the study. You want him to hear, you want everyone to hear.

And then, something shifts, a flicker of movement catches your eye, a presence just beyond the edge of your bliss-drunk haze, and your gaze drags toward the doors where you see him – your husband, standing there, watching.

His expression is full of surprise and something else, something you had never seen before, your eyes drop lover to his hand wrapped around his rock hard cock, tugging violently at it while his gaze remains glued to the sight of Valentin ruining you.

The shock should snap you out of this haze, should send you spiraling into shame, into panic, but it doesn’t.

It’s the first time you see him like this – silent, desperate, weak and wanting, it’s the first time you feel you have the power, you are finally seen, you unravel him.

Valentin groans, his rhythm faltering as he feels you tighten around him, your body clenching down, dragging him closer to the edge, and he leans over you.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “My perfect lady. My queen. Falling apart so beautifully for me.”

Without warning Valentin yanks you upright, your back flush against his chest as he drives into you, his hand still around your throat, as his tongue flickers against the shell of your ear. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Let him watch what he’s missed… what he doesn’t deserve.”

That’s all it takes, pleasure surges through you, hot, electric, overwhelming, ripping through you before you can even brace yourself for it as you shatter with a cry, your core seizing around Valentin, every nerve igniting as bliss detonates in violent waves, white-hot and endless.

You sob through your climax, your hands scrambling against the edge of the desk for support, your mind utterly lost to it. 

Valentin’s thrusts grow even rougher, deeper, pushing you through the aftershock, using you for his own pleasure now, but you don’t care, because as you come undone, as your body trembles and your cries fill the air, you keep your gaze locked on your husband, standing there, watching, completely powerless.

You never imagined revenge could be this sweet.