Motivations

The understanding of one's erotic reaction to things is sometimes tantamount to eating a bowl of soup with a spoon attached to the end of a pool cue. It's messy. It's clumsy. It's cold by the time you taste it. It's largely inefficient, and you don't really get an immediate satisfaction of understanding. The work it has taken to comprehend my own sexual stimuli has precluded that it's not easy to understand someone elses.

Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.

Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.

Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.

Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.

We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.

I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.

You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.

One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.

Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.