Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Kiss and makeup

As i was doing my girl's eye makeup this morning, it occurred to me the oddity this would appear as to someone should they wander into my home. I don't always do her makeup, she's quite adept at it, but there are times when she's going for a particular complex effect or i get an itch to do it.

Exploring my fascination with transformation in my youth brought me to the art of makeup. I've mentioned many times how i enjoyed watching the females in my life dab their creams, powders and rouges onto their faces. It was a genuine pasttime of mine, where my mom would signal the commencement of her ritual by playing her favorite Ella Fitzgerald record, which she only listened to while getting ready. I'd hear the first few notes of "April in Paris", rush into her vanity, sit myself in the corner and just gaze. The process a female takes to enhance, diminish, and shape her features took on a metaphysical and meditative allure for me. Whenever we went to bookstores, the makeup books were always a popular destination for my thumbs to flick through. I probably read Making Faces more than 50 odd times. I soon set to memory names like Max Factor, Ben Nye, and my favorite, Joe Blasco.

When i learned that the fantastical animals, horrifying monsters, and adorable imps that fluttered throughout my favorite movies were the product of genius makeup artists like Mr. Blasco, i was ecstatic! The mere idea of exacting physical alteration from a human to a hideous creature or beast by simply applying a palette of grease paint and latex prosthetics stunned me. I read every book from my local library on the topic of special effects makeup. Needing more resources, i would walk to this store called Barnes and Noble that had just opened up. Their policy of letting customers grab a pile of materials and read through them in the comfortable chairs they provided allowed me to explore nearly every issue of Fangoria and Cinefantastique. I quickly realized that the kind of effects that infatuated me were called "creature makeup", as opposed to the gory techniques. I gobbled up all of this print information, studying and memorizing the various techniques, but i felt like i was missing something. Seeing the images of makeup transformations and reading the descriptions that guided you through the process had limits to their effectiveness as learning methods. I needed to see the process firsthand. One day, i was over at my best friend's house, he pulled out his older brother's recently purchased laser disc of Michael Jackson's Thriller. On it had the complete "making of", including the segment that detailed Jackson's transformation into a werewolf.

Seeing those red letters spelling out the word "Metamorphosis" to this day still gives me chills.

"You put this thing on, and you slowly metamorphosize into this whole other person. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you can't help but let the whole mood and the character come to life. You can see the way it should walk, the way it should react, the way it should move."

At this point, Michael Jackson roars at his reflection in the mirror and then turns to the camera, signalling that the beast has taken over. I watched this segment ten times, that night alone. Over the years, i have probably viewed it in the hundreds. With a single explosion of kinetic energy, it grabbed me in my chest, filling it with a passionate insatiable urge. I practiced the appliance of makeup on myself (when i didn't have a model) and others constantly, feeling the electricity of creation bolting from my fingertips whenever i did. For Halloween, my friends fought to have me master their transfiguration. I also did all of the cosmetics for my female friends before formal dances, and would later utilize these skills in the theatre department in college.

I considered pursuing it as a career, but i chose not to for a few reasons; the largest being my response to transformation. I had such a sexual reaction to doing someone's makeup, that i couldn't imagine it going over well with my model as she sat in the chair while i stood next to her with a raging erection bulging in my pants. I felt satisfied relegating this hobby of mine to the intimate relationships i had.

Now i get my thrills from applying my girl's false eyelashes, lacing her corset or giving her lips an overly full look. I get a kiss as thanks, but what really gratifies me is the chance to play a part in a perpetual transformation.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

I'd like to issue a correction

I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.

In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.

This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.

I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.

We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.

I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:

"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."

I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.

"Option B."

She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.

Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.

"That's one."

"How many more?"

"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."

I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.

Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.

I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.

Thursday, October 25, 2007


In the spring of Seventeen Hundred and Seventy Four, Franz Anton Mesmer, a physician in Vienna, gave a female patient a compound heavy with iron to swallow. Once administered, Dr. Mesmer then attached several magnets to her body, in hopes of achieving some breakthrough in the treatment of blood diseases. The patient reported feeling a heavy flow of energy from one side of her body to the other. Mesmer dismissed the magnets as causing the effect and theorized the existence of something he called "magnétisme animal", or what we have come to know as animal magnetism. With this discovery, Franz Anton had set forth the foundations for (and became largely considered the "father of") what would become the often controversial but nonetheless staggeringly intriguing field of Hypnosis.

I suffered a great deal of anxiety as a child. I internalized the world's problems, believing i had power to affect and alter the course of human events. This resulted in episodes of near crippling stress whenever i read the headlines in newspapers about human (or animal) turmoil three continents away. My mother, in an attempt to intervene in my crusade to save the world, enrolled me in a cadre of classes at a nearby community college - all meant to provide me with coping skills for my near-Messiah complex. One of those courses was on Self-Hypnosis, believed to provide a stress relief. At this early age, i learned how to slowly move my body and then mind in and out of a subconscious trance. I mastered this skill so well that i was able to leave my body for large swathes of time with very little prep work - even in broad daylight, with my eyes open, amidst normal routines.

I practiced this skill off and on fairly regularly, but always on myself. I was the perfect guinea pig, exploring my mental mores and frontiers, indulging in the endless, freeing possibilities a mind unshackled by a body presented. One time, during a typically restless, teenaged evening, it came up with the group of friends i was hanging out that i knew hypnosis. With a great deal of peer pressure, but larger amounts of admiration, i was talked into hypnotizing one of the girls in our party.

I sat her in a comfortable chair, telling her to relax, lean back, and place her hands - palms down - on her thighs. I softly conjured up many visualizations that pulled her, rather quickly, into a deep trance. At this familiar point, i could see that her mental faculties had freed themselves from her corporal limits. Before us, the girl had turned into a free-floating object, presenting a unique opportunity that years of auto-induction had never revealed. A very familiar hunger that i'd began to identify at this time in other situations arose - one of strict and marauding control. Allowing myself to feel like i could command such a gigantic responsibility was the biggest mistake i've ever made with regards to hypnotizing someone. I did not possess the skills to modify her mental state and bring her back safely and comfortably. The whole process blew up horribly in our face, climaxing in us rushing her to the emergency room for fear that she would harm herself in a fit of mental chaos.

It would be many years before i let myself indulge in any hypnotic trials. In the intervening years, i found myself gravitating to a fantasy wherein a girl would be subjected to intense mind control, fed with all sorts of suggestions that would transform her into a mindless, objectified fucktoy. The exact point that lit the pilot flame of my desire was the conversion the girl experienced when the implanted desires suddenly became her own. This mimicked the same free-floating state i'd visited many times on myself, and, a few times, on others. It was the transfer from being in control to ceding control, letting it overcome you, alter you, resurrect you.

In my quest to fulfill this voracious appetite for mind control, i've encountered so many sites that sadden me on the small end to boiling me with outrage on the large end. How people can take such a frivolous approach to hypnosis, i'll never understand. But what's worse are those who seek this kind of domination, believing that what they see on these crackpot sites is possible. By just listening to these subliminal mp3s, you can release your inner, uninhibited slut.

I only pull out my arsenal of mind-control techniques on someone who trusts me and places in my hands their very well-being, with the knowledge that i'll safeguard this more than i'll pursue my own devious fantasies. Anything less would be mindblowing,

Monday, October 22, 2007


For those of you who have been along for the ride, you've come to learn that my girl goes through her winsome day while maintaining a manicure of one-inch acrylic extensions from each of her dainty fingers. Very early on in our relationship, i asked her to submit to this demand, making it one of the first dress code modifications i instituted. The initial forays into artificial nails with her were haphazard. She found them incredibly limiting and the craftsmanship of the nail tech she visited was shoddy. She'd lost 2 nails in the first eight days. She protested this demand of mine, finding it incredibly impractical to her academic pursuits (which consisted of frequent use and reliance on the very tip of her finger). In a manner that established a tenor for our relationship, i calmly listened, letting her air her grievances, then pointedly asserted the way her hands were to be presented - and made an appointment for her with a manicurist i trusted.

Flash forward 3 years: Having developed a trusted and satisfying relationship with her nail tech, my girl now gets pampered every two weeks with a complete spa visit that finetunes the perfection of her long french-manicured nails. She has adapted to the impact these artificial extensions have impeded on her life, dialing a phone, advancing a song on her iPod, or even opening up a can of soda differently than she had before. She looks at these appliances as natural, part of her regular routine, and would prefer not to see her hand without them.

I have encountered few people in my life and on this cyber circuit who openly hold the same affection i have to this feminine accoutrement. The limited number of self-identified followers led me to examine my own attachment to this cosmetic alteration. As is the custom for most eccentricities of mine i try to examine, i find i have plenty of examples of their existence in my past, but few explanations why. However, i remember the first instance of my attraction to long fingernails.


Her name was Stacy. I was sitting in the library at high school, thumbing through three separate Jack London novels (i believe one of them was Sea Wolf), when i heard a rather loud, frilly commotion at the front desk. Three girls had wandered into a world they certainly did not fit, one where the literary contents outnumbered the visitors. Each of them had platinum blond hair, tussled in a rage-inducing way. Each of them snapped gum in a code only the three of them could understand. Their entire wardrobes jangled and clattered with the numerous necklaces and bracelets they wore stacked against eachother. They'd been sent to this cavern of literacy to research a report that their civics teacher had commissioned of them about the economies of South America. Clearly, the subject (pre-Wikipedia, for those youngins who question how hard such a report would be - this would involve them looking in a card catalog...oh, just look it up on Wikipedia) proved a daunting matter for these three phillies and the poor desk clerk who happened to be servicing the counter when they arrived.

Stacy was the quiet one, in that, she spent most of her time leaning her back away from the desk clerk, examining both the inhabitants of the library and the neon orange color of her 2" long nails. I'd never seen anything like this. They screamed femininity in such a gaudy and putrefied way - i was hooked. I gathered up my belongings, and sauntered up to the counter, offering my services in their quest to get in and out as quick as possible. I spent the next 30 minutes superficially fishing out the information they needed, while secretly feeling such squeamish delight watching Stacy manipulate pens, her hair, a leaf of paper with her long nails. I found the sound of them clicking against eachother more mesmerizing than a windchime on a quiet, breezy summer afternoon.

This same stop-whatever-i'm-doing-and-gawk reaction has not dampened, even nearly twenty years later. In the intervening years, i've convinced a good 70% of the girls i've dated to give a trial with nails this long. And i should stress, it's always fake nails. Something about long, natural nails really grosses me out. The way they aren't uniform in shape and curvature, the yellowish, grimy color they have - i've never cared for them (i especially get weirded out when i see men with long, natural fingernails). They must be fake. They must be square-tipped, and they must be curved like talons.

I can easily identify a few things about nails like this that i find attractive. They extend a female's hand, making them long, fragile and feminine. They act as a protuberance, making daily tasks difficult, negotiable. I'm a complete connoisseur for the way a girl moves her appendage with nails like this. There is a delicacy in her strokes, as if she were transferring a Ming vase from one case to another.

I'm so attuned to this that i sometimes catch myself feeling mildly on edge when we socialize with friends and family members who knew my girl before her modifications. These nails are the clearest indication of the transformation she has undergone over the past few years. This audience has made remarks to her about them:

"How do you not poke your eye out with those?"
"Aren't you afraid of scaring little kids with your claws?"
"I don't see how you can function."

I'd rather not spend time defending our relationship, and because of this, i anticipate comments like these. I even watch how someone like her father looks at her hands as she uses them to articulate a point in a story of hers, and inwardly disdains his daughter's aesthetic choices. In the end, i appreciate the opportunity to indulge in this fetish of mine, and dismiss any outside criticism that we may encounter.

I may never fully understand what it is about these prosthetics that rock me to my erotic core, the answer, if there needs to be one remains elusive. It is for that reason, i leave the reader with, instead of a sound conclusion, a small quartet of images from the fingernail fetish ingenue Foxy Anya.

Friday, October 19, 2007

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

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


I find some of my most productive discussions with my girl regarding our power exchange tend to occur during our morning routine of breakfast. It could be that we've had nothing of the real world actively pressing on us for the duration of our slumber, thus freeing our minds to comfortably explore the topic. It could be the soft light of the morning that spills into our dining foyer that eases the conversation along, like the first incubating warmth of a mother hen as she sits on her darling little eggs. Or perhaps it's the act of breaking our fast, the comfort of being once again part of the collective waking that happens around this city - all over a cup of coffee and some toast.

Whatever factors play into this phenomenon, i look forward to the real progress her and i tend to make during these conversations. A few weeks back, a discussion that has often come up, dribbled back into the porous but sound foundation of our power exchange. We'd prattled in a playful way about how corset season was rapidly approaching. The weather was slowly releasing its grip on its romance with the tropics, giving way to a crisper peel in the air, and i had indicated that it was starting to be time where she would need to lace everyday. She objected, citing the still high level of humidity, which despite the air temperature, makes binding a thick corset around one's mid-section akin to a localized trip to the tropics. I chided her, asking where my resilient girl had gone and who was this easily discouraged creature in her place. She rebutted my efforts at cajolery with a simple oral intake of her upper lip, sucking on it between her teeth.

Now, as the dominant, it is my job (one of many) to push, challenge, and expand the frontiers of our intimate connection. I have many tools i can use to perform this role. But, this is not a simple-minded role, one made without reflection, study or observation. I'm not merely pushing a round stone to the edge of an embankment, searching for that final point right before it tilts its weight into a freefall below. A thousand factors differentiate my girl from a boulder. I must account for these, or risk pushing too far by simply being an ass.

"You know, Cathie Jung laces every day."

She looked at me, with her chin on the back of her hand, blinking one long drawn out shutter of her eyes. I saw i hadn't been effective. Further, i had to push further.

"I've no doubt that Dita would tough it out."

I didn't even need to check to see if my attempt had successfully motivated her. I could tell by the sensation of daggers at my throat that came from her icy stare what she thought of that remark. I looked anyway. Yep, i'd gone too far.

My girl is incredibly competitive, insisting on many avenues at being the best and most accomplished. Parading into our discussion two icons in the field of tightlacing who have the resources and daily accoutrements to comfortably tackle their goal squeezed the last bit of playfulness out of our exchange. I saw what i'd done. But, i hadn't anticipated the turn the dialogue would take.

She remained in her seat, but i could tell that only her body was present. Her mind had lifted her torso up and walked into the other room out of pride. The specter of silence hovered in the air above us, holding still all objects that would seem to move autonomously on their own: the sunbeams arching in through the window, the hands of the wall clock hanging in the living room. I asked her for her thoughts.

"Why do you insist on us being unequal?"

Excuse me? I had expected a complaint about my stubborn views regarding her intolerance of a swampy torso, but this was deeper than i had even envisioned. But, immediately, i saw what she was after. In absorbing my egotistical push for as much as i could get, she'd found herself examining what she felt was a disparity in our exchange. I ask, i shove, i demand...where does she ever get to exact this same toll?

This theme has come up many times in my life. They will struggle with the unending give they are asked for, seeing the direction in the vector that passes between us, and perceive that it is only one way. I've discussed this with my girl many times, when she encounters concerns that her behavior indicates weakness, and even ineptitude. Because this is not a new topic, testing the quality of our power exchange, i employ a tactic not previously considered.

"Do you want a cock?"

"A what?"

"A cock."

I'm not asking her if she craves the sensation of her various orifices filled with my male anatomy. I'm asking if she wants a large penetrating member hanging down between her legs instead of the beautiful petals that blossom there now.

"No. Of course not."

"Then why ask for equality?"

I say this with two things in mind. The first being that equality, as it is being defined here, is largely impossible. Secondly, why is equality so important?

I'll address the first notion, that equality cannot fit in a power exchange, and i'll do so by examining the pure physicality of this arrangement. I have often seen my manifestation in this exchange as the plug, and she as the outlet. I implant my prongs into her slots, and she provides the energy that powers our mechanism. What is equal about that? Without her, the flow never initiates, yet it cannot occur without me penetrating her, somehow, some way. What goes often overlooked is the natural anatomy (and what in the early days of my venture into SM that had me convinced that all girls are submissive) that exists between the two of us. In order for us to copulate, i must enter her, she must accept me, take me in. Regardless of how you choose to look at this, equality can never be established. Which leads me to my second point.

What is so great about equality? Simply, i choose to treat my girl whenever i can. I never look for her to catch up with me. Whenever we are out on a shopping venture (not as common an activity as it may seem), i can assure you that 80% or more of that is dedicated to perfecting her wardrobe or getting something that either one or both of us are obsessed with her having.

I understand what her message is. She struggles sometimes with the notion that her whole life she has chosen for herself how to live, look and act and now finds herself in a situation where a large percentage of that is decided for her. She sometimes feels guilty that she is betraying the morals and standards she feels she was raised with, and other times experiences remorse that she's able to live a life she'd always fantasized about.

For me, i'm too busy enjoying myself to really evaluate who is ahead and who is behind.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

a cup of coffee

I sit down in a chair i love to claim whenever i come here. I place my white ceramic mug on the small cedar table to my left, which makes a sound like a chef breaking an egg on the side of a pan. I look across the long narrow room of the cafe, out over the bar where a line has grown and see the young barista whose hands i complimented smiling at me as she steams a pitcher of milk. I pull back the cuff of my shirt to examine my watch for the time. You still have a few minutes.

I'm near enough the door that i can hear it open and close, but i do not look up every time it gets used. Instead, i put my attention into my notebook on my lap, scribbling across an empty page with my favorite fountain pen. I dig the flesh of my fingers into the rigidness of the pen's nib, holding on with an authority that allows me to freely paint my words across the lined paper. The ink bleeds onto the tips of my thumb and middle finger. I love it when this happens. I feel like it is evidence of my labor, my craft. These are my paints splattered on my clothes, my cheeks caked with soot. I rub the two symmetrical spots together, rolling the flesh-on-flesh contact around and around, when i feel an urge to look up at the door. Your hand has just left it as you let it close behind you.

You look around the cafe, even glance right at me, but keep studying the landscape. Finally, your eyes come back to my frame in the chair, notebook open and inviting on my lap, cup of steaming coffee effusing into the air. I clip my pen in the page where i'd left off, and close it. I raise myself from the upholstered seat, and greet you as you march in my direction, removing a few outer garments amidst your procession. We stare at eachother, but this level of frankness betrays the awkward tone of the benign smalltalk we share. Most of the awkwardness is yours. I ask you if you'd like something to drink, then guide you into the chair communing on the other side of the small cedar table.

You spend the first few stanzas of our conversation mostly behind your large cup of tea, cradling the wide bowl in both hands, holding it slightly tilted against your mouth. Our chemistry is immediately recognizable. We can both look at the far end of the cafe and have the same object grab our interest. You and i both notice the elderly gentleman holding the chair for his "date" to sit in, which seems odd in a cafe usually occupied with freelancers and their laptops. I glance back at you, and can tell by the way your shoulders are widening that you are growing more and more comfortable.

The volume of your voice has gradually increased, and, when you listen to me or answer a question, you look directly in my eyes, instead of a few inches above my head. I'll hold your stare, and you don't turn away so quickly. Not as quickly as when we first said hello. In fact, you are risking getting caught. You know, and i know that at a certain point you won't be able to turn away. At a certain point, you'll be trapped, and the only way you can escape is to leap to your feet and flee.

I am ready when you do, and snatch at your arm, grabbing you by the wrist. I hold it firm. You tug your entire body away from me, like a kite pulling in the wind. This sudden move has the eyes of those around looking at us, waiting for you to respond. I guide you back to your seat, where you recline in silence. In the span of the next ten minutes, the only glance i get from you burns. It is one of anger, humiliation at being caught.

When i feel that you are ready, i lead you through a slow discussion of what you'd confessed to me online. I force you to talk explicitly about the things you want done to you. I demand that you speak at the same conversational level that we were previously. You are made to describe why you believe you deserve to be treated this way, why you have come to meet me at the cafe, and why you know this has to happen.

As each minute passes with you not taking your eyes from mine, i strip you of your vices. I remove you of your hangups. I peel away your vulnerabilities. At a certain point, you'll disappear.

At a certain point, you'll be gone.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007


In the climax of Sam Raimi's first Spiderman installment, we find our hero hanging from the 59th Street bridge in New York City faced with an incredibly mortifying decision. In his outstretched arm hangs the severed tramway cable that the arch-villain has cut, putting at risk the lives of the school children who are shrieking in fear within the dangling car. Back in the arch-villain's hand hovering overhead, the hero's fair maiden who he has secretly loved his entire, modest and chivalrous young life, screams for his aid - the evil menace threatens to drop her hundreds of feet into the rushing river below. The hero must make a choice: the lives of the children or the life of his muse.

I adore this conflict. Simply adore it, although, i'd replace the children with dozens of young golden lab puppies just to turn the screw a little more. My reaction to this scene follows a similar pattern that i have managed my entire life:

i always root for the bad guy

In all things, i've consistently found a connection to the most ruthless characters in the scenario. I rooted for Captain Nemo in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I experienced a fealty to his rage, his disgust and his contempt for the malodorous sides of humanity (which he ultimately saw in himself - something he could never excuse or rid himself of the guilt, causing him the most pain). I found the evil characters more interesting, more complex. The good guys just did...good, but more importantly, they stopped the evil from happening. Whereas, the dark figure labored, schemed, plotted, calculated, and used their evil genius brain to come up with some awful calamity meant to confound the simple minds of the 'men in white'. Faced with the mother lode of exposition, the malevolent ones had in their arsenal the most deliciously sadistic and beautiful device: the predicament.

To place a girl in a situation where she must endure pain, and endure it without any way to rectify it is cruel. But to put her in a position where she can choose to shift her body in such a way that she alleviates pain in her feet only to transfer an equal amount of pain, if not greater, to her shoulders, is ingenious, and purely maniacal. Owing much to my desire to always remain unpredictable, this ploy has frequently entered my playtime. I adore binding my girl by the wrists which pulls her shoulders back into an excruciating tug only to contrast that with a rigid crotch rope yanking in the opposite direction. She has a choice to relieve her aching joints or to punish her fragile little pussy.

I'd like to share with the reader one of my favorite inspirations for such predicaments, namely that of the now defunct Insex website. These individuals who have moved on to other online SM sites were masters in presenting their female participants with predicaments they'd need to navigate. One such delectable had the ravishingly beautiful model 49 stationed on all fours, naked on the cold concrete floor. Her hands are taped up so that they form a shiny, electrically-taped clump, as are her feet. Her hair is pulled up above her by a leather strap knotted into her locks and then ratcheted into a pulley block above. Her prone nipples are pinched between surgical clamps that are then each tied off to the same D-ring anchored to the concrete floor. In order to relieve the sustained tug on her hair, she must lift her body up from the floor, which in turn causes her to jerk on the clamps biting into her sensitive nipply sparkplugs. Of course, since her hands are taped, she cannot free herself of the various contraptions. And, ad infinitum, begins the dialogue of pure sadistic debauchery.

A careful analysis of this arousal produces a clear extension of control. There is nothing overtly sexual about subjecting a submissive to this sort of beratement. I have employed this on even simpler arrangements, where i have not placed as serious demands upon the girl's body, but instead her mind. I have insisted that she make a decision between the destruction of one favored article of clothing in return for leniency over the scrutiny of a behavior or reaction. Essentially, i am asking her to decide whether her well-being is worth preserving over that of another object. She's engaging in this transaction simply because she wants to, or believes that she has to in order to attain that perfect summation of pure and complete submission.

As for who prevails, i leave it to the reader to decide whether good or evil rues the day.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Sugasm #100

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 #101? 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
Do you want me…?
“The shiver that runs through you tells me everything I need to know.”

Love that ass (his perspective)
“But as long as we are in here, she submits to my command; to my every whim.”

Hubb and Spoeker
“He was good for show and good in bed, but an asshole in the real world.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
125 Magazine, Alternet and Enviromentally Friendly Porn

Editor’s Choice
The very best of Sugasm…. so far

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

BDSM & Fetish
Objets d’obsession: neck corsets
Piss Slut

Sunday, October 7, 2007

It's in his eyes

At first, it's just a glance. Something my senses are quite attuned to, but still, since it has only met my eyes once, i don't take notice. Then, she'll begin to stare. Smile nervously. And then her stare will turn hungry. She'll want me to stare back. I'll cross the flight path of her gaze with my own eyes, and i'll know instantly that i've caught her. I haven't captured her in a momentary transaction. I mean, i've caught her, trapped her, she's mine.

This visual tractor beam is in fact so common i've come to refer to it in my head as an echo. I stand on the edge of the massive canyon, only to call out my voice in hopes of hearing the familiar return to my ears. It might come across as slightly shocking that i would place on these pages dictation that states how time after time i've entered into a deep connection with multiple females. But, what i believe to be more shocking is that it has happened with females of all ages. Be they 25 years my junior or senior. This is what makes this subject so difficult to write about on this site. I'm not talking about this capture in an explicitly sexual manner, but something similar to catching a beautiful monarch butterfly. I retrieve the creature from my net, pull it gently out and hold it on my fingers, lightly caressing its gossamer elegance, letting it flutter a 4-line poem with its fragile wings.

Perhaps this is why i've always had more female companions in my life. Perhaps this explains why even today my profession, my daily vocation and even my volunteer work finds me in situations where my gender is the minority. And perhaps, herein lies the veracity for the overwhelming number of comments to my words here coming from the fairer sex.

Most frequently, this connection would happen in social situations, usually at a party or gathering. Now, if she was younger than me, she was usually the younger sister of a friend, or the daughter of the host. Her attachment would be made instantaneously. She would not say much to me, keeping herself just off of my periphery where (she most likely didn't know i knew) she would be able to stare at me rather uninterruptedly. Then, she would grow bold, show me, with great pride, a toy of hers - a favorite doll, perhaps - to see if i would be able to speak on her level. I would normally wink at her, raise my eyebrows, make a silly little face. My young friend sometimes pretends to be demure to my sudden return volley of attention, pin her chin to her shoulder, smear her hands over her face, only to offer me her eyes to signify her amusement.

What strikes me most times when i am in this situation, other than the pure innocent joy of this exchange, is what is staring from behind those eyes of hers. I feel like i know them. Like sixty years earlier, they belonged to someone in my past life who meant something very dear to me, and for a moment, i'm enjoying the opportunity of their brief visit.

The strongest episode of this kind happened when i was just graduating from college. My hometown friend had invited me to come down and watch his younger brother play baseball for his highschool team. This junior second baseman had a female friend named Cindy who was to accompany us. When my friend told me of this, before i even met her i felt a strange connection, despite the fact that she was only 15 and i was 23. I rode down with my friend in his car, jumping in the back seat so when we got his brother, they could share the front together. However, being a gentleman, upon arrival, lil bro let Cindy sit in the front.

I'm really not able to explain why it felt like it did when she entered the car, but upon her recline, an incredible peace overwhelmed me. My friend introduced me to her, and the entire time, she didn't look back at me. For twenty minutes, we engaged in conversation amongst the four of us, and not once did she turn back to deliver her words directly. Then, abruptly, she spun around and looked right into my eyes. I still remember this moment: her deep, shiny brown morsels surrounded by the whites of her optics; her graduating cascade of arched eyelashes; the brightness of the entire area between her temples. Suddenly, decades of a life i couldn't recall came to me, in a different locale, region and time period. She'd brought these memories back to me. I could tell she was equally stunned. We interrupted the flow of conversation and spoke the only words that made sense:

"Hi," she said. She'd pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth, nibbling on it.

"Hi there," i responded. We were reacquainting ourselves with eachother. She was looking in my eyes (and couldn't stop) as if it had been too long since she last saw them.

A year would pass, and she and i would no longer be able to hold back, engaging in a passionate romance that due to our age gap would never get the proper oxygen it needed to adequately fuel the flame. But it was enough to really witness the memories and experiences you can share with someone not from this current lifetime.

With regards to females older than me, this phenomenon takes on a rather similar shine - a connection realized from some shared past. Due to our stages in life, the situation tends to allow more flirtation. The most recent episode of this happened over the weekend. I was at my friend's engagement party, whose mom i'd met several times. We shared this connection i mention above, however it took a very subtle and dignified tone.

I was sitting at a table by myself on the outside patio, taking in the beauty of the nighttime air and symphony of nature's song. I heard the sounds of heels come click along the stone of the patio behind me, and then the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

I could tell it was her by her voice, but also by her leathery perfume. I smiled, indicating i was doing wonderful.

She walked around the table and stood in front of me with a smile that always calms and excites me. She looked at me for the first time in the evening, and cocked her head slightly to the side.

"Your eyes are so bright. Did you lighten your eyes?"

I smiled again, big, showing all of my teeth. I let her walk away to attend to other guests, waiting until she was just on the verge of being out of earshot, and then i spoke:

"Yes. But, just so i could seduce you."

Thursday, October 4, 2007

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 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:


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.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Delurk from thine mist

The Great Mofo Delurk 2007

I've noticed a fall off in the amount of comments i received. I wracked my brains over what might've caused it. Was it me? Was i too dark? Were my expressions too heavy with my lewd, sexual gasoline? And then i saw that other sites have experienced a similar drop. Apparently, there's something in the web'o'sphere that has caused the readers to quiet their keyboard taps.

Well, i know i'm somewhat to blame, but a holiday has been declared, and i'm never one to miss a commemoration when it serves my purposes. So, in good spirits of the day, lurkers come out and declare yourself!

Monday, October 1, 2007

Ouvert le genou

It is a beautiful autumn Sunday morning. The outside atmosphere rings with the church bells and the crisp fall air. I let her sleep in a little longer than usual. These are the sort of days where sleeping-in deserves special consideration.

At breakfast, i tell her that at some point in the day she will be put over my knee. I mention this to her at all because i want to glean her general attitude and emotional station, knowing that we have just broken our slumber-induced fast. I inquire as to when she thinks she would be most receptive. She gives it some thought, then states after her shower.

Later on, i'm working on the computer. Off in the distance, i hear the cascade of water cease in the bathroom. The sound of a door opening splits into the air from down the hallway, and i sit, waiting for her to soon come into my bureau. For whatever reason, i do not anticipate that she will crawl into my den. On all fours she scampers in along the floor, pulling her completely naked body, dripping with fresh, clean wetness right up to my chair.

I ask her why she came crawling.

"Because i knew i was to be spanked."

"And why are you to be spanked?"

"Because that is what you have decided."

"Is there any reason you deserve to be spanked?"

She doesn't respond.

"You have been especially bratty this week."

"When?" she asks.

"The other morning, you showed a great deal of irritation for no good reason, and were awfully short in your answers. You were being quite the little brat."

"Yes. Yes i was."

"Now do you think a spanking will do you good?"

"Yes. It will do me good for awhile, and then, i'll eventually need another."

I guide her nude frame to lie across my lap as i sit in my chaise lounge. I stroke my hand the full length of her backside. From the base of her thin neck, to the ample curvature of her round feminine hips, i explore the corpuscle terrain glowing up at me. i kiss the convex indentations of her spine, then move my embrace to her newly cleaned ass cheeks. My hand interrupts this fleshy love affair with a thwap into her right buttocks. Her muscles leap in a tense tour jeté, quickly consuming the altered rhythm of our exchange. Suddenly, i view her epidermal frontier of delicate peach and pink tones and decide they are in need of an acceleration to bright red inflammation. I slap three strokes hard into her skin.

She yelps.

I brush my hand across the newly irritated flesh, and move to the other cheek.

Three more strokes. Her body has come alive with stimulation. Her muscles pulse with fresh blood pumped through them. Small droplets of sweat pool in the concavity of her lower back. The rounded mounds of her ass cheeks throb a gravitating heat that feels so comforting to my flattened palm. I patter her butt with a quick resonance of slaps, finding a pattern that satisfies my inner hunger but does not yet push her to the limit of seeking mercy. I alternate between her right and left cheeks. Right, then left, then right, then left. I bring her pain receptors just to the edge, teasing them, hording my command over this physical domain, never quite pushing her beyond the edge. This continues for another seven minutes.

At a certain point, i work out the kink in my shoulder, arm, psyche that dictated to me that i would need this sort of expression. My girl has extracted herself from the corporal impact slapped into her body, and hovering above it, has found a clear, explicit euphoria. I can feel the visceral, ectoplasmic possession of it glistening the folds of her yet unattended cunt. I pull her up into my lap, and hold her close to my body.

I visit her silent, now suddenly-smaller-than-normal frame with tender kisses and continued strokes with my hand, perched upon my reclined legs. I give us a few tender moments in the silent stasis of this pose before i move on to the completion of our intimate moment.