Thursday, May 31, 2007


I walked into the store, dressed in my usual above average apparel, stopping just a few steps inside the door. I waited. I put my hands in my pocket, looking as relaxed as possible. I scanned the well-appointed boutique, eyeing the gentlemen who prided themselves on their ability to make a man feel special. Not a single one approached me. I hadn't made my intentions clear enough for them to engage. My station right at the front of the store didn't signal commitment. I loved this sort of verbal-less exchange. In the short time i'd stood there, every single one of them had sized up my seriousness at indulging in a purchase and the size of the purchase simply by the quality of my shoes, the cut of my pants and the stitch on my lapels. What they hadn't discerned out of these visual cues was that i wasn't there with the goal of getting the perfect suit boxed up and sent on my way. I was there to be served. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the emporium, engaging the entire staff, regaling them with stories, building a camraderie with them as they fit me with suit after suit, even complimenting my tastes (as if i chose the designs myself).

Once in awhile, i will leave with one of those suits (of course negotiated for a price more to my liking), but most times, i leave with just a single tie. I don't need the threads. I do however need the catering to.

I love being fitted for a suit. I get tingles that run up and down the back of my neck when i am the center of someone's consultation. Sitting in the chair as i get my shoes shined, i just melt, closing my eyes and sizzling with euphoria. The same sensation massages my head when i get a hair cut. I am perhaps the only person who isn't interred and elderly that picks up the phone when the caller ID indicates that it's a telemarketer on the other end. I listen to their pitches, i ask them questions, i inquire about their careers, prying them out of the narrow script they've been trained to follow. It becomes their pleasure to entertain me with their pitch, meanwhile, i'm secretly lavishing this personal attention.

It doesn't just have to involve me as the sole focus. You may also pamper my girl and i get the same thrill. Just the other day, we were at her corsetier. She was being fit for a new underbust s-shaped corset*. I sat in a chair and watched him tug the muslin over her midsection, taking out pins and notching them at spots to get the right action from the temporary boning. He would hold up swaths of different patterned fabrics, demonstrating color combinations he thought would please her. He completed what he needed to do for the corset fitting, and was going to move to the next item, but i stopped him before he removed the mock-up from her body. I wanted him to proceed with it still on. He pulled out the custom latex armbinder (that i had designed), with attached boned bustier, and slipped this up her two arms clasped behind her back. He laced it until her elbows met in the middle, then buckled the dozen straps further anchoring her immobilized appendages to her body. I got up and walked around her, examining the device. I pointed at certain areas where i felt a few inches could be lost, other areas where the contour of her beautifully gloved hands could be more pronounced. He made notes as i finished my inspection, taking dictation of my wishes. I've commissioned many things from him, and the attainment of the objects matches the pleasure i derive from him serving me only because what he crafted ultimately symbolizes my specific desires.

These types of exchanges happen on a daily basis, entering into negotiations and fulfilling contracts. Every time i find myself in one of them i think the following:

"You are looking to get something from me, when all i'm looking for is to get served."

*(not pictured on his site)

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Sugasm #81

Sugasm #81

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #82? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Do / Do Not (…)“Do – stop in the hallway to kiss and fondle me before even getting to the room.”

The Red Cross of Fucking (…)“They can pay her a “finder’s fee,” and everybody will be happier.”

Review: The Amputee’s Guide to Sex (…)“When he first mentioned it he turned his disability into a fetish.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Meet Lin Chong, Dong Assistant (…)

Editor’s Choice
Mothers day 3 (…)

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

BDSM & Fetish
Art, human condition and spanking (…)
Darkness (…)

Monday, May 28, 2007

Thankfully, looks are deceiving

I've been described as the following (as recently as within the past week):
Preppy, even geeky
Harmless (jesus)

At one time or another, i've been told i look like one of the following, or in fact mistaken for them (seriously):
Tobey Maguire (someone thought i might be a stunt-double of his)
Robert Downey Jr. (on two separate occasions, i've been approached for his autograph)
Jake Gyllenhall
Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (they had to explain to me who he was)
Hugh Grant (both pre and post Hookergate)

My job is one where i am supposed to deal with working class stiffs (who honestly i look forward to dealing with), stodgy, government bureaucrats, and overpaid company executives. I must be somewhat presentable, amenable and likeable.

All of this put together in one package has crafted a huge hurdle to overcome whenever i'd revealed to a girl my darkest minustrations. They honestly wouldn't believe me at first. They thought i was pulling their leg when i would tell them that on the 2nd date i'd like to tie them up and then proceed to eat the very romantic, candle-lit dinner i'd prepared in front of them. I'm not complaining, per se. I'm actually quite fond that when i walk into a bank, the last thing on the teller's mind is that i might be the one most likely to ponder how to pull off a heist.

However, this contrast persists a lifelong bout of secrecy and cloaking of my true self. I suppose if i dressed all in leather, grew my hair out and studded my accessories, i'd be able to more outwardly express my inner polemic. But, as i recognize that too would not be me, i'm stuck with having to settle with revealing my realistic identity to a select and guarded few.

Friday, May 25, 2007


Charting all of my sexual conquests creates a list that is severely lopsided in one direction. 'Conquests' perhaps is not the right word. That implies offense, battering rams, hordes of marauding mercenaries spilling over village walls. I don't seek and conquer women. I set sexual traps.

I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.

From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.

I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.

In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.

My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

the Slut vs. the Lady

There are days that i find myself walking behind some of the filthiest trash, causing my stomach to turn. It's worse in the hot, summer heat. Something in the swelter releases a chemical in the minds of a number of women, convincing them that they should dress as skimpily and vilely as possible. This chemical also seems to block their ability to recognize what is sensible. I see the most lurid of sights parading on the sidewalks:
-vicously tight jeans whose top line seems to recede more and more each passing year, and whose shape makes a trip to the ob-gyn more stream-lined
-visible panties (g-strings or thongs) as a result of the eroding coverage the above pants provide
-backless, belly-less, shoulder-less...really material-less tops that cling to the gal's torso like a frightened child to its mother
-multiple bra straps serving as evidence that the wearer in fact owns undergarments
-belly piercings
-fabrics of bold, tacky and loud colors

The men i work with will oggle and drag their tongues along the dirty street whenever they see a female dressed like this. They'll elbow eachother, whistle, snicker, say something crude like "I'd do her," all of which are appropriate (and sought after?) reactions to this kind of dress. The female is dressing like a slut, and for some reason, this is being celebrated, even coveted within our appalling fixation on the lives of celebrities. Names such as Paris, Britney, Lindsay are everywhere. I recently heard of a website (although i haven't wasted the time to verify that it exists) where thousands of young girls are said to have signed a petition urging Governor Ah-nold to show clemency to Paris (for a jail sentence she is serving for an infraction i don't really care to know), indicating in their pleas her massive contribution to society. What the hell is going on? Why are our young girls being fed images of sluttier and sluttier depictions of how they should physically present themselves? Anyone can look at the line of Bratz dolls and see the flimsy outfits that even pre-pubescent girls are being fed as models for their own appearances.

Now, before this trails off on a sociological rant, i assure you, readers, i intend to lasso it within the rope of my kink. I have publicized already how i prefer feminine beauty to be displayed. Thankfully, fluttering among these skanks are women who choose to highlight and accentuate their femininity rather than cheapen it to a level barely above an All-Nude stripper. These are the gals who dress in skirts that spill over their curves in a modest but striking manner. They don heels that give shape to their calves, and an oomph to their gait, but do not clod about in gawdy monstrosities. Their jewelry acts as tasteful ornamentation, not expressions of their skills at accumulating. I am more impressed by a woman who leaves mystery in her appearance, puts effort into her countenance and does it all with class. I am attracted to the lady.

Oh, i want to turn her into a slut, but i want her to be my slut. This contrast i recognize is confusing, and even i have struggled with it. Over the period of time i've been with my girl, i've gained an appreciation for modesty. I don't want my girl to look like a pornstar. I fear that there are females who believe there is power in looking that way. I feel the opposite. By withholding, restraining, and concealing your assets instead of baring all, the true power of feminine beauty is realized.

And of course, there is power in showing off my girl when and how i want to.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

The rudiments of tightlacing

When i first proposed the idea to her that she swathe her torso in a custom-designed corset, she balked at the idea. She was accustomed to wearing jeans, tennis shoes and t-shirts that had the random logo of any number of indy rock bands she was listening to. She was absolutely cute in whatever she wore, but for my tastes, the look had to go.

I gave her the task of creating a complete catalogue of her wardrobe, down to her detailing the description of every single one of her 75+ pair of panties. After reviewing the list she gave me, i came back to her with a truncated collection of clothes that consisted of those she would be allowed to keep, and those she would be altruistically donating to the local Salvation Army. Her first comment upon receiving the list, i believe, took the tone of, "Are you fucking kidding?"

I wasn't. I knew exactly what i wanted. Obviously, pants were a thing of the past. But so too were 80% of her shoes. Even then, the hardest part to let go of were her t-shirts. She'd collected these silk-screened flimsies for years. They represented fond memories, proud achievements and bold statements of her adolescent development. I respected this. I truly did. But nonetheless, they had to go. They wouldn't work with what i had in mind.

"And why exactly would they not work?"

"T-shirts do not go with corsets."

I've had the pleasure of being a witness to a handful of girls donning a corset for the first time. I don't mean to simplify or diminish these experiences by suggesting that each girl's reaction was exactly the same, but, essentially, they were. They melted when they saw the final product after all of the tugging and tightening. Their hands went immediately to their new, contorted waist, as they stared at themselves in the mirror, striking a pose of heroically-charged sexuality. From this reaction, i hold the blunt-headed notion that all girls should wear corsets, understanding that it would not be just for their romantic counterparts.

I took my girl to the local fetish shop, which happened to stock a grand assortment of different sized, off-the-rack corsets (what, you don't have this in your town?). The rule of thumb with tightlacing is that you need to select one that is 4" smaller than your natural waist. As she was already teeny, the options in the 23"-sized constricters weren't all that enormous. We selected two very beautiful protoypes: a gorgeous 'Tiffany blue' LoveSick basque, and a red silk brocade Shane Aaron underbust. The clerk who was assisting, took us into the biggest dressing room i'd ever been in, and proceeded to ask my girl to disrobe. A normally modest filly, my girl quickly abandoned her clothes and let this complete stranger strap the rigid garment to her topless frame. In ten minutes, all of the soliciting i'd been doing in favor of corsets became useless. She saw and felt all she needed in order to help her with her decision. We ended up settling on the Shane Aaron design, but as is the case with tightlacing, we had to submit her measurements and select the fabric quality and color to the corsetiere (who resided in Las Vegas at the time), who would, in 6 weeks, handcraft a custom-made article of lingerie suitable for 23 hours of daily wear.

We are now approaching 3 years of my girl's waist training. We have, in that time, fine-tuned her regiment to where she is laced 8-10 hours a day (except when the humidity exceeds 70% and the air temp rises above 75 degrees F), reduces to a flattering 22" wasped shape, and have amassed a collection of 5 personalized garments she alternates between.

The thing that grabs me, despite years of coveting the corsetted female form, and accomodating its "normalcy" over the past few years, i never tire of the daily regiment of tightlacing. My girl has learned how to lace herself (a product of our living apart while corset training), but on certain days, either because a snag has developed in the mechanics, or because she just wants to be charitable, she will ask for my assistance. Turning her back to me, she will raise her hands and lean against a wall or doorframe, and without fail, as i tug and tug, i'm never able to walk away without a prominent statement of my arousal saluting this facet of our relationship.

Thursday, May 17, 2007


The Dark Lord.

He occupied a deep cavern in my mind from a very early age. I was raised Roman Catholic. The concept of the Devil played a large part in my grasp of right and wrong. Whenever i would commit a foul of some sort, as a way to rein me in, my mother used to tell me that the floor was going to open up and Satan's red, clawed hand would come through it and pull me to Hell. Seeing that this discipline method was not appropriate for discussion when we had company over, my mother developed a hand gesture that she would shyly employ to halt my straying to the netherland of misbehaving. Her hand would curl into a claw, and she would slowly raise it in the air mimicking the clutch of Satan onto my legs, making sure to keep this out of sight of anyone except me. I would immediately clam up.

The deity of my nightmares was Satan. Almost every one i can remember ended with me falling down into His fiery dominion. I couldn't even escape the rattle of this scenario while watching my afternoon cartoons. By the end of the Tom and Jerry episode "Heavenly Puss", i was cowering behind my father's lounger, afraid to even peek at the television as it transitioned to a benign commercial. I, like Tom, was fearful that neverending escalator to Heaven would suddenly turn off, sending me plummeting through the hatch in the floor, delivering me straight to the Devil.

Flash forward a few years to my early teens. I remember sitting on the floor of my parent's bedroom, with my hand on the channel dial (yes, you kids, we used to have to manually switch between channels by turning a dial on the set) ready, at the first sound of footsteps, to flip it back to the hockey game i told them that i was going to watch. I'd seen a promo for the broadcast premiere of the movie "Legend" earlier that day, and, in it they showed a glimpse of the Dark Lord, swishing across the screen. Just enough for my mind to immediately identify the spector that for most of my childhood had haunted me, but, instead of trying to avoid an encounter, i wanted to see His celluloid form. This intense desire to watch this movie resided in this newfound appetite that i had not been able to satisfy through my stomach. What i glimpsed as i covertly watched this movie (my parents would absolutely not approve me seeing a film laced with violence and "satanic" allusions) formulated the anatomy of my entire sexual identity.

Princess Lily (played by the heavenly Mia Sara).

Her eyes drew you to look at her as if they themselves would deliver you to Paradise. Her nose curled up at the tip in an elfish way that made her appear make-believe. From the moment she appeared on the screen, i was captivated. It didn't hurt that she happened to sport the look that i had assembled in my head as the ideal beauty. Dark hair. Big, bright eyes. Lips that blossomed in a plump but confined way. In fact, i think her look actually contributed to the deep impact this film had on my sexuality. Had she been blonde, i'm not sure i would've been so drawn to her outcome. As the story progressed, and she revealed a flawed character that led her to sully the virginity of the unicorn, i found myself even more attracted to her. She'd shown the compensity for bad. I didn't know it at the time, but i was allured by her potential for evil, the very same flaw that had seen me as a child regularly receive the threat of a schism in the ground opening up.

I was not prepared for the appearance of Darkness. When He finally arrived on the screen, my hand jerked, quickly switching the channels. I flipped back to see His sinister smile, and instead of recoil in fear, i eyed Him with awe. In fact, any scene without Him seemed dull. When they would flash to the fairy-esque Tom Cruise trying to arrange some way to save the Princess, i wished they'd return to the crescent-colored creature. The shine of His wicked horns that shot out of His forehead, curling into menacingly sharp tips. His yellow eyes with animalistic-slitted irises. His long, grotesque chin, jutting out and lengthening His grin. Why did i not fear this, i wondered? Why, instead, was i coveting this?

I sat riveted by the scenes where he converses with the Princess. She acts disgusted by His appearance, by His lair, by His supposition that she would become His. Despite her protests, He is unwavered in His pursuit. This too excited me. His confidence that He would have her, and have her how He wanted, rang a tone of accordance inside of me.

Eventually, a female dervish comes out, dancing and twirling around the chamber. She is wearing a long black dress, with her face completely cloaked in a skin tight black silk hood. A high collar that extends well above her crown frames this faceless feminine head. The dancing nymph picks up the Princess' hand and pulls her from her chair. The Princess reluctantly follows, trying to resist, but she is tumbling into a trance. The dancing draws the Princess deeper, evident by her movements as they begin to sway to the macabre tune all on their own. Her body accepts the urges, breathlessly responding to the desire it wells up. A montage of images alternates between the faceless demoness and the princess, both twirling around and around, until finally, a metamorphosis occurs.

The Princess has become the Dark Lord's bride.

The next image you see of the Princess is the one at right. Her lips are now darkened. Her flesh pale and uniform, showing the communion to the creatures of the deep. Her eyes are heavily lined, reducing the brightness they boasted with above ground. She slithers in her movements, moving her body in the new sensual way it has been taught. She wears the dress of the faceless demoness. She has become the demoness. Even her voice is deeper, rich with lust and lasciviousness. She comes to the Dark Lord transformed, and He welcomes her with open arms.

If anyone had come up the stairs, my ruse would've been discovered. I couldn't move. I hadn't seen the female form tarnished in such an appetizing way. I watched the Princess slip from her primrose beauty to this sinful creature happy to do her new Master's bidding. My mind had been opened to the possibility that such a dynamic could exist. Over and over, this conversion would be redrawn in my head when i needed to satisfy my erotic appetites.

I had grown up fearing the temptation that the Devil had wielded on my every behavior, only to come to find that this was misplaced. I was made to fear Darkness as a child, but when i was left to uncover the truth of my nature on my own, i realized i didn't need to be afraid of being delivered to Him.

I was exactly like Him.

Monday, May 14, 2007

So unnatural

Hair is supposed to grow back. You can shave it, cut it, get it waxed off, or "nair" it, but it is supposed to grow back.

I have required my girl, as do most of us in this realm, to keep her cunt shaved bare. Recognizing the expense and labor involved in doing this, as well as being tantalized by the permanent body modification, i recently agreed to let her get it removed via laser treatment. A few days ago, she went in for her first session. The results are immediately evident. It's incredible! Smooth and perfect, unlike waxing or shaving where within the day you can feel stubble.

Since then, i'm hearing how my girl feels like she could become quite addicted to this practice, and that thought alone is very exciting - all body hair gone beneath her nostrils - but it was tempered by a reality that occured to me. I had one other girl who had her hair removed permanently, but she had had that done before she came into my life. This is the first one where i've been with her through the process. Every body modification i've imposed on my girl can, for all intents and purposes, be reversed. Even if the piercing is soldered shut, it can be removed. Same goes for a tattoo. You cannot, as far as i'm aware, regenerate hair once it has been electrolosized.

Playing with this idea, i thought to fool around with my girl a little bit.

"I've changed my mind. I think i want hair down there."

She looked at me with her jaw held wide open, crooked slightly to the left. "I can't reverse it."

"No? You can't just let it grow back?"


" That's pretty permanent."

A permanent modification. That will stimulate me for months.

Friday, May 11, 2007

The Gain, pt. 3

As macho as i think i am, which if needed measure puts me somewhere between King Kong and Superman, i still could not prepare myself for her.

First of all, our interaction was purely online. This placed a numbness between me and my reaction to the situation which, eventually, dictated the duration of our dynamic. I met her in my chatroom that i hosted (does anyone remember the one i mentioned here?). She dawdled, but only a little. Once she saw that i had a certain amount of untenable arrogance, she proceeded to lay out the full narrative of her submission and how she saw me fitting into it. We were easily 500 miles apart. We would never see eachother in person, unless one of us made a considerable trek to the other's locale, which just wasn't going to happen. What i liked and equally feared about her was her ability to succinctly describe the ways in which she would submit to me, even though these scenarios that i designed would be carried out by her cuckolded husband whose only role in their romance was to ensure his wife was summarily tormented, via proxy.

"c" would break the ice when she came online by telling me about the Shopping Network extravaganzas she had just watched that would efficiently plop her into a "ready to submit" mode. Trust me, i didn't believe it myself. I would cajole her, saying things like,"Cubic zirconias make you cream?!?" As "c" described it, watching the beautiful feminine hands delicately handle the costume jewelry (which, with her, would allow me to patter around with my own jewelry fascination) took her to a place where she could face her "demons". I came to learn that these "demons" were some of the most extreme degradations i'd ever participated in.

"I need to be in complete discomfort."
"I need to be suspended by my hair."
"I need to be treated like a mindless rag doll."

She repeated these statements in various iterations, but all of them would find a place in each of the predicaments i designed. On her consent, her husband e-mailed me, initiating a correspondence between him and i. I would send him my diagrams and my instructions. "c" would see none of this, not knowing her fate or its duration once her hubby began. His e-mails always came with just one phrase: "How am i supposed to position "c"?" The first time i received this question, i took several steps back from my computer. I paced back and forth. Something disturbed me about the spouse of one of the girls i'd met in my chatroom allowing his mate to face whatever torture a stranger could conjure from a distance. I would not be there when it began. I would not be there to set the mood and to establish the tone, telling her that i knew what i was doing. I would also not be there after she was released. I would not be there to hold her, embrace her, or wash her of the grime that collects after long hours of constriction. Yet, despite this, i could not contain my arousal and found myself creating intricate mechanisms for "c's" debasement.

The first scenario i designed involved shrink wrap (one of my favorite things). I'd been exploring this myself in my real life, and wanted to try something with "c". She had established that her torments needed to take place over a period of 24 hours or more - non-stop. First, she would be strapped to the support pole in their basement with leather bindings at her forehead, clavicle, hips, knees, and ankles, totally immobilizing her. Then, her husband would carefully apply a flawless mask of overly feminine makeup: Exceptionally rouged cheeks; Heavily lined eyelids, overhung by dark, rich eye shadows; Lips accentuated by crimson shades. He would then insert into her cunt an inflatable dildo, and a matching inflatable butt plug into her ass, as well as a PVC triple-headed gasket gag in her mouth. This would be followed by several layers of tight shrink wrap stretched across her naked body. The only thing protruding from the plastic would be the air hole of her PVC gag and the plunger bulbs of her dildo and butt plug. Her husband painted her shrink wrap-encased body with the heat of a hair dryer, effectively sealing her inside of this prison. Later that evening, via my instructions, the husband invited over several of "c's" friends to examine her, given encouragement to touch her through the plastic and squeeze the plungers of her impalers. 36 hours after this began - 36 hours - she was released.

She consistently challenged me, prodding me to go further with my sadism. One of the most extreme scenarios i ever designed had her bound with her arms behind her back, gagged, blinded and stuffed inside a burlap sack which was then placed inside a cedar chest, lid closed, and then pushed inside of a walk-in closet. The only light of day she "saw" during her internment were the hourly visits where her hubby was instructed to lift the lid off the chest and urinate onto the form lying prone inside. She withstood this for 41 hours. At the end of this episode, i could not, despite all attempts, find the thrill i'd first experienced when "c" approached me with her initial proposition.

Over time, i looked on my experience with her as a growth period. I learned more about my need to debase the female form, and its limits. That arrived after many hours of reflection. When i came to the realization that i could no longer perform this duty for "c", i was devastated. For the first time in my life, i was unable to accommodate the gift of someone's complete submission. Before this experience, i'd glibly thought that i could meet any level of masochism tossed at me. "c" showed me the limits to my own sadistic traits. I still remember the stark jolt of pain as i told "c" that i was no longer going to be able to act as her "top". Letting go of her submission was almost as extreme as it was to first acquire it. Except, this time i didn't feel any pleasure.

*this continues on here

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

"Please button me up?"

I get this request from time to time from my girl. I love it when it happens.

At first she would try to do whatever she could to avoid asking, eventually begrudgingly giving in, usually with a shortness in her tone. Now, it's almost automatic, and her request takes on the sound of a song that makes me feel big and protective.

But, just to throw her off, i will temporarily increase the length of her nails, which causes her to have to adjust to a whole new daily impediment.

Sunday, May 6, 2007

Making her disappear

I adore her as she stands in front of me, naked, as i have told her to be. She covers up her body with shudders and slouched shoulders, but her hands remain, as commanded, at her side. I pull out the roll of industrial-quality shrink wrap and ask her to hold onto the open edge as i roll the thick plastic across her face, cocooning her head in several layers.

I leave her a small opening for her nostrils, to allow her to breathe. All other portals are cut-off. Her humanity has been vacuumed from the landscape, and all that sits atop her shoulders is a featureless bust. I work quickly to immobilize the rest of her body. Her arms are pulled behind her in a reverse prayer - perhaps a symbol to this twisted form of worship - strapped into place by the stretched cellophane. Her ankles are bent up until they rest right underneath her buttocks, trapped in this pose beneath more layers. Only her raw, vulnerable cunt remains exposed.

I step back and soak in the sight. A tender girl, with whom just hours before at the local cinema i'd enjoyed a romantic comedy, lies somewhere beneath these imprisoning sheets of plastic. I take the hair dryer, and on the low setting, run it up and down the shiny contorted anatomy. The wrap absorbs the heat, responding by tightening, compressing the flesh beneath it. She moans in response. Her pink flesh with its matte finish now instead glows a rose color, the surface slickened smooth.

Easily available, i grab one of the rolls of duct tape and pull off an 8-inch long strip. Symbolically, i smooth this over her already silenced mouth, as if to say to her one more time, "Shhhhh..." Saliva builds in my mouth as i begin to coat her head with strips of tape. This is the height of my arousal. I'm making her disappear. I'm wiping away any notion of her daily independent and fiery self, reducing her to an immobilized fucktoy. Focusing on her head, i feel a tremendous surge of stimulation . This is the part that separates us from the wild beasts; the ability for free thought and the voice to articulate it. Her long luxurious, ebony locks have vanished. She - or it - is now bald. No full feminine lips. Just a smooth surface where a mouth used to be.

I encase my toy completely in a tight duct tape cocoon. Hardly even its breathing can be detected by the eye. Staring up at me, the only evidence that the black figure laid prone on the bed before me is real, leaks a decided trail of excitement. I leave it alone, going into my study to complete some work i'd started earlier. In an hour, i will return, ready to use what quietly awaits me.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

The Gain, pt. 2

I use the term "girl" universally. It can mean a female from any age between 18 and 60. Something in the term grabs me. It's like a wind that pushes me against the wall of the building i am standing on the ledge of, hoping not to fall off. I recognize that the term "girl" has an underage connotation to it, yet i am repulsed at the idea of eroticizing minors. The word "girl" also implies little. And that is where it excites the base primal wolf inside of me. Little, vulnerable, needing protection. I can be talking to a female associate at work about her weekend, in a completely innocuous social way, and she could suddenly utter the phrase "...but i'm just not that kind of girl." I will stop right in my tracks. A grown woman has just uttered a phrase that transforms her into a sexual target, the same way my head whips around whenever i hear the clod of highheels on the pavement. I'm suddenly hungry.

"r" was incensed when i first referred to her as a girl. Understandably. She was 15 years my senior. She'd wandered into a chat room i was hosting about body modification and (what else) transformation. Within 5 minutes of chatting with me, she'd called me an arrogant prick and an asshole, and did the equivalent of an Internet hangup - she exited the room. Now, i'd grown used to that reaction. What some girls expect when they are roaming in the SM corridors of chat rooms, i'm not sure, but they should not be surprised to find a man who is assertive and obstinate. Something about "r" told me that she'd return. Even through the stammer of a cold digital interaction, i could sense an arousal. In fact, i even said to her when she re-appeared a few days later:

"I knew you'd come back."

But unlike the other girls who flirted with the idea of lingering, she stuck around. She drilled me to find out all of what i demanded of a girl i modified. She accused me of bullshitting her. I provided her photo evidence, she still refused to believe. But deep inside of her protective armor of doubt, i could see something she did not want me to see: i could see that she was slipping. Her responses took longer. Her words were carefully selected and offered. She was doing her best to hold me at bay, but her house of sticks was falling in.

"Let's meet", i said.

Nothing from her end. Then finally:

"i have to go."

Eventually, we would agree to meet. Skirt, just above the knees. Black, 3" heels. Hair pulled back into a tight bun. Hoop earrings. A top to accentuate and allow access to her ample tits. And most importantly, no panties (when she agreed to this, i insisted she repeat the word "panties". A word she loathed). We met at a public place.

I was waiting for her, writing into my journal. She took the seat next to me and for the first 20 minutes of banal conversation, found ways to completely avoid eye contact with me. Finally, when her eyes fell on mine, i reached my hand across, and grabbed a hold of her wrist. I stood up and quietly led her to the men's bathroom. Cemented across her face, her fear, anxiety and excitement played interactively with her features. I held open the door and waved her inside. The few men in the bathroom looked at her with utter confusion, but i'm certain when they saw me open a stall door and motion for her to follow, they figured out some of what was about to happen. Closing the door behind us, in a whisper i told her to bend over the toilet, hike up her skirt, and then put her hands against the tile wall.

"Spread your legs."

She looked back at me. Her hand started to curl away from the wall, her instincts to strike rising. I didn't move, slicing my glance through her stare. She turned her head back around, and, staring up at the ceiling, spread her legs. A distinctive sheen glimmered between them. I rubbed my hand between her thighs, gathering some of her moistness, then spread it all up and down her backside. I pulled the "tool" i'd brought out of my pocket, smeared it with her juices, and applied more from a tube of lube. I poured more lube on my fingers and pushed at her asshole, delicately playing with the opening until i could feel it purse open. I repeated this gesture several times, making sure her passage was prepared.

"I want you to focus on your breathing. Just breathe, that is all i need you to do right now."

I pushed the "tool" up against her asshole, and slowly edged it forward. Her yelp brought a smile to my face. With gentle strokes, i pushed it deeper and deeper, reminding her to breathe. I told her to push out, as if she were defecating, when finally it popped "home", stationing itself firmly inside. I arched my arm around her mid-section, as her knees abandoned their efforts, giving way to the enormous shockwave of orgasm that overtook her body. Holding her for just a moment, allowing her to finish, i told her to pull her skirt back down. I led her back outside, kissed her on the cheek and sent her home.

"r" grew very attached to that butt plug. She was told to wear it regularly, but i wasn't always there to insert it, so for those times, she was to close her eyes and just envision it was my hand guiding it in. Over time, she didn't need to envision my hand, the plug soon embodied me. Around this time, i informed her of my reasons for the plug. I told her she was being anally trained, learning the new purpose for what i now called her "ass cunt". When we would chat or talk on the phone, she would sometimes leave the plug out of its home. I could tell that she wasn't full, just by her tone and her wily bite. I'd instruct her to go get it. Many times she'd resist, but my persistence would prevail. The instant that it entered her, she sunk deep into a coil of submission. She was full. She was open, vulnerable. She spoke to me about how she could feel her mind transform the function of her back passage. It no longer served the purpose she'd attached to it. It now served mine.

She hated the plug sometimes. Reviled it for its power over her. Other times she offered it long bouts of devotion, even losing her grip on sanity one afternoon when she couldn't find it. I used to cherish the glow she exhibited while she wore it, entranced with the acceptance and beauty cast by a girl captured and occupied by me.

*this continues on here