Friday, September 28, 2007

On looking

The willowy limbs that bend in an array of gently formed angles as she makes her way down the avenue, clapping wooden taps into the pavement with gondolizing arches in her heels, makes me want to be right next to her, pressed, so that i can feel her vulnerability deliver her in separate pieces.

The curves of her body that hollow out the air as she juts through it, winding around her from unseen vertices, pilloring her neck, sliding in underneath her chanteuse arms, and compressing the silhouette of her torso into a silky, all-encompassing wave, continues down her telescopic thighs, lingering just beneath the balcony of her buttocks that offer a gracious tease of future sights and sorrows, all to end in portions that begin to dwindle from the firm extension of a flammable stem.

Her hands look like delicate music, singing a song with thin, smooth reeds. They enchant every surface they touch, leading the target into a tango that starts at her wrist, travels up through the tendons of her slender hand, bending into the samba of her fingertips. Her very, musical fingers.

Her face...ahhhhhh, her face. Buried in the deep, deep surface of the earth beneath our very feet lies great forces that twists and warp solid stone. They do not get it nearly as right as the forces that carved out her cameo. The canvass of her face begins at the crest of either, predominant cheek, which gives my eye the momentum to slide downward to her protruding feverish curl of flamboyant flesh that forms her very top lip. I linger here until i walk myself upwards to the pinnacle pleasure of her eyes of hidden treasure. A delicious brightness surrounds the caverns of her ocular home, holding the gleaming occupants in a state of utter shock, awe and amazement at their own singular beauty. The copper centers occupy their visual place perfectly, causing no alarm, but as an epiphany with every glance upon them. Lining each lid, a spray of black rays springs into the air, scooping my breath out of my lungs to feed the illumination that seems to take up residence on her unforgettable face.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Heavy machinery

I'm not sure where i developed a desire to physically modify the female form, but i know i have a serious hankering for it. To the point where i have a well fortified bimbo fetish. The aspect that informs my fascination in bimbos doesn't come from their cookie-cutter quality of platinum blond sexpots with 44D busoms. What attracts me to the notion of a "girl-next-door" submitting to the process of transformation into the next Pam Anderson is the idea that she's making permanent changes to her body in order to fulfill a sexual desire.

Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.

I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".

She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.

Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.

Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.

I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.

In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.

All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.

In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Objets d'obsession: neck corsets

For lasting only around a decade, the Edwardian era has certainly left its stamp on a whole bustle of cultural areas. Art, theatre, and politics all experienced a grand "Belle Epoque" following the more rigid Victorian period. The most common terms i have heard associated with the span overseen by the reign of Edward the VII are "luxury" and "opulence". This of course draws my interest because the logical target and beneficiary of those two terms are the fashions designed and worn by females. Out of this stupendous catalyst for the ornate came the S-shaped corset, the hobble skirt, and more importantly the Edwardian high collar.

To quote the site Fashion in the Edwardian Era:

"...They were often shaped to reach as high as possible at the back of the jaw-line, just behind the ear, then dipped slightly at the back, under the hairline and in front, under the chin...Edwardian high collars were stiffened with collar stays of wire or whalebone and usually not with the stiff interlinings of the 1890s."

I make no claims to being a cultural historian, let alone a fashion historian, i'm merely obsessed with the art of rigidly immobilizing females in an aesthetically pleasing way. I don't know the precise ontology behind the desire to corset the neck and hold the head firmly in place, but i am an enormous fan. The feminine neck conjures up so many mimics, it's an interesting notion that the society of the early 20th century would strive to use the feature as an homage to itself. The very appearance of a woman's neck wrapped in a tightly boned garment calls out images of a vase or a chalice holding the beautiful creature's head. That they could walk around in the open bound like this astonishes me, and it leads me to wonder if because this practice was outmoded and hence chased into the underground that the modern fetishist's neck binding outcry is so vapid and mechanically rigid. I leave the following examples of images that fill my gut with lust as i peer at them (and hence has caused me to purchase several and commissioned a custom version).

posture collars:




A wonderful illustration drawn in the 50's by - i believe - John Willie (please feel free to correct me) which shows a girl in ultra-high heels, corset dress, armbinder, and what appears to be a posture collar.








This is an image from the defunct "Insex.com". What i have always seen as a difference between posture collars and neck corsets was the absence of boning and lacing. Posture collars usually have buckles as is seen here draped around the lovely model 411. She is also corseted, wearing a full-headed latex mask, arms in mitts in a reverse prayer, and in (my favorites) ballet boots.





Yet another version of a posture collar, from the old Devonshire Productions website. The entire ensemble gives me deep, soul caressing shivers. I especially like the touch of the pump gag.









neck corsets (i much prefer these over posture collars, thanks Eddy!):


This looks a lot like the leather neck corset i own. Mine is patent leather from Demask. This one comes to us from the wonderful LISA folks. I just adore how it fits her contours, holding her chin up in the air. She cannot look down unless she bends at the waist.



I wanted to include a rear view to show the lacing and the shape from behind. Doesn't this just make you purr?




As the neck corset begins to creep up over the chin, soon consuming the girl's mouth, i can feel a raunchy deviousness consume my moral character. This gorgeous creature comes to us also from the former Devonshire Productions site. The little tube that leads from the area of her mouth indicates another inflatable gag.




Before i first saw this final one, i seriously thought i'd seen all i could in the realm of neck corsetry and immobilization. It was unveiled at a Rubber Ball a few years ago by HW Design. The attachment that's going from her sternum to her chin is called a "screw" and can be adjusted to alter the tilt of the "silenced's" head. In addition to being diabolical, i believe this item is stunning.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Pacificity




Where does this passion come from?

Who can i thank for my unending lust?

Who can i curse for my obsession?

Who lights this spark in me, igniting a fire that searches out fuel that can only come from the struggle of a female?

What am i seeking?

Am i running with mighty haste from, or to something?

I've often spoke of darkness, and i hear others refer to darkness inside them when they approach or marvel in their kink, but what really grows out of me as i touch the different manifolds of my sexuality is light. She is the filament, i am the current flowing through her, from which we illuminate dark, uncovered corners. She is the stone, i am the flint that strikes against her surface, shooting sparkling embers into the air, igniting the match head to produce a seedling flame.

However, I do not believe this is just sexuality or even the pure act of procreation. I struggle to define what exactly operates inside my own psyche, but i know i seek more than just a receptacle for my seed. I always have. As a young boy who lurched clumsily along my pocked field of puberty, the fantasies that brought me to my quick climaxes never consisted of me "getting with the girl". They always (and still do) consisted of me "possessing" her. In fact, when we consider biology, any chalice would serve science's purposes. I could find a random female, and as long as i have ejaculated enough semen into her that finds purchase in her womb, my genitals have suceeded galantly.

No, this is much more than simply extroverted petri dishes. How strange it must sound to the outside observer, to my friends who have no idea why i keep a lock and key on a particular door in my residence, that i find peace in such barbarism. I live in a place where "liberal" is a redundancy when assigned to someone's political views, and so i exist in a world where the protocol i enforce in my house would be labeled (has been labeled unknowingly) as sexist, Third World, fundamentalist and archaic. I can imagine the full volume debates with these people who have eaten off of my china, dined in my parlor, commemorated great events and notable celebrations for me, when they hear my supposition that i torment, bind, batter and chastise my girl in order to find peace.

Pacificity. How absurd and contradictory. One cannot live by the hard line order of their lover's regular corporal punishment and also assert that they derive peace from this, can they? One cannot enforce a stringent dress code that abides by social and cultural gender stereotypes, and claim that doing so delivers them to a near Nirvana state, can they? One cannot feel a drive to strip their loved one of their human identity, relegating them to the status of an immobile object, all the while experiencing a picturesque sampling of inner sanctum - or can they? I will not lay metaphysical claim that what i seek, constantly allowing a divining rod to guide me to a source, is the same transcendental mastery those ascetics burrowed deep into monasteries pursue. But i know the purpose for my incendiary is more than just sexual apex.

To go back to my very first post, i wonder what part of the Big Bang's matter seared itself to my cellular structure. To who am i dependent upon for my life and the manner in which i carry it out? I ask rhetorically for an explanation of my inner chemistry, half dangling my toe into the bathtub of knowledge to test its scalding temperature, while also looking to skip the cleanse altogether, concluding it is better not to know.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Ass-pirations

"Are you sure you're not gay?"

I've heard this in several iterations over the years. In fact, the number one most common misconception that people have when meeting me is that i'm homosexual. Yes, i'm that pretty.

*wink*

Plus, i'm not the most imposing of physical presences. I'm not going to go on record saying that i don't meet the minimum size requirement to ride the roller coasters at the fair, but i will say that sometimes i'm the tallest person on the subway, and sometimes i'm not. Not to mention i notice the tiniest details, especially those that refer to a female's decorum. Should a girl in my office get a trim or even change their hair tint just a slight amount, i'll notice and make a comment. There are other things that pop up, as well. I'm not a guy's guy. I don't enjoy football, or for that matter, usually other men. In fact, if you counted, the ratio of females to males in my appointment book would easily be 8 to 1. So, when i do have to relate to a room full of XY's, i find myself bored, antagonistic, disconnected. I'm proud to say i prefer the company of females, for most occasions.

But, even these superficial generalizations (not to mention the glaringly obvious lack of interest in another man's cock) are not as tough to take as the one i've received from the girl's i've been intimate with. Men like to term themselves as being loyal to one camp that adopts a part of the female anatomy as their official mascot. They like to declare that they are "tits" men, or "ass" men, or "minimal cuticle" men (not sure how many devotees there are of the latter). I've never been able to pick one feature and rally behind it as my absolute favorite. If pressed, i would have to say that i'm a:

"calf-ass-tit-lips-fingers-thighs-smalloftheback-hair-eyelashes-neck-cunt-toes-voice" man.

Couldn't do without any of them. I'm a full-fledged, dues paying member of the "official fan club of the female gender", and as much as i get a thrill from objectifying my submissive in our play, i consider the sum of the whole a true gift to this planet.

I make this clear to any girl i've been with; be it through outward proclamations or actions that demonstrate my adulation. Yet, the number of times my fascination with the female ass and what i want to do with it that has led to the gal in my life to mention her concern that i'm homosexual is astonishing. Yes, i'm quite sure i'm not gay. I just happen to, well, let me try to detail, what it is exactly i want to do to the female ass.

First:
I have an instant desire to slap a girl's ass. I won't pretend to get overtly academic and uncover the root psychological reason why that is. If the lass is pointing her well-rounded ass in my general direction, i find my hand cupping the air, quickly identifying the impact zone on the hostile rump. My internal demon likes the physical sensation of the slap, the heat that follows, and the devastating feminine myew that punctuates the act. I, of course, recognize the socially off-limits qualities of this part of the feminine anatomy. I subscribe to the notion that it is the equally shared belief that anything "ass" should not be discussed, let alone indulged, which has led to so much profound accomplishment and intimacy when i've focused my passion on this area. That leads me to my second interest.

Second:
I've long believed that the quickest and most profound way to acquire a girl's submission is through her ass. The very few times i've indulged in long-distance dominance, i have found myself turning to the buttplug as a trusty tool to impart my presence in a girl's journey into deep submission. But, i don't require the excuse of distance separating me from the girl to indulge in what i term "anal training". Whether it is by virtue that the girls i am attracted to have an affinity for back-door attention, or that i'm rather persuasive in my insistence of this form of sexual play, they grow very attached to the buttplug.

I embark on a quest to retrain the girl's ass. To teach it and her it's new purpose. The minute i begin to see the girl accept this new role, i walk trepiditiously because i know i can lose grip very quickly and let the full throttle of my inner rectal demon trounce all over me. I am taking ownership of a physical attribute that has for years been the focal point of her humiliation and disgust, imbibing it with my sexual arousal that comes from the girl finding pleasure in transforming it, with the goal that it supplants her cunt as the place where she believes she should be fucked. How could one impress deeper submissive values than to guide a girl to gradually accept that her ass is where she should provide and receive sexual attention?

Does this make me gay? I think that a strong reason that so many females have worried that i was when i pressed anal matters so much came from the fact that they wanted to believe that it was my obsession with this area, and not their own, which brought us to this transaction.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Edition #7

Edition #7

Posted on September 15, 2007
Filed Under Edition | 1 Comment

948145893423dab0594ee7.gifWelcome to Exchange Edition #7, highlighting the most interesting, most controversial and smartest posts from the BDSM blogosphere - as nominated by the bloggers who wrote them. Not chosen by a committee, or pre-judged, these posts reflect each bloggers ‘pick’ of their own best work in the previous 2 weeks. It’s an easy way to try a new blog, written by someone who shares your interests.

This Week’s Picks

Due to the small number of posts, there are no picks this week.

Submit your best BDSM related post to be considered!

Editor’s Choice

The Ties that Bind (No Limits: A Slave’s Journey of Total Submission)

More of the edition

How to join Exchange

Dominance

Restraining Order (The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise)

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The knife

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

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

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

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

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

Months pass'd.

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

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

“I yield.”

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

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Sugasm #96

his Week’s Picks
Tips and Sugestions on having sex with me.
“I’m a slut, but I’m an ethical one.”

Wet
“You can smell this wet. It glistens on my thighs.”

A Brief Meeting with the Girl Next Door
“You can pay me by teaching me how you like to be licked.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Stacked Decks

Editor’s Choice
Concentration?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

BDSM & Fetish
Center peace

Monday, September 10, 2007

Ecstasy

I'm not one to take dictation, but from such a nice girl, i think i can oblige.

Oatmeal girl in a comment on this post quoted something i wrote and then asked a follow-up:

" Without realizing it, i've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction."

the Dom's equivalent of subspace? i'm always wanting to know... again and again i ask: what did it feel like? what does it do for you?

Is there an equivalent for the dominant to subspace? Well, to be honest, i hadn't considered it before. I think this comes partially from the fact that i'd never fully confirmed the existence of subspace or headspace as it is sometimes called. I've always bristled at convention, commonly-held definitions, large generalised solutions. Like Murray Burns of A Thousand Clowns, i've railed against conformity. For this reason, i do not refer to myself as my girl's Master or Sir, nor do i refer to her as my slave or submissive. I use the term "dominant" to refer to my half of the power exchange we engage in, but not because that is my title. Following this "Rage Against the Machine", it makes sense that i hadn't verified with sound evidence the exact parameters of subspace nor claimed my own version of the submissive's hideaway.

Effusively threaded throughout my interactions with submissive girls is an achievement i've managed to experience several times. I've described it earlier here as a field of electricity that forms in a small pocket in the chest and grows, soon overtaking the body. I've never gone as far as clinically verifying the anatomy of this charge for the girl, i've simply intuited that is it for me how it is for her how it is for me. I've even witnessed altered states wherein the girl's previously chatty, demure, lady-like corporeal frame has vanished into an ether that fogs her mind with a delicate plushness. I've encountered the production of massive amounts of viscous lubrication that bubbles forth from an artesianal source inside, making this flow feel inhuman if not ungodly. I've heard whispered leathery tongues of Cyrillic chatter channeled by a girl who'd never taken a day of foreign language in her life. I still cannot say, based on the evidence of these ends to my sadistic means, that i have witnessed subspace.

Rapture causes one to react, respond, pronounce out loud a great overcoming. Rapture stimulates one to action. Ecstasy silences. It paralyzes the body with an overflow of joy, freezing the person in the moment of complete exaltation. I have experienced both, during meditation by myself and during the exploration of SM play with a submissive girl. More often than not, when i feel that current blossoming beneath my ribs as i'm marauding across the flesh of my female target, ecstasy enraptures me.

I don't believe i can speak with enough authority about other people's experiences out there to say what it is that happens to me happens to them, but for me there is a click. A very dangerous, audible and physical click where the head no longer controls the body. The circuit breaker in my mind that provides my social congenialities with enough sustaining energy gets tripped. There my "victim" sits, in the dark, uncertain of how large the beast is that looms near her, nor how hungry he is.

My voice changes. It grows deeper, quieter. My breathing also dives deeper, instead of deriving from my lungs, i seem to pull it from way deep in my diaphragm. My temples tingle and pulse. My touch feels electric. Every surface that i press with my fingertips erupts with a field of static separating it from my skin. I feel a heaviness building right at the base of my sternum, that pushes on and then into my stomach, to which my entire digestive system awakens. My cock grows emphatically hard, almost painfully so. A rush of blood engorges my entire groin, making every vein and muscle in this area swell.

But what is not obviously apparent is the harmonic of overwhelming peace that hovers above, acting as a guide through a dark unknown forest. Despite the fact that it takes rather aggressive actions on my part - whipping a leather belt across her buttocks, binding her with tight knots into a hog tie, destroying her identity by layering her under layer after layer of latex - a tranquility does emerge from her consternation. This may come from the rare connection made between two souls who have momentarily rubbed together, or it could just be a tremendous high experienced by two incredibly horny lovers. I'll not try to define (and hence negate) what it is that's happening here because i feel that there is still so much to experience which could prove my rush to definition wrong.

But, i know i'd like to think that what i experience as the dominant is not so drastically different from what she the submissive experiences. She acts as the vessel and i perform the role of the flow - the shape of the sum gets created by our individual nuances. It would make sense that we are equal halves of the same whole, our hemispheres merely a reflection of one another.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Worshipping post-erior - weathering the storm

I had a horrible week last week. Just horrible. I could very easily look back on it with the kind of urgency as if i were fleeing the scene of a frightening accident. I was battered, wounded, torn from the inside out. I'd accumulated so much negative energy, i walked around with a somber cumulonimbus thunderhead hanging over my head, the storm front waiting to burst, just edging along my forehead. I needed a release.

I came home and found the darkest corner, and just sat. I didn't turn on any lights. I wanted to see if the total shadow would relieve me, help me disappear a little, distance myself from the events of the week. My girl came home, and the sound of her heels clicking on the tile shattered the silence surrounding me, but even this lovely song couldn't rouse me from my sullenness. She sensed my composition immediately and came into my bureau. She knew a little about how horribly my week had been, and embraced me, stroked my cheek and just held onto me. She asked me if there was anything she could do. I looked into her eyes, and she knew immediately. Without any words, she got up from my lap, walked to our bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed and arranged herself as expected.

I needed this.

I collected one of my wooden canes, a small pelt of white rabbit fur from my shelf, and walked myself to our boudoir. There she was standing. She'd pulled her skirt up and taken her panties off. Her magnificent buttocks hung in the air supported by her angled back like the truss wires of a bridge. I walked behind her, gliding my hand over the flesh of her backside. Not a single muscle in her moved. She could sense how much enmity i had inside, and i could tell that she was a bit apprehensive about what lay ahead for her. But i never turned it on her, she wasn't the cause, nor the victim, but the outlet. I held up the cane in the air in front of her face, she opened her mouth, and clamped down on it, putting her lips between the wood and her teeth. She has learned that i do not want indentations in my equipment.

I swatted her right ass cheek with my hand, snapping a loud pop into the air. I peppered her other cheek with short quick slaps, moving down her thigh, over the round shape of her butt, in between her legs. I started building a cadence that i could slowly begin to channel some of this energy through, finding the pulse in my head and pushing it out with each impact. I listened to her breathing. I watched the muscles beneath her flesh tense, and knew when to stop, take a step back, let her exhale.

I enjoy paying attention to her breathing, reminding her to in fact breathe (because she has the tendency to not remember). I'll put a hand on her back and simply say:

"Breathe."

And she'll resume the function that helps deliver her to a very small, safe place. I grabbed the rabbit pelt, and ran the soft milky fur over her thighs, circling around the back of her knees. This helps as well. It soothes her, pulls her out of her real world self of bumping into strangers, loud city noises, navigating sidewalks, and sitting at a desk. By now, her skin on her ass was glowing pink, but also radiating a nice heat from the friction of my spanking.

I put the pelt down, and resumed swatting her. Harder, closer together. I sped up my rhythm, bringing heavier blow after heavier blow down onto her cheeks. Without realizing it, i've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction. I felt a connection to her, one i'd needed all week long. Each time i told her to stick her ass out, this connection grew stronger. Every time i pulled back my hand and she winced, this action reinforced the connection.

I alternated between swats and caresses with the fur. These are not mechanical, clinical reactions. I wasn't suddenly counting the minutes i spent on each. Everything was fluid. My mind divined that an ebb must arrive, i turned to the fur. Then, i felt a flood, i slapped my flesh against her flesh. Her backside screamed with a fiery redness that emanated.

I brought myself close to her, kissing her neck, breathing softly into her ear. I held out my hand beneath her chin, and she dropped the cane from her mouth into it. I tapped it on her left cheek. She yelped. She doesn't like the cane. But this was the particular instrument i needed to draft out a response to the week's events. I patiently held the cane horizontally stretching across both cheeks.

"Ass out."

I pulled the cane back and stung her with a slice that gave her right buttock the worst of the blow. I paused. She pulled a groan that emanated from the point of impact, all the way up through her insides and out of her mouth. She shivered, and stomped a few times on her feet. I reviewed the mark, comparing the result to the force behind it. I gave her three more trial marks, finding my touch once again. I asked her for a number. She does not know how hard each stroke will be, she can only give me a number that i will then use to allocate stripes across her ass.

"10"

"Let's make it 12."

By the end of it all, my last actions will find me carefully rubbing her skin with the supple rabbit fur, holding her, praising her for several minutes. I thank her for the release, the ability to express what i held inside. I look at this scenario as one unique from the typical regimental spankings that i use as correction and reinforcement of her place. In this one, i've taken this malicious battering i received in the week, transformed the energy and from it forged a stronger fellowship with my girl. Something beautiful has emerged.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

Malfeascents

There are many native talents one can have that should receive a decent supply of pride. For instance, i am naturally ambidextrous. Both my left and right sides can handle physical agility with comparable dexterity. When i discovered this about myself, i was quite excited, but didn't languish too long in my celebration. I immediately saw practical applications for it, testing myself on various menial tasks from each pole. I would insist on doing things on my left side that were weaker than my right, and vice versa. I foresaw using this talent to prepare for the possibility of an injury to one side. Being able to wield inherent skill to my benefit made me quite proud. I do not hold the same fealty for my hypersensitive sense of smell.

I live in a city where in the summer, even the dullest sense of smell suffers from the raw stew that pools in the gutters and simmers into the air. My olfactory can sometimes cripple me during a heat wave (yet another reason why i don't enjoy the summer), making it nearly impossible to pass along the sidewalks where all of the restaurants have hauled their greasy trash to the curb. I recognize that these mighty gifts can be used to enhance my life, enrich others, perhaps even save those from impending doom. However, what keeps me from feeling blessed with this trait is my singular ability to detect feminine smells. Every single one of them.

Before every pop star, fashion icon, and hotel hussy decided to splash the essence of exotic flowers, rare spices and nature-sounding words like "oak" and "yling yling" into a technicolor bottle, thus flooding the market with their punch, i could deduce the perfume of any female i encountered. Now there are too many fragrances to learn. In the past, I could be on a bus, and a pretty girl would sit next to me, and the first words out of my mouth, without making eye contact would be the declaration of her signature perfume.

"Allure."

"How did you know?"

It had its obvious advantages. But that fits into the "enrichment of others" facet of this ability. What odors the perfumes are used to cover up are what cause me the most distress.

From a very early age, before i even positively identified the source, i was able to detect the odor of a female's cunt by just standing next to her. Some pussies are blessed and truly do offer a honey and nectar distillate. When i encounter these ambrosial cunts, i can spend all day breathing them in. Others are the equivalent to a punch to my gut, and make me worry about the owner's overall health. I can usually determine the quality of a girl's bouquet in a few minutes.

It's usually the heavy mineral presence i pick up first, dominated by the time of month which determines how much iron is involved. The next scent comes in either a sweet or a sour cloud, which depending on the cleanliness of the female's vulva, will enhance these two fragrances. During the best exposures, i'm left with a salty whiff, like i'm standing on the edge of the ocean on a blistery day, mist spraying me in the face. The experience that leaves me disgusted usually caps off with the pungent odor of sun-baked meat. These are the times i wish to God i didn't have such attuned senses.

Encountering this has cropped up in the most inopportune moments. I'm someone who has always held that i determine when a level of intimacy will blossom between a girl and i. Having my nostrils fill with the moist aroma of a girl's sex before that point, comes off as an affront. I've ended dates. I've terminated crushes. I've stopped conversations at a party in mid-thought.

There are days that i adore this quality of mine. Especially when i am standing behind a beautiful girl in the line of a cafe, and i get just a tickle in my nose of her delicate effluvium. Then there are those days when it's too much to bare, when i'm trapped on a subway car surrounded by malodorous females.

I haven't yet figured out how i might be able to use this to my benefit or for my own survival. Someday i hope to sniff out the purpose for it.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Center peace

The table was set with the finest bone china, silverware for each of the numerous courses, and dazzlingly lit by columns of candlelight stretching the full banquet length. Each guest arrived, one by one, and led to their place by one of the servant girls, naked except for her thick leather collar.

Upon entrance into the dining room, the unique centerpiece could not be overlooked. Displayed on a large silver serving platter was a naked girl with long chestnut hair, tied up behind her in a ponytail. She lay on her stomach with her arms and legs bound behind her into a fierce hogtie. A black marquet scarf draped across her eyes, accompanied by a thick black penis gag strapped around the back of her rigidly held head and stuffed inside her wide-open mouth. She dare not move, despite her desires to somehow receive each guest that sat around her. Gradually, all the chairs filled up, except for the one to her immediate left. Once all the guests were situated, the naked escorts from before buzzed around the table, monitoring the beverage levels and general comfort. Friendly but purposely unfocused chatter bounced around the table.

Suddenly, at the sound of the tall, double doors opening at the end of the hall, all conversation stopped, and all eyes moved towards the entrance. Seeing the host walking in, all the guests rose to their feet. He greeted each silently, politely, as he moved around the table, eventually taking the lone empty seat. No gestures or words were offered to the girl on the platter. Her clenched muscles and joints indicated she knew he'd arrived. Despite this urge to acknowledge him, her head remained stationed firmly forward. He sat in his seat, followed by one of the servant girls pushing in his chair.

Immediately, cart after cart of delicately prepared food came rolling in by the hands of the endless source of naked and collared girls. The guests received each course with great excitement, passing it around, drinking in the gluttony of the affair. Steamed duck, seared marinated asparagus, roasted pork, maple-glazed half potatoes, a broiled halibut decorated with brilliantly colored flowers. Each dove into the dishes as they came around.

He sliced into the pork, piling a hot mound of steaming meat upon his plate. His eyes, the entire time, never turned to the girl splayed in front of him. He took a saucer of gravy and poured it liberally over his food. Then, he proudly grabbed his wine and raised it in the air, offering a toast of thanks to each of them for coming. All attendees followed, saluting his toast with "Here-Here!" and "To You!". He took his cup, not yet sipping from it, and held it over his girl, hovering it above her head.

He tipped his glass, delicately letting the wine trickle out onto her head. It dripped down through her hair, over the scarf draping her eyes, rolling over her nose and spilling onto the gag protruding from her mouth. She jerked a little. Stirred by the sensation, then quickly regained her composure. He moved the glass down her body, pouring the remaining liquid as he followed the perfect symmetry of her frame. The wine splashed and collected in pools upon her flesh. As he reached her ass, the wine dribbled down her exposed crack, dripping onto the silver tray beneath her. She stifled all noises coming from her mouth, as the wine slowly painted her body. He sat back down, under the watchful gaze of each attendee, stunned into silent awe. Instantly, one of the servant girls filled his cup again to the top.

He cut into the meat on his plate, slopping the flesh between his teeth. The centerpiece remained still, frozen, despite the cooling effect the evaporating liquid had on her skin. Her body glistened with the crimson rain of the wine clinging to every sensual curve, accentuated only by her tightly bound limbs. As he continued to enjoy his meal, the first round of compliments from his guests over the evening's splendor began to arrive. Suddenly, he raised his hand to usher silence, and snapped his fingers sharply in the air, which echoed into the space above the banquet table. One of the servant girls moved to his side, and reached out across the table, undoing the strap of the girl's gag. The servant removed the phallus slowly from the centerpiece's mouth, who kept her orifice held wide open. The naked servant girl postured away, leaving the entire focus of the room on the now engaged submissive.

He let a few moments pass. Finally, he sliced off a piece of his pork with his knife, and without any words, moved the meat-strung utensil to the girl's waiting mouth, allowing her teeth to grab the contents from the fork offered to her. He retracted his fork, leaving her with the morsel. She carefully chewed the moist pork. He proceeded, without a single word, to feed her her meal in this manner. Not hurrying, nor overlooking the hungry vision strewn out in front of Him.

Edition #6

Welcome to Exchange Edition #6, highlighting the most interesting, most controversial and smartest posts from the BDSM blogosphere - as nominated by the bloggers who wrote them. Not chosen by a committee, or pre-judged, these posts reflect each bloggers ‘pick’ of their own best work in the previous 2 weeks. It’s an easy way to try a new blog, written by someone who shares your interests.This Week’s Picks

Due to the small number of posts, there are no picks this week. Submit your best BDSM related post to be considered!

Editor’s Choice

Windmills (The Lustful Quality of Watching Her Erotic Demise)

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