Thursday, January 31, 2008
Firstly, if one could imagine my site as a graphical and lyrical expression of my dominant facet, when placed, in comparison, next to sites put up by other Alpha males, a vivid difference appears. Better put, one stern hand does not fit all bottoms.
Secondly, as much as anyone who visits here feels they have grown to know me through my words and my subject matter (alas, it is not possible to know me only through this portal), i know even less about the hands that click their way here and move my site counter gradually forward. I would not make prescriptions for folks i have no intelligence on regarding their backgrounds and circumstances because that lends itself to potentially unsafe situations. As much as i often let the gush of sexual arousal overcome me, safety, above all else, is the predominant rule in the House of Deity.
Having dispensed of those necessary disclaimers, i believe i can get on with the main course of this post. I've studied both academically and carnally the art of sadistic administration, and practiced my findings over many years. Through this long, concerted campaign of torturing beautiful girls, i've learned insider secrets, shortcuts, things-best-to-avoid and simple methods that, when employed devilishly, have achieved some fantastic results. I would like to offer some of this (sometimes clumsily attained) wisdom to the readers of "Her Erotic Demise" in the form of pointers.
I have in mind several topical areas i'd like to address, but as this is an online journal whose chief strength is its capacity for interactivity, i invite the fine folks who come by to submit their own requests. Either drop me a comment or an e-mail indicating a specific area of interest you'd like to hear a few pearls on (assuming i even have them on that particular subject).
Monday, January 28, 2008
I can't remember the exact first image that captured what i'd been murmuring deeply inside, but when i came across Mr. Gord's thorough exposition on the transformation of girls into furniture, i knew i'd found an ally, a beacon. As i navigated through the rivulets of his well-groomed caverns, i encountered all variables one could attempt with the female form. Yet, instead of being appalled, every arrangement that had the female form as some functional, but ornamentally gorgeous inanimate object captivated me. This is wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't i be confronted by columns of feministic bodyguards whose sole purpose is to eradicate the objectification of the feminine physicality? It's been well over 10 years since i first set eyes on this genre, and no such confrontation has occurred.
Perhaps, there won't be one. Perhaps those forces that seek to disavow any association between the female form and an ornamental item recognizes that those who practice this art are offering the ultimate honor and respect to the double-Xed chromosone.
After all, centuries of art have obsessively lingered on the female form, using the various iterations of womanhood as guides and stencils for creative outlet. It seems to make natural sense that instead of employing oil paints or marble to create works of art, borrowing the very anatomy that has inspired masterpieces and appropriating it as the medium through which one would express their utmost respect for women fits a natural progression of artistic auteurism.
Still crazy, isn't it? I mean, who are these people who think they can get away with turning a gorgeous girl into an office chair? Can't they see the complete disrespect and worse, damage they are doing to the cause of equality between the sexes (i've addressed this argument at an earlier time)? Let us not even address those females who wander willingly into the clutches of such an individual; nothing shall we say about their brainwashing, their ignorance, their betrayal.
I gave all of these thoughts some air to float around and expand inside my head. As much as a stubborn and somewhat chauvinistic man i can tend to be, i like to think of myself as open and intelligent. I'd do myself and those who oppose this form of expression a disservice if i didn't delve a little deeper.
In doing so, i came to learn that House of Gord is not the originator of this form of female manipulation. In fact, with just a little exploration, one can find numerous examples, emanating from every decade of the last century.
Here's some of what i found:
To my surprise, i was able to find examples of forniphilia with my favorite director, Stanley Kubrick, in his film A Clockwork Orange:
I even was able to find an image of Ms Dita Von Teese, doing her best barmaid impression.
Ultimately, i cannot claim to understand or even concur with the positions that the individuals who imposed upon these above female figures their plasticine visions. They could come from a completely different school of thought than i. When i see these photos, when i contemplate the transformation of an already stunning beauty into an object of static existence, i feel a well of pleasure bubble up inside of me. I've wanted to collect and capture as much beauty as possible ever since at the age of five i pinned my first butterfly to the small cake of Styrofoam. I really do not have the faculties to address whether or not this desire is doing harm to the fairer sex that i lust and fantasize about so frequently. I can only assume that for me, damage is not being done, and in fact pure, uninhibited worship happens.
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 #117? 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
In Case Of Fire
“His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear.”
It was a long night…
“I gasped as he slowly pushed in one finger, slippery with oil, and began to wiggle it and spread me open.”
Sex Worker Confessions: Gracie Passette
“But underneath it all, sex workers are all about bridging, in body & soul, word & deed, the irreconcilable differences between realities and desires.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Persian Kitty Alternative
Friday, January 25, 2008
I can tell immediately. I usually detect it first near the back of my throat and on the underside of my tongue. I develop a specific texture and flavor in my saliva when the hungers of arousal take over. I believe it's akin to the "mouth-watering" axiom so many fast food and grub hawkers have trotted out as their enticement to get you to sit down and feast on their fare. This heavy lubricant creeps up on me sometimes, catching me off guard. I'm not always prepared for it. My oral glands produce this rich, protein-drenched liquid, only to then impose on me its agenda. I can sense the force of energy that manifested this fluid suspended in it, and fully consent to the cue my body is sending. It signals me that it needs to exact some level of erotic release - i must act.
Then there are those times where my mind initiates the sexual campaign. These moments, my taste buds are slow to respond. My head, like the spunky and energetic member of a dogsled team, is doing everything it can to excite and motivate the rest of my body to pick up on the impulses it feels. My mouth, the Alpha leader of my body's pack, is usually the first to legitimize my mental urges. It fabricates this flavor that broadcasts to the other senses, ordering them to turn on their coital receptors. The flavor lingers, clings to the rear portion of my mouth, acting as the clearest indication that i've succumbed to overwhelming sexual impulse.
I won't say that the presence of this taste is what leads me to seek a cunt to fuck or an ass to slap, but more appropriately, this is a seasoning that fills the mouth unlike any sirloin or fillet ever has. When it arises, the thick notes of organic life that inform it strips my day and perspective of any pretense. I am transformed into a warrior whose only quest is copulation. I smack my lips, mix the saline flavors of this potion around in my mouth, and any civil reservations i may have for holding back are dissolved. I want to pillage the very nascent anatomy placed before me. I want to stab with all of my might my erect member into the targeted flesh. For a brief moment, i do not account for or care about the needs and wants of the receiving party. All those social customs are tossed aside, and my fucking ignites with a timbre, a rhythm that can only be referred to as beastly.
At these moments, when nary a rattle can be detected in my head, any images are blurred and grayed out, my ears have ceased absorbing any noise, the primal creature who's in control uses the savor in its mouth to guide and lead it to the magnificent finish.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
She was sitting on the couch, like i had told her: blanket drawn over her completely naked flesh. I stepped behind her, draping the silky, ebony cloth over her eyes, and fastened it in back with a simple knot. I requested her hand, aiding her as she rose up from the sofa, then guided her along the hallway to my predisposed bureau. Her hand felt warm in mine, despite the minuscule tremble that broadcast through our embrace.
I brought her onto the tarp, then lay her down, orienting her head towards the open entrance to the bedroom. I securely bound each of her wrists, wrapping the attending rope slowly around her slim limbs. I made sure her body was situated so that her arms were pulled far above her head along the floor. I then focused on her ankles, shackling them into the cuffs of the leg spreader, securing each with their own individual brass padlock. Stringing a nine meter line to the anchoring post just beneath her feet, i pulled her body taut, stretching her anatomy across the black plastic.
Erecting myself, i moved to the stereo and pushed play. The sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach's solo cello concertos bellowed into the room. The music wove into the shimmering light like a night wind.
I moved myself into a stance that straddled her, both legs on either side of her abdominal area. I reached down and brushed my hands across her nude form, letting the contours of her curves guide my epidermic exploration. I loved the thin resistance between her skin and my fingertips, letting them read her corporal narrative. Standing erect again, i grabbed the large white candle, and blew the flame out with a quick puff.
Tilting the fragrant white column back and forth, swirling the hot wax around, i scanned her body for the first drop zone. Her thighs? Her clenched belly? The opening folds to her hairless cunt? Her ruddy nipples reached up to me with their taut and erect extensions, campaigning for my attention. I relented.
I aimed the first blow upon her left nipple, carefully tipping the candle over so that only a stream of liquid splashed on her sensitive buds. She bolted upright, shoving her gut into the air while yanking on the binding contraptions on her limbs. I waited. I let the sudden transaction of air sucking in and out of her lungs pass, as she prepared her body for the next blow to come. Instead of aiming for her other nipple, like she expected, i kept my focus on her southpaw aureole in order to toss in some additional uncertainty. I continued painting her body with rivulets of milky wax, using the remaining liquid.
Exhausting the last of my arsenal, i exited the room, retiring to the kitchen to fetch my next implement. I grabbed my 13" fillet knife, then made a hasty return to my bureau. She lay there, spackled with an armor of chalky lattice work that sat on top of her provocatively crimson skin. I scraped the sharp tip of the knife along her static thigh, watching her face process the identity of the item sliding along her leg. Then, carefully, i flicked off the rigid waxy assailant that clung to her flesh, following the same map of her contours i'd traced earlier.
I grabbed her hands and held tightly to them as i undid the knots of the imprisoning ropes. I then produced the keys to the locks fastening the shackles, granting her ankles freedom. Next came the blindfold, which i swiftly whipped off her face, introducing her shuttered eyes to the symphony of flame around her. I reached my hand towards the floor and lifted her up, embracing her body, pulling every last inch of her into me.
I held her for a moment, allowing this silent expression to occupy the flickering spotlight.
*this continues on here
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Recently, i asked my secretary to order some air freshening devices that i could affix to the tiled walls just so my twice hourly visits weren't so abrasive. The other day, during a routine latrine visit, i found my olfactory receptors bombarded by the heinous fog of someone evacuating the digested byproduct of their noontime pastrami on rye. Praising my secretary's reliability, i grabbed the Renuzit Odor Killer off the top of the urinal and pressed my nose against it. Ahhhh...relief.
A pearl of wisdom greeted me on my trek back to my office. As i stood there, sniffing that artificial aroma with gusto, i realized i could have remained in the bathroom for as long as i wanted, unaffected by the bowel transactions occurring behind me in the stalls. I could hear the person struggling to force out their excrement, and perhaps even watch this, but as long as i didn't have to smell it, i'd survive. What this told me was that a situation has the ability to be illusory depending on how close you are to the source of the perfume.
Sense of smell is the most personal of the senses. How we smell we rarely are aware of, because it is always with us. Yet, we can share our scent with others, they can experience us, a part of us, through our scent. Sometimes, we can leave behind an article of clothing drenched in our odor. Historically, the girl would spray a leaf of her love letters with the precipitation of her favorite boudoir fragrance. How one smells informs those around about them. This is not the same for how one sees or hears. One can smell, as in to produce a particular fragrance, which is an inactive feat. In addition, one can smell, as in to sniff out odors, which is quite the active accomplishment. In this way, the sense of smell has a very powerful duality.
For me, scents are the most jarringly immediate sexual triggers. I associate so many bouquets as catalysts to the act of wanting and needing coitus.
-I just recently received a fresh crop of raw hemp rope, pre-conditioned by a flame, de-burring it as much as possible. When i first opened the bag of ropes, the pungent smokiness pleasantly imbibed my nose. Continuing with its treatment, i washed it in Murphy's Oil Soap to delouse it of the fumey scent. Following this, i rinsed the seven and eight meter coils in my tub, hand-strained it, then hung it on clotheslines in the cellar. Each step provided a powerful emanation, the last one filling the damp cellar with the scent of grass and hay. Each step fixed my mind on the purpose of the rope, the acts that were to follow, the satisfaction of the soul.
-When fucking my girl, i particularly love taking her from behind. While the visual aspect of this position contributes to my arousal, it is the effluvium of our combined oils, perspiration and musk that elevates me to a wildly primal state. I could be blindfolded, and the currents wafting up from this epicenter of fucking, with me smashing my cock into her dripping vulva, mingled with the delicious perfume of her ass would be the only sensory expression i'd need. My most potent sexual formula comes from this momentary and hard-laboring assembly line.
-Sometimes, while i'm masturbating, i relish the opportunity to indulge in real olfactory pungency by taking my palm and rubbing it against my moist and constricted scrotum, then lifting this soiled hand to my nose. I take in a deep whiff of my damp musk, while continuing with the sadistic scene in my head that has me incredibly turned on, and almost immediately, i climax from this multimedia presentation. I don't know exactly why this nostril-centric approach so overpowers me, but i confidently accept that for these brief moments, no one perversion is stronger.
At a younger age, i used to fall into shame when i contemplated how much scent played into my sexual appetite. I was convinced that it set me on a road of copulating ostracism. But, as i've learned to let the hordes of demons inside me run their course when they've insisted, i've grown rather comfortable, if not admiring, of my sense of smell's ability to command immediate and thorough respect.
*this continues on here
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
"Hello?" you call out.
The space occupied by the sound of your words vanishes, sucked into the darkness. As quickly as you muttered that question, a rush comes, collapsing on you, hands pulling on your face, shoving, pushing. They abandon you, having shoved a thick gag into your mouth. You fight the urge to call out, to groan through the solid obstruction forcing your jaw open. Slobber, evidence of your increased duress builds around the orb between your lips, drawing an unseen trail that hangs from your chin. You jerk in reaction to a droplet of saliva splashing against the flesh of your thigh. Having not thought about it before this, you realize you are completely naked. Your sputtery breath rattles into the air. You try to hold as still as you can, but not being able to focus on anything with your eyes makes that incredibly hard.
You hear the presence of the voice just instants before it speaks.
"I control what you see. I control how you see. I give and take away any sight you may have. You exist through my will and desire."
The voice steps closer to you, and suddenly, you feel the frigid cold lifelessness of a thin metal edge pressed against the underside of your chin. Involuntarily, you gulp a swollen swallow.
"Shhhhh..." The voice strikes something against the object held to your neck, exploding the head of a match. The sudden burst of light burns your eyes. You squint them closed, shielding them from the piercing brightness. You open them back up slowly, and as you do, the voice pulls the implement away from your throat, showing you a long knife, illuminated by the flickering flame. Just as you size up the blade, the voice extinguishes the match. You hear the sound of steps backward.
The darkness feels more stark, contrasted against the brilliant fiery light. The vacuum feels like it's right on top of you, pressing against you, pushing into every bend and crease of your body.
You can tell the voice has left, despite not hearing any exit. You await quiet and still, nonetheless. You don't need the voice there to know you are not alone. You don't need to see to know you are aroused.
*this continues on here
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The elevator didn't come quickly enough. I looked at the steel double doors with such disappointment.
"How could you let me down?"
Pressing "1", i stepped to the back of the car, and looked down at my interlocking hands. The sudden jolt signaling a stop on a lower floor jerked a grief-heavy sigh from my lungs. I steadied my stare downward as the intruding passenger broke my solitude. The impotent elevator continued on its descent, passing each floor with a whisper to hush away any other potential step-ons.
"You look like someone who needs this weekend."
I heard her words, but i didn't listen to them. What lifted my head into a greeting smile was the song of her voice that carried the verbiage. I squinted my eyes in delight, forgetting for a moment the dystopia i'd just escaped.
"Yes...uh, yes. I'd say so."
She smiled back, tilting her shoulder towards me in a statement of openness and conviviality. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, which made the tortoise-shell frames of her glasses a stereotypical requisite. We shared a few more thoughts between us before the passive elevator delivered us to the lobby. My ears feasted not on the content of her speech, but the note her voice struck. I let her exit before me, and watched as she sauntered towards the revolving doors and then out onto the busy sidewalk.
I stopped short of following her, and turned into the coffee shop in the building's street-level south wing. I queued up behind a magnificent redhead, whose cheek pinned her sleek cellphone to her shoulder.
"I had no idea that dinner would cost that much..."
I eavesdropped a little into her phone conversation. I couldn't help it. The length of the line encouraged me to find distractions, and despite my mood, i didn't mind waiting. She spoke quickly, but with a strawberry tinge to her tone, making every exasperated sentence a pleasure to hear. I loved watching her mouth form the sounds that eventually filled the small air around us with feminine wonderment.
Behind me, another well-dressed girl started chatting with her companion. Suddenly, i was surrounded by a symphony of female wind instruments, holding their discourse in sultry alto registers. When i finally reached the front of the line, the girl behind the counter recognized me and my 3 o'clock coffee sanctuary.
"Hiiiii, want the usual?"
I thought quickly - what could i say to get her to speak some more?
"Hey, what's this new coffee you guys are trying to push on us uninformed customers?"
Bingo. With her customary sing-songiness, she delivered a beautiful monologue on the virtues of the latest South American shade-grown, free-trade roast they'd managed to finagle enough quantities of - the people behind me be damned. The tension in my shoulders began to release its grip. I was very happy, just hearing her voice excitedly spill over words like "aroma", "piquant" and "chocolate". I exited the cafe, onto the street, with a steaming cup of exuberantly poured java. Turning my direction uptown, i ventured on a little constitutional.
I peeled along the concrete, catching excerpts of dialogue from those intersecting my path.
"...needed to finish the course after all..."
"...why'd you leave like that?"
"...can't believe she tried to..."
Every time i came upon a female voice, my ears couldn't help but perk up; so completely satisfying was it to hear the softer, higher timbre. It erased for the moment the strain of the recent episode of job-oriented stress. All i could think of were those instances in my youth when i'd nervously call up one of my pigtailed crushes, and her vocal, butter cream enthusiasm and jubiliance made everything feel like a dream.
But, feasting on sugary treats has a tendency to not fill one's appetite. The wreckage i'd left behind imparted an indelible strain on my body. My psyche needed grosser compensation than just cotton candy and taffy. Without me realizing it, my mental focus took the audio of all of these girls i'd encountered, and remastered each in a very stirring way.
There on the streets of this hustle and bustle metropolis, in my head i heard broadcast these angelic female chants obstructed and cajoled. Sounds of struggle, of a ballgag plugging a girl's mouth, her unsuccessful pleading as i tightened her bounds, a shrill outburst that followed the administration of swats. These aural remedies soothed my fiery temper. I could now, with a calm feeling of tranquility, return to my office.
I re-entered my building. Walking through the lobby, i couldn't help wondering who i might encounter in the elevator ride up.
*this continues on here
Thursday, January 10, 2008
In a series of posts, i've chosen to tackle the subject of our five senses. Each sensation will receive its own, individual focus. Some of this attention will take the form of explicit ruminations on how these quintuple components of our nervous system serve my sexual appetites, whereas others will simply pontificate on an anecdotal exhibition of our sensory experience.
I offer my gratitude in advance to those readers who hear me out as i work through this self-imposed cranial boot camp. Trust me, i'll be a much better erotic servant once i get this out of my system.
Without any forethought, i provide the following arbitrary order of my upcoming thesis:
Monday, January 7, 2008
you buy her a pair of impromptu stockings...because you like to treat her to a surprise gift, and because you are reinforcing the dress code you've mandated;
you hold the door open for her...because "ladies go first", and because you like to reduce the amount of autonomous actions she takes;
you compliment her on her heels...because she glows when she gets praise, and because you want to engineer a desire in her to wear heels more frequently;
you kiss her neck...because she's very sensitive at this spot, causing her to shiver, and because by avoiding her mouth, you are treating her like an object;
you tighten her corset...because it makes her look beautiful, and because you enjoy her restriction;
you brush her hair...because she sinks into a pleasurable purr when stroked, and because she fits the role of a doll;
you intervene when someone insults her...because her honor is your greatest concern, and because you want to accentuate her fragility;
you proudly show off photographs of her...because she enjoys hearing of the attention, and because these people are only seeing her in a two-dimensional way;
you give her little tush a swat as she passes by...because it excites her as well as stimulates her, and because you are further indicating to her that she is owned;
you forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyze, and because she requires the authority of a boss.
you bind her body in rope...because the respite from any movement frees her mind and soul, and because you know you must trap, confine and capture her.
you gingerly rub your thumb across her rectum as you finger her...because the dual sensations are double her pleasure, and because you are showing her new ways to think of her anal passage.
you bring her to a climax...because she deserves the solitary attention, and because it came from your hands, your delivery.
you tell her how much she means to you...because she needs to hear that she matters, and because she fulfills so many of your needs.
Friday, January 4, 2008
As is the case for most things my parents forbade me to indulge in, i developed quite the obsession with expletives. I began to experiment with them in my everyday conversation, viewing the reactions i extracted from people when i colored my polemic with a strategically placed 'f'-word or 'G*d***ed' (truth be told, i was such a devout Catholic, that i replaced the word "god" with "gald" just so i didn't expedite my transport to Purgatory. I still do this to this day). Flash forward to modern times where this obsession has stamped itself all over my tongue, and my normal way of conversing would make the most disgruntled of sailors blush. I have a foul mouth, which unfortunately has no external censor, running its course even in front of the virginal and innocent ears of pipsqueaks. I try to curb it out of respect and decency for the company i'm in, but sometimes, the profanity overrules this attempt.
In the early stages of my romantic career, i joyed in whispering encouragements to my lover as we rolled around on the bed or sofa, telling her how soft her skin felt, how her perfume gave me tingles, etc. But i stopped at the edge of the profane, holding in what was a natural urge to emit a primal spray. I'd been warned my entire life to avoid the cruel act of calling a girl a name. Yet, here i was in the heat of the moment, and i could feel an arsenal of lewd artillery building at the bridge of my mouth. For the longest time, i held in this impulse. I feared it for two reasons. First, i was concerned what pain it might cause the girl upon whom i unleashed it and how this characterized my opinions of the fairer sex. Secondly, i feared the beast it would unleash in myself should her reaction be an unexpected positive and encouraging one.
This savage desire lay in slumber for many years, not to escape the tight shackles i chained to it. In college, i had a lengthy tryst with my French T.A. She was older than me, and in many ways, a woman in comparison to all the girls i'd dated. Because of her maturity and seniority over me, what she uttered one evening while we engaged in some very heavy petting took me by complete surprise.
Her lips were sucking on my earlobe, intermittently interrupted by the nibble of her teeth on the soft flesh when she uttered:
"Call me a slut."
I pulled back, taking my neck away from her mouth, "What?" I looked at her with disbelief.
"Call me a slut, call me a whore."
I couldn't believe that this dignified, educated woman would utter such things. I could've stalled longer, to contemplate her reasons for wanting this, but the ravenous fiend inside of me was busting to break free. I nearly blacked out from the frenzy the outpourings of filth caused me.
I engage in dirty talk quite liberally these days. I recognize the aspects of it that fit my passion for transformation. Many episodes of arousal have stemmed from me walking a girl through the evolution of nasty terms that define her wanton need for degradation. In fact, the impact of most erotica at this point is lost on me when so much of it describes just the physical actions between two characters. But should it turn to the edgier province of invectives, few things turn me on with greater speed. I revel in the initial offering to the girl in heat of what kind of needy vessel she resembles, to hear her hungry accordance, which only worsens the sex-crazed state she occupies. She responds quietly, letting the sounds coming from her own mouth shock her, then stimulate her, as she grabs a hold of the rush of electrocution this sizzling vocabulary ignites. The forceful call and response builds the lust to a higher and higher crescendo, morphing the boudoir into a bordello.
I've explored the great scandalous chasms of naughty expressions, compounding them with many of my favorite profanities which only serve to heighten the palaver as well as turn the recipient of my slurs away from the girl and more and more into a sexual object. In many ways, i've let the tongue have its way.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The nutshell (let's break it down):
These are pockets of money you can have taken out of your paycheck every pay period before the US gubbmint gets its grubby hands on your money and siphons off taxes. This then theoretically lowers your income bracket, thus reducing the amount of total tariffs you owe the IRS come the middle of April.
The catch (come on, you knew there had to be one):
You must use these funds only for the purchase of certain healthcare-related costs, AND you must make these purchases within the calendar year of the payroll deductions. Meaning if money was taken out of my salary during 2007, i must use these funds before December 31st 2007, otherwise i forfeit this money and it goes straight into Uncle Sam's pocket.
That's right. Forfeit. Lose. Never get back.
I participate in this program through my office, and was caught off guard when i received my December statement in the mail explaining my remaining balance. I had a rather large amount of money i needed to spend before January 1st, and i had absolutely no scheduled healthcare costs. Not wanting to horde cases of sterile gauze pads and vitamins, i was stuck for what i'd do with the surplus amount. And then i found a devilish loophole.
It figures the the solution to my problems could be found on the internet. It turns out that such sites as drugstore.com and walgreens.com have specific sections of their inventory cordoned off to make using your flex spending dollars as easy as possible. But what they consider eligible, i would never have expected to fit within the requirements of the IRS. All it took was a few clicks of the mouse before i was able to determine that a good amount of this money was going towards fulfilling several of my fetishes.
Of all the self-adhering elastic bandages, Nexcare is by far the best for use in a mummification scene. It does not bunch like other brands, comes in extra wide strips and really vibrant colors. I personally love using this "space-age" material when entombing someone because it is breathable, which allows for longer periods of bondage as well as total closure. Instead of needing to cut holes in the elastic like i would if it were tape or shrinkwrap, the submissive is able to draw breath through the bandage itself.
With my flex spending account, i was able to order enough for several scenes of total encapsulation.
Enemas are crucial aspects of any serious anal training, but also are enjoyable tools when used in a predicament scenario. A girl being trained anally must grow accustomed to regular enemas so that the use of her "third cunt" is safe and healthy for both involved. It's important to note that enemas are not to be administered too frequently, because the gastro-intestinal tract has natural bacteria that must exist in order for proper digestion. More than once a month should be avoided.
Enema play is it's own wonderful subject that i plan to go into later, but as i have said many times before, a girl knows her place almost immediately when she is made to think of her ass in a different way through the rudiments of anal play. Being told to hold in an enema despite urges from her stomach, her bowels and her anal rings to release is an incredible act of obedient submission.
All in all, i was able to outfit myself with a number of items that will, in addition to making the House of Deity a safer, more sanitary and less sniffly of a place, also make devilish appearances in sadistic ways that i'm sure the bigwigs who conjured our tax code in Washington would be proud of.
I wish all of you who purchase some entertainment from this site a Happy and Prosperous New Year. I look forward to seeing where it might go in 2008.