Monday, March 31, 2008

Milk made

It's quite clear that i'm very enamored with the female creation. I should think it is just as clear that those things that emanate from the female are also very alluring to me (i.e. moans, urine, etc.) Lately, i've been quite quite obsessed with female lactation. I can feel a great deal of energy pooling in the phenomenon's direction.

I don't drink milk myself, so i'm not drawn to consuming the mammary output. In fact, the idea of putting my lips over a girl's heaving, milk-addled tits and drawing liquid from them doesn't offer me all that much stimulation. I have three very distinct, ever-increasingly degrading levels of interest surrounding a female's milk. I will refer to them, in ever more intense gradients, as the Skim, 2% and Whole milk tiers.

Skim milk

What i yearn to see, what is evident throughout the cloud of tangerine terms to the right, comes in the form of erotic auto-operation. I want to see the swollen-boobed maiden wrapping her hands around her tit and squeezing it, milking it, until a fine stream of alabaster liquid shoots from her erect nipple. As she gets into a rhythm, her palms mashing down on the meat of her breast, i find myself mentally directing her to aim the nozzle up into her mouth, struggling to catch every drop, in the hopes of not wasting a single savory morsel. To me, this is a purely feminine form of ejaculation. Yes, there are girls who "come" or squirt, but that is similar in geography and method to the boy version. However, the propulsion of lactose from an already highly-regarded, and female-specific area serves as an exclamation point to a feverishly aroused state.

In this stunning Shirow Masamune illustration, we see our highly sexualized cow girl literally orgasmic from the outpouring of calcified fluid. Those "guns" are at attention, and shooting endless rounds at will.

2% milk

What the previous tier presupposes is that the girl at the center of the pornography currently produces her own milk product. What if you have a girl who has not recently been or is not currently pregnant, and yet you feel the urge to recreate this sprinkler display? All one needs is a natural amount of sadism and a healthy dose of either domperidone or fenugreek. Coupled with a regular schedule of mechanical breast-pump application, and you can induce lactation in any mature female.

Immediately, even i have to take a pause at this idea. This is some very intense body modification, altering a female's frame to serve a completely different, albeit natural, profane purpose. The idea of a girl submitting to this is at the peak of erotic ideas for me. The reasons for why this is so incredibly impressive to me may not be immediately clear. That is most likely because i know what this leads to. As an intense sadist, i've already played out in my head the applications of this discovery, and in some offset ways experienced them. But because i have an unquenchable hunger, i push the possibilities further, to the next tier.

Whole milk

Which comes first:

the need to pump your tits to drain them of your milk or the need to pump your tits to encourage the production of milk?

There is no doubt in my mind that the Creator has a sadistic sensibility, i otherwise cannot explain the devilish convenience that comes with induced lactation. The process one must follow to trick the female body into creating milk (hormones/herbal supplements + regular mechanical pumping) is the very method one must employ once the first gush of creamy ejection occurs to maintain this state. A girl whose tits have been turned into milk factories must regularly pump in order to drain her milk bags - otherwise they fill with liquid and become swollen and quite painful. She has no choice but to give into the signals her body gives, sucking the milk out of her bosom, which only in turn sends a message to the dairy factories that more formula is needed. It's a vicious and gloriously evil cycle. What it amounts to is the transformation of a girl into a human cow. I have given many thoughts and even commands regarding what should be done with this cow juice, and yet the darkness of this fantasy never ceases to shock or excite.

When i first saw a clip of a bound girl attached to an industrial-grade milking machine, the horror and fascination tilted my cognition immediately towards the highly aroused level. I have since, after collecting well over 40 different such scenes, made it an immediate "drop what i'm doing" ultimatum whenever i've encountered another depiction of a poor submissive hooked up to a mindless vacuum machine sucking with a vengeance onto her dangling udders, slowly turning her into a helpless and writhing bovine.

Friday, March 28, 2008

No country for old me

My interests have a very local component. The cheekbone that passes just near my shoulder, the heel clicking by my ankle, the thin wrist cradling the cellular conversation i overhear on the elevator. All of this occurs in proximity to my personal space. The transaction of these geometries excite and stimulate me. Since college, i've been fascinated with spatial relationships that exist between objects, people, cultures, and have thus evaluated every connection i make in my daily life via the rubric of how close it is to me and how much space it occupies. When i feel a sense of alienation, that somehow my energy and body do not fit in the geography it occupies, i can sometimes feel lost. Which makes the recent discovery i unearthed in my site statistics all the more unsettling.

I have it set so that i'm able to chart how many visits i get by not only the continent, nor just the country, but by the city. Without any bashfulness, i must declare that i receive stop-overs from one burg by more than 2-to-1 over any other city. The perverted metropolis in question?

London, England.

I am not by any means insulted by this overwhelming plurality of Londoners crawling the caverns of my cacophony, but the sheer imbalance over any other municipality strikes me as odd mostly because i myself am not from that fair, grey (or is it 'gray'?) city. I have never even visited it. Yet, somehow the material i post here at TransformHer tickles the cockles of my cockneyed brethren. Those of you who do call this blessed plot, this earth, "home", i'd value some theories as to why you and yours have chosen to click into my literary realm. Perhaps it's perfectly obvious, or perhaps you see my pro-Britannia nuance in amongst my regular kinky blather, and thus feel compelled to purchase a few moments of screen adoration via a visit.

For whatever reason that draws those oh so cultured urbanites, being an amateur detective myself (less Sherlock Holmes and more Philip Marlowe), i, of course, took it upon myself to float my own deductions regarding this quandary. The only thing that i could dig up was an early lesson (albeit culturally short-sighted, and ethically just short) i learned when i was trying to educate myself on the larger world of SM and fetishes. It turns out that my proclivities for localness do not reside solely with me. To bastardize a quote by Tip O'Neill, "All kink is local."

As i consumed the various kinky outputs from the then nascent Information Superhighway, perhaps because my mind is attuned to the layout of maps, i noticed very quickly that certain fetishes had their core followers in different regions and countries. From what i can tell, my very unscholarly evaluation assigned the following nation-states with the various fetishes as such:

Germany/Austria/Eastern Europe - heavy rubber/latex, military uniforms, medical
United Kingdom/Australia - latex outfits, crossdressing/maids, diapers/mackintoshes, schoolgirl, spanking
France - corsets, heels/ballet boots, dungeon, whipping
United States - steel bondage, mechanical contraptions, rope (Western/Cowboy influenced)
Japan - rope (Shibari), dollification, extreme feminization/body modification, Daddy/little girl

Of course, this is a generalization, and of course there are fans of latex in Japan just as there are practitioners of Shibari in Germany, but i think the dissemination of the kinks is relatively accurate.

(What is glaringly obvious about this list is the dominance of industrialized "Western" democracies, and few representations from the Second and Third world nations. Does this make the argument that those with disposable incomes and time develop kinky sexualities? Certainly such an argument can be made when someone notes the average cost of a custom-made latex catsuit, not to mention the ability to take photos of it, upload those photos to a website via a connection to the internet, and...wait, you probably have no interest in my sociological polemic. I don't blame you.)

What does all of this mean? Well, in a nutshell (yes, i will provide you voracious readers with a 'point') i should probably pack up these digs and ship me, the girl and the Castle of Deity over to London. Clearly, my public awaits me there.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

A year older

"I don't think i can handle 27 of them this year."

This astounds me to hear. An offering of doubt, of her abilities. I'm simply struck by it.

You see, every year, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth, my girl receives a swat for every year she's been on this planet. But, the fun doesn't stop there. She also, when my birthday comes around, receives the appropriate number of commemorative strokes on her naked behind. So, to be completely forthcoming regarding her above statement of doubt, she is really speaking about the cumulative spankings.

Frankly, i have no doubts whether or not she can endure this number. When the overall total of spankings she receives in a calendar year are accounted for, those that fall on our birthdays really only make up a small percentage. What i believe her reticence stems from is less the corporal administration and more the other grandiose gestures she's been asked to endure lately.

I think i do far too little acknowledgment of the total growth that she and i have made both individually and collectively. I do not always honor the commitment she makes to regular physical correction, nor do i give myself the credit i should to allow myself the enjoyment of such a remarkable outlet in my life that i'm able to exercise.

She made it through 27 lashes quite beautifully. I can't state with any sufficient amount of affection how proud of her i am for enduring this physical duress. I can only look forward to the time when my own birthday arrives, and once again, i can apply a fine-tuned amount of force on her naked backside.

Saturday, March 22, 2008


A lot can be said with regards to establishing and maintaining a power exchange. Lord knows, i've pasted myriad words up on that endless ebony scrim attempting to detail my own experience. But something occurred to me as i pondered that wall, my experience, and the words i've used to describe it. The more i reflected on this and the self-publishing tomes of other tops and bottoms, i realized that there is a lot that goes unsaid.

Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.

Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":

  • immediate disposal of pants v. gradual, eventual weeding out
My girl's dress code is something i'm quite proud of and do not tire from the administration of it. However, it would be a complete fraud to present the notion that Day One she had a closet full of pants, and by Day Two she possessed zero pantaloons. In four years of our relationship, i have only overseen the last six months as totally pants-less. She got rid of the last pair late last summer. Now, i live in a part of the country that enjoys all four seasons (however shorter and whacked the colder ones are becoming), and one must account for the frigid wind chills that someone not allowed to wear leg-coverings will encounter. Enter legwarmers. Her stockings provide one barrier, but not sufficient when the temperature drops below 40 Fahrenheit. She has collected an assortment in multiple colors and styles that draws as much attention to her as does the fact that she's wearing a dress on a snowy, blistery day.

  • piercings whenever called upon v. her gradual acceptance of the fact
I've known for quite awhile that i would want to mark any girl of mine in various ways as my possession, and one method i wanted to principally employ was piercing. Early in our relationship, i presented the idea to her that she would need to get pierced. For a girl who sported the fairly uncommon nose ring, she held a great deal of resistance to the idea of metal penetrating other parts of her body. I didn't consider her reaction as an indication of a hard limit, but she certainly wasn't budging on the idea. I left it alone for awhile, until one day, she surprised me by announcing that she'd grown very excited about the idea of doing that for me. Within a week, two beautiful rings hung from each of her tits.

  • tightlacing v. our modified version of tightlacing
I love the idea of my girl strapped in her corset all day long. Her mid-section rigidly constrained, all the while exhibiting a fetching waspy waist. In the beginning, she in fact wore it 23 hours a day, even sleeping in it, and only taking it off to bathe and attend to her roughed-up skin. It became clear after a few months, that she was able to achieve the same reduction we both preferred (22") without needing to lace in it while she slumbered. It should become very clear that a power exchange of this nature has the elements to contend with, which we most certainly did when it came to tightlacing. It is nearly impossible for her to lace when the weather gets warmer than 75 degrees. We've explored many options to try to overcome the shear discomfort of a corset on the hot and humid days (even purchased a so-called Summer corset), but have had to concede that the months of July and August are corset-free (except for those occasional trips to the Artic).

These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008


When you go home, i want you to, at the exact instant you close the door behind you, drop everything in your possession right there on the floor in the hallway. Your purse, your jacket, your skirt, everything. I want you to stand naked, shivering in the comfort of your own home.

I want you to then move to your bedroom, pull out the tray of implements you keep stored beneath your bed. I want you to slide your feet into the 5" black, patent leather platforms. Pay close attention to the tinny echo of your heels knocking against the hard floor, as you thread a 6 meter length of rope through the side of the bedframe. Pull this rope to the opposite side, leaving a "v" of rope opening towards you.

Then, extend the adjustable spreader bar to the widest length, wrap each cuff around the corresponding ankle, and lock them shut with the small brass padlocks. I want your mind to envision the keys to these locks as they are, suspended in blocks of ice in your freezer.

Position yourself against the mattress, so that your naked backside points outward and upward. Grab the bottle of lube from the tray. I want you to squeeze a liberal amount of slick liquid into your palm. With the other palm, i want you to rub your hand in between your throbbing slit, feeling the increasing moistness. Smear this all over your cunt, in between your legs, along your thighs and against your asshole. Take the hand with the lube, and mix this with your pussy juice, preparing the whole area to be used. Shove one finger at a time into your puckering anal passage, filling that chute with as much moisture as possible.

When you feel that your genitals are well-prepared - to the level you know i would be satisfied - i want you to take ahold of a branch of the extended rope in each hand. Lay the top half of your torso on the bed, making sure to stretch it across the mattress and lift and point your ass up in the air, muscles tensed and firm. Twist the rope around your wrist, manipulating it as i've shown you, binding each of your hands in self-locking knots.

I want you to wait like this. Wait, and think of why you're in this position. Think of what use you serve, what your body serves, splayed like this.

And then, i want you not to make a single sound when you hear me enter.

*this continues on here

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Sugasm #123

Sugasm #123

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

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 #124? 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
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers
“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”

Breakfast In Bed
“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”

“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage

Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The great myth of the “Venus corset”

Sunday, March 16, 2008

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 2

When we last visited this subject, me and my dominant friend had established a date, location and agenda for an evening of four-headed playtime. The week leading up to the impending evening, i asked my girl every morning if she was excited, and every morning i heard the same response:

"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."

You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:

"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."

I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.

I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.

K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.

He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:

"No, i have no idea. None."

I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.

Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.

I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.

With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.

*this continues on here

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Piss off

When i was a teenager, one of the guys on my hockey team showed us this strange discoloration on his foot. We all looked at it up close, fascinated by the patterns of green and purple blotches spread across his skin. Our coach came in to the locker room, saw us gawking at our teammate's foot and added his two scents to break up the crowd.

"Athlete's foot. From the showers. You gotta piss on your feet to kill it before you get out."

Thanks, Coach. Ever since then, i've pissed on my feet whenever i've taken a shower in a public place, and i don't think twice about the fact that i'm spraying urine all over myself. In fact, i take such a casual approach to my own micturation that i've never really found an erotic urge to pee on someone else.

However, i'm fascinated by a girl's relief of her own bladder.

I used to "accidentally" break into the bathroom when i knew my sister was taking a leak, just because i couldn't believe she did it sitting down. Any girl i've been with, i've thrilled at watching them piss. It sounds different than when men do it. Our urine is concentrated into a thin liquid spear whose primary noise comes from the surface off which it splatters. Whereas, the female stream takes the form of a ribbon of urea, that whistles into the air as she squeezes it out.

I could take or leave my urine, but the female's liquid waste excites me to no end. Thus the few times i've involved it in a predicament session.


She was a young freshman in college who'd stumbled into a chatroom i intermittently floated through. Of the dozen or so feminine handles listed in the chatroom's roster, her's was the most appealing and realistic-sounding. We struck up a conversation, where i tried my best to assuage her doubts about my character (as any good and intelligent girl should have with a complete strange male) all the while disguising the ravenous desire i felt to warp this relatively untouched lamb.

Over time, we developed trust in each other that opened the way to her offering me a glimpse of her through her webcam. A very beautiful girl met me the first time i accepted her invitation to view her. But that was not the dominant thought in my mind. Instead, i felt an immediate urge to control and manipulate her.

The presence of an impending force that boiled up the more and more we spoke clanged many a bell in my head. I knew this pull from previous experiences where i'd come to label it "The Gain". All it took was a few words between us, and i could feel this intense exchange of energy passing back and forth.

One afternoon, we'd been chatting for an hour or so, and she casually mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that she informed me of this need, or maybe i would've grabbed the reins in another way, but i let the internal demons speak. They said "no".

"But i have to really go bad."

I offered that it was informative to hear, but she, for the moment must remain exactly where she was. Minutes passed, with not much substance shared from either of us.

"Please, i really really need to go."

I asked her if she had a tall glass. She responded affirmatively. I told her that if she in fact needed to relieve herself so badly, that she must do it in this tall glass and return, with not a drop spilled. Streaming across the internet, i got an assortment of looks via her webcam first of pure frustration, followed by exasperation, and then finalized by reservation and acceptance. She lifted herself from her seat, and left the room.

A few minutes later, she returned and showed me the large square-sided glass filled with her own urine. I told her to place it on her desk, and resumed the conversation from where we'd left it. However, i never took my mind off the collection of liquid that sat inches away from her keyboard.

"What am i supposed to do with this glass?"

Up until this moment, i'd no idea what i wanted her to do with it. As i felt the familiar energy flow into my body, the exact prescription for this glass of urine came to me.

"I want you to take the glass in your hand. Lift it up to your mouth, i want you to hold it there, and do not move it away."

I still remember the blank stare from her into the optical unit stationed atop her computer, capturing her image that was delivered to my laptop. No more than five seconds passed before she grasped the glass and raised it to her lips. Her posture, the way her hair hung over her ears, everything about her broadcast the anger she felt at being put in this position. But, underlying this sternness, i could see a delicious plea for mercy. Even though she chose not to articulate it, that she was in the position she was, glass held against her mouth, the impact was very clear.

I realized as her hand positioned a pint of her own urine at her lips, and the smell of the warm liquid wafted into her nose, that she'd exhibited an understanding, a grasp of the lesson i sought to offer her. This compliance was all that i needed. After five or 6 minutes, i instructed her to lower the glass back down to her desk. As she left to empty the liquid into the toilet, i was struck by how meaningful a experience could be by merely controlling someone's basic biological functions.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Painting tulips

I play and talk a real mean game here at the barrel house of "TransformHer", but i swear it is not all i think about. In fact, i've been quite, perhaps too "quite", obsessed with the female genitalia (yes, my darlings, more so than i usually am, i swear). In my daily forages through the pornographic material that lands in my 'inbox' (don't tell me you haven't your own kinky computerized courier like i do), i've noticed how much i've been drawn to those photos and videos of girls friggin' their freaky femboxes.

Just recently, via Chelsea Girl's wonderful musings (and contest), i found myself staring slack-jawed and salivatingly at a girl who rubs her ruby rhododendron up and down - repeatedly - against a well-stationed Hitachi wand. Seriously, this is easily the simplest and most erotic thing i could watch.

I've found myself drawn to solitary exhibitions of female auto-eroticism, i've also found a tolerance for multiple females attending to themselves, in a communal but well separated way. I've even been excited to catch the occasional squirting video - God knows why. Well, okay, my pseudonym aside, i do in fact know why.

What excites me about all of this, is the evidence, the documentation and the celebration of the female desire for sex. It's transformative. It can take the most hardened and resolute top executive, and turn her into a hip-humping, Hitachi-loving, horizontal freak. There's nothing biological (on the surface, at least) or scientific about a girl's inclination to masturbate, yet it remains incredibly satisfying. To us men, it makes a statement that through a lot of glorious gyrations say to us "Fellas, you're not alone."

For me, not being alone is a relief. But what's more important is that these beauties take the time to show me (on camera of course) what they do with themselves when they are.

Friday, March 7, 2008


I can't remember exactly where i first heard of Pauline Reage's Story of O. I have a flimsy memory of it popping into a conversation between me and some French friends in Paris (how appropriate). I'm certain that they brought it into the conversation to illustrate some political point - which oddly the majority of any conversation i've had with les Francaises has involved politics - thus treating the book as a foot note. This meant my mind shelved the idea of a mainstream novel written on the subject of the willful debasement of a beautiful girl, only to call upon it later. At the time, i was still engaging in a massive amount of self-restriction and denial about my sadistic urges. However, hearing that a momentous work of fiction, one that had cultural and political significance, addressed the realm of power exchange gave my internal slants legitimization.

To prove this point even further, in order to purchase the book, i didn't need to visit an adult book store, but my local community one. And i didn't find the glossy all-white paperback stuffed in a section behind a curtain that discouraged drop-ins from minors, but instead under the gloriously celebrated genre of "Literature". I remember when reading it while riding the train, at first i tried to conceal the cover and spine to avoid what might be chastising comments. But as i advanced through the narrative, the intoxication of O's ordeal gave me courage, and by the time i finished i was practically flaunting the book to complete strangers. I wanted someone to see that i was reading this seminal work on the off-chance the right person might strike up a conversation. I treated the book like an unspoken password that would gain me entrance into this world where females willingly dip into roles of servitude and flagellation.

I credit Madame Reage's tale with injecting a vivacious serum into my mind whose chief properties inspired me to live my life as i dared. It helped corrode the shackles i'd placed on my desires. The prose of her novel moved silkily through my mind whenever i pursued someone, acting like a template and a guide. I would introduce the book to many people, especially those with whom i shared an emotional and physical intimacy. I guess it was my own proselytizing, my attempt to convert the straight-minded into the warped and twisted creature i was.

I found many images detailed in the book inspiring. The description of O lifting her skirt before she sat on the cold, steel garden chair, pressing her unclothed cunt against the frigid grill. The flames of the fireplace at Roissy, where within inches O received numerous floggings. All of these stirred me, communicated with me. But none more so than the following:

"Hasn't Yvonne said anything to you about this?" Anne-Marie asked O.

O shook her head. What was there for Yvonne to tell her?

"And i know Sir Stephen didn't either. No matter. Anyway, here are the rings he wants you to wear."

..."On the blank side will be your name, your title, and Sir Stephen's family and given names," Anne-Marie said "with, below it, a design composed of a crossed whip and riding crop. Yvonne is wearing a disk just like it on her necklace, but yours will be worn on your loins."

This seared itself like cave drawings on the cavern walls of my mind. I had never before thought of such possibilities. It was so raw, so primal. The young man that i was knew immediately this is how he wanted to make the ultimate statement with any girl he pledged to own.

I've dabbled with SM in numerous ways, dangling the meaty carcass of lust before the beast, letting it swipe and slice at this lure. Each episode, whether it lasted for minutes, or stretched out over months gave my appetites temporary respite. I knew that fundamentally what i wanted from any exchange was ownership.

Last night, i took my girl to our piercer, and had her outer labia pierced with a single curved barbell. I've been working with a jeweler in the UK, designing the jewelry that will eventually hang from her cunt lip. Because my girl reads this, i won't go into the detail of the design i've conjured, but perhaps, in two months, after she's fully healed, and she's been presented with her tag, i might be inclined to post some pictures.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Erectile malfunction

When does the spanking become punitive? When does it cease to serve as pure pleasure? These are questions that i ponder only after i've put away the shackles, the rope, the cane and the cuffs. One dramatic indicator has provided clarity to the question, yet not in the typical ways we might expect.

The male erection, a safe barometer of one member's arousal, has indicated for centuries when a man has enjoyed a particular spectacle he's witnessed. I have no problems launching the flagship of my sexual fleet, but it begs repeating that there are times when my dick isn't the central focus of my sadistic extracurricular activities.

When i first position her so that her backside is pointed my direction, the bulb of her ass lobbed up towards me, i can already feel the rush of fresh blood to my groin. Once i begin swatting the flesh of her ass, my penis has fully engorged, throbbing into the air as if to ask for some of this heat generated mere inches from it. With careful study, i can maintain this erection by abiding the cadence against her skin already established. Stray from it even slightly, as i am often wont to do when overcome with a hunger to really, just, without hesitation, inflict pain, and the formerly blood-engorged cock inexplicably begins to grow flaccid.

It's at this point, coital thoughts leave my mind, and all i want to do is see streaks of sanguine violet scorched across the canvass of her buttocks. Her cries elicit little sympathy from me, the twists of her body away from the waiting implement in my hand do nothing to turn my focus from the bludgeoning. I've bottled up the day's frustrations, the week's letdowns, the season's confounding mysteries, only to release them upon this gorgeous girly roundness held tensely and uncertainly aloft before me.

Sometimes, the evidence of my arousal returns. Other times, i needn't display a calling card to show how stimulated i am.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

The great myth of the "Venus corset"

There should be little mystery that my female aesthetic focus has magnetically pulled towards the looks and attitudes of the 1940's and 50's. From the hairdos, the bright red lipstick, and the seamed stockings to the corseted waists, lack of pants and - yes - their fetish for bondage.

I adore cartoons. I watched them non-stop as a child, citing many of them as the provider for life's lessons. I can say without any doubt that the damsel-in-distress so often portrayed in hand-drawn animation struck a tuning fork deep in my chest. I also developed many crushes on the cartoon girls that pranced across the screen. From Disney's library of screen heroine's, the first of which i fancied was the sleeping beauty Aurora, to the big, doe-eyed fanciful creatures of Tex Avery.

I'll never forget the particular marvelous Saturday afternoon that introduced me to and the imprint it delivered through this playful update of a classic story.

Almost as if my burgeoning sexuality had been sent on a once-in-a-lifetime shopping spree, all the things that would eventually serve as the foundations for my fetishes could be found in this illustrated play. I was sold on the sharp, heavy outlines of the 40's and 50's, the long fairy-like eyelashes that fluttered an awfully enticing code, and the wicked, accentuated curves.

When i finally arrived on the complete ordnance of objects that would - revolving around in my head - bring about sexual satisfaction, i looked to this era for real life examples. To my young eyes, it appeared to be the last time period these sort of female accoutrements were seriously deployed. Women truly enjoyed the exclusive statement on femininity their hair, makeup, footwear, and, most importantly, undergarments declared.

I pushed myself to explore as much material that existed on this period of feminine constraint, and in tune pushed the range of my own desire further. My search brought me to the darker recesses of the quaint 1950's attitude. It was here i first encountered the artwork of Eric Stanton.

Very quickly, i swam in an ocean of wickedness, male chauvinism, aggressive pursuit, and hunger - pure, unmitigated hunger. In the privacy of my chamber, i enjoyed what my eyes flowed over, but were anyone to ask me in public if i endorsed this material, i would have abdicated. Gone were the peppy housewives of the 40's and 50's, replaced by the extricated female objects whose limbs were contorted and abducted, only to be corralled for the pleasure of their male master.

Among these shockingly arousing panels of the works of Stanton and others of his time, i encountered the device known as the Venus corset:

The one just above and to the left does the best to exhibit why this corset is called the "Venus". Quite literally, it was imagined to also constrict the wearer's arms behind her back with the same lacing that cinched in her waist. The effect had the subject resembling the very famous Aphrodite sculpture from the ancient Greek town of Milo. Illustration after illustration demonstrated this innovative contraption. To my eye, every single female above is striking and beautiful in this pose, and seeing this, i was sold. I knew i wanted one.

And thus began the great myth. Over a decade of searching, i've never found one. Corset site after corset site, and no one, from what i've seen, has offered their own prototype. The closest i came was a corset that had an attached single-glove armbinder with integrated back lacing. But, alas, i have never discovered an actual arm-encapsulating device.

Perhaps someone could felicitously prove me wrong.