Sunday, June 29, 2008

Routine maintenance

As it typifies the power exchange, routine typically fills an important, guiding role in a dominant's repertoire. It habitualizes certain behaviors that over time serve to condition the submissive to a set way. The structure that comes inherent in routine can also reduce the number of liabilities should something go wrong in a scene by finetuning each party's response to eachother. Regimental cycles build trust, they can put the focus on the human spirits involved in the wicked dance, rather than on the steps that make up the tango.

For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.

My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.

Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.

She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"

"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"

She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.

If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.

*this continues on here

Thursday, June 26, 2008


He lifted the last glass out of the sink and held it beneath the faucet pouring forth the liquid:

Water, dancing over his hands, the glass, sliding into the drain below.

Such water does not arouse much notice for others, but he finds himself mesmerized by this fluidic force. It captures light, changes it, shifts it, makes it disappear completely. Objects submerged in water must immediately respect its movement, they must bend to its dictation.

He felt the crystal flow pushing on his hand, on the flesh and the muscles and bones beneath it, pushing them down, rolling over them, dictating. Mindless of its target. He instinctively wanted to push back against it, but the smoothness of its command and texture weakened his will to resist. He loved this sensation knowing that in the same body of water there can be gentle lulling and forceful torrent. He rubbed his fingers over the curved surface of the flute, using the water to vanquish the evidence of the night. Her lipstick upon the rim, her fingerprints around the neck, all of these remnants of their libatious cheers clinging like sediment to the glass. He pressed against the clear surface, squeaking the new and clean, closing the cycle of vanishment.

This 'clean', Man learned very early on. He learned that to remove his body of impurities, he must immerse himself in water, he must submit to its properties. Modern Man has turned his back on the purity water offered. Modern Man lathers himself in dyes and perfumes, but still, at the end of this ritual, uses H2O to remove these artificial potions from his body.

Not him, however. He exalted the sacrosanct nectar. He respected water's supremacy for he wanted it for his own. Reaching across the sink, he twisted the knobs to extinguish the flow. One does not waste such power.

He dried off the glass, placing it back in the cupboard. Exiting the kitchen, he turned into the living room, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table. With a flick, he doused the lights, tossing the handheld onto the couch. The satin glow of his fish tank wobbled like a gigantic areola, throbbing along the ceiling and across the wall. He walked down the hall, to the stairs, ascending each step one at a time, with a tap to the banister with his fingers. Stopping midway, he bent down, picking up her black silk negligee that had been discarded on the way up. He rejoined his ascent, fingering the frail material. In transit, a thought popped into his mind.

"She'll probably want this when she gets up."

He stopped, pausing for a second, and chuckled to himself while staring at the closed door at the top of the stairs.

"...if she's able to get up..."

*this continues on here

Monday, June 23, 2008


"Gorgeous, at some point this weekend, you're gonna get an enema. I leave it up to you to decide when you're most inclined for that to happen," i said this upon her arrival home, as we embraced in our customary greeting.

She took it completely in stride, choosing not to offer her response to the presentation. I knew the calculation of precisely where a colonic cleansing would fit into her weekend plans had her internal mental apparatus at full steam. I can't offer exactly why it needed to happen at the time i decided. Out of nowhere, an urge to make a statement upon her rectal passage overwhelmed me.

When finally the time came, i prepared all the necessary materials, lining them up on the bathroom counter. A brand new Fleet-brand, saline enema; one pair of sterile, latex gloves; box of alcohol-free, disposable, sanitary wipes for post-enema cleaning; large, soft beach towel, spread out onto the bathroom floor. I walked back to the living room, where i'd extracted myself beneath her slumbering head in my lap. I gently woke her from her nap, speaking to her with a calm, reserved tone.

"Darlin, it's time."

She removed all of her clothes and met me in the bathroom. I told her to assume the regular position - on all fours, forehead pressed to the floor, buttocks angled up at me. I'd made sure she showered earlier in the day, and inspecting her hairless backside, could unobstructively see the mauve tones that surrounded her squinting asshole. I've viewed many a female anal egress, and even then, i marvel every time i view this one that i possess. Its shape, the extreme bank of the cheeks that form the valley of her crack, the sweaty yet deep scent that it delivers to my nose - all of it gives me a pleasurable gush.

I pushed the nozzle of the dispenser past her sphincter, then orderly squeezed the liquid contents deep inside of her. Once i've emptied the last of the liquid into her pinched rectum, she must hold the prone ass-up position for a good five minutes for the fluids to really exfoliate her gastrointestinals. Time had taken over the power exchange, and it would determine when i would get to watch her writhe in discomfort, as wave after wave of lower bowel nausea washed over her. I sat on the edge of the tub, as she stationed herself onto the toilet spreading her cheeks wide in anticipation of the taxing evacuation. Sweat built on her brow, her temples clenched in strenuous anxiety. All the while, she did her best to respond to my repeated inquiries into her overall state without letting the irritation of the moment and my place in it cause her to erupt in frustration.

"How close are we? Are you doing okay?"

"...y-y-yes, i'm...(spasms rocking her insides)...fine."

I sat there the entire time, watching with fascination and explicit sadistic glee. As i witnessed the effects of minerals sprayed into her undercarriage, i thought about the macabre and viciousness of this act. I put her there, and while i had no reservations, i do have my soft side. I adore her, and spend most of my time looking for ways to worship and spoil her. In most matters, i would flip over a parked car were i ever to see her the victim of atrocities. I have come close to blows with drivers who have carelessly cut in front of us, her arm-in-arm with me, as we cross an intersection. How dare they put this gorgeous creature in a position of danger. How dare they force her body, her mind, her spirit into dysphoria.

That's my job.

Friday, June 20, 2008

a jagged soft puzzle

the sound of her breath
clutching for rescue
moved me to force more
unto her as
her moans captured
her red skin voice for me
lips licking gasps
lingered torture of her
bosom's tight explosion
filling her body with
liquid swell
fingers fingering incomplete
no stop yes yes more
lips licking gasps
undulating bodies fit
hot pieces together in
a jagged soft puzzle

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Yield to oncoming traffic

When hammering a nail into the wall, machismo dictates that you hit the nail as hard as possible. Likewise, when wading through a crowded sidewalk, a real man shoves his way past those impeding his path. I have witnessed in many places, whether online through profiles on kinky social networking sites, or in person at SM play parties, this same philosophy throughout some people's approach to domination. I've been surprised by how often i've encountered this modus operandi. Perhaps these tops see the need to constantly roar and bark because they don't understand the craft of subtlety - i'm not really sure.

Dominance isn't always about forcibly wielding power. Sometimes, in very quiet, sublime ways, it can be about yielding power. This can be viewed in customary, everyday transactions. When entering a building, and someone is right behind, i hold the door for them, and, instead, let them pass before me. Immediately, even if they don't say anything to me, after they get over the initial shock of the exchange, they will feel a sense of obligation. In that moment, i am exhibiting dominance but without having to be aggressive about it.

In many ways, this suits my style. As i've mentioned before, i don't fit the standard sterotype for dominants (it may shock some of you that i don't own a single pair of leather pants). Rather, i comport myself with style and elegance, dressing myself with an attention to fine tailoring and natty apparel. When i am walking on the aforementioned congested footpath, i usually strut with swift purpose which, coupled with my appearance, usually gets people to steer away from my direct trajectory. In those offchances that our courses will cross, instead of blowing by them or engaging in that awkward tango of stuttered steps, i will stop in my tracks, guiding them by me with a friendly, leading wave of my arm. In this way, i am taking the upper (forgive the pun) hand.

I have set boundaries and rules with my girl wherein she understands that certain tolerances will be expected of her. I have many implements that incur pain in diverse ways to demonstrate the full extent of these tolerances. However, i do not always push her to her limits. She may have just received thirty one of thirty two assigned swats that make her writhe and shake, standing there in thick anticipation of the final, massive blow. But instead of walloping her behind, i'll pull my hand back with great wind, return it with an equal amount of gust, and ever so lightly tap her little tail.

Force needn't exist to establish dominance, but control is a requisite.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Request denied

Anyone who listens to the radio, watches the news on television, navigates to their counterpart websites or picks up a daily paper knows that the US economy is struggling. Faced with, for the first time, gas prices that are on average $4 a gallon (which, for our European counterparts is nothing compared to the $7+ per gallon they pay), the common American is feeling a pinch. Jobless rates are up. Inflation rose at an incredibly high rate over the past 6 months. The mortgage crisis continues to rear its menacing face throughout the country. Let us not forget to mention the weakening dollar, which exacerbates some of these issues. Clearly, Ma and Pa Yankee are grappling when it comes to their pocketbooks.

I knew things were bad, but i don't think i was aware of just how bad they are. For the past seven years, i have participated in the Regents' Internship Program with great enthusiasm. Around this time, we would've selected a candidate for the 3 month assignment, sent her off for training, and happily greeted her to her new desk and shiny new office supplies. Mid-March, i typically perform an inventory of tasks as yet incomplete or new projects that need a fresh pair of eyes. I give this list to my secretary, who in turn translates this into an assessment of our need for a set number of man hours to complete it, which then gets forwarded over to the Director of Human Resources. Based on the number we provide, a pool of candidates gets selected by their backgrounds, the focus of their college majors, and their skillsets, which are all pre-screened by my esteemed assistant.

March came and went, and a list of potential field hands never crossed my desk. I asked my secretary if she'd heard anything regarding the Regent candidates, indicating she had not, she immediately saw the larger ramifications of this. By mid-April, i became very (perhaps all told, overly) concerned when nothing such as a question regarding openings in my schedule for interviews came from upstairs. I took matters into my own hands and made a visit to the head of our HR. I asked if she'd received our laundry list of projects. She had. I asked if she had any questions about it. She didn't. Flummoxed by her nonchalance, i inquired with sharp-bladed precision whether or not we were going to be participating in the Regents' program this summer.

That was up in the air.

Two weeks ago, as if she were announcing the mundane news that a daisy in some Spanish meadow had lost a few petals, the HR Administrator casually informed me that our company would not be participating in the mentoring project.

"Are you kidding me?"


"Why on earth would we not participate?"

"Have you seen the news about the economy?"

I wanted to yell out at her "What the hell does that have to do with this?" as she walked away from me, taking her dejecting attitude and painting it like a vandal all over the walls of our office. Apparently, because there are some tough financial times, we're not able to open our doors to young, underprivileged college students, offer them knowledge transfer about working in an office environment and pay them on the cheap.

Yes, i realize i am being an incorrigible brat about this. There are people out there for whom this downturn in the economy is impacting much deeper than this episode i describe. That i believe my company is using the economic turmoil as an excuse to pad poor decisions it made when it over-compensated the executive staff is honestly not the point.

I enjoy every stage of handling my interns. From interviewing the female-only group, and looking forward to their diligent allegiance to my dress code, to reviewing their typos in the inaugural memos i ask them to type. But most importantly, their presence, their raw, electric feminine life that comes and goes in such wistfully jubilant strides will be something that my summer will inherently lack. As it should be clear, i am a massive fan of the fairer sex, and spending these hot months cramped up in an office without my annual girl pageant is something i'm not quite prepared to handle.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Exhibition on training

Someone mentioned to me that i don't put up enough photos, that instead i rely too heavily on words. I can buy that. Words are much easier to own and create, whereas to craft a photo i'd be proud to put up on my site takes resources and talents i do not have easy access to. But, i'm not one to turn down a challenge, so i will try to do a post (following these brief messages, of course) of pure pictoral pontification.*

Nipple training (care of Master Y):

Posture training (care of, with an appearance by Claire Adams):

Limbless training (care of

Patience training:

Proper storage following training (care of and

*My humble thanks to those whose copyrighted material i've used to try to prove my point.

Sugasm #135

Sugasm #135

Field of Dreams courtesy of Erotic Garden.

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 #136? 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
The Angel and the Devil
“Upon looking at my creamy white and feeling my soft lips you would think I am an angel.”

How To Approach A Dominant Woman
“Wrong way: Perhaps you know me from my blog….”

“Lying back so the full aura from the lamp lights the area in question, I spread my legs and let him see.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
How does one trust?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

BDSM & Fetish

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Thierry Mugler

It began, i'm almost certain, with a tag-along trip with my mother to her beauty salon one afternoon when i was young. In order to paint the most honest image of myself, i won't blithely say i was bored, as i usually carried with me a stack of books or comics, but i must confess that the overflowing piles of beauty magazines attracted my eye. I picked out a handful, and scooted my little tush onto the over-stuffed couch in the lobby of the salon. All around me, females of all ages, shapes and colorations were yielding to the expertise of the scissor-wielding maestros and their visions of enhancement. I flipped through the colorful periodicals, consuming every picture (which is a considerable task when you consider that the ratio of photo to print is astonishingly high for these magazines), enjoying the parade of beautiful vixens. I couldn't help but feel entranced by the hundred different displays of cosmetic-dazzled faces, high-fashion footwear and elaborate hairstyles. I wasn't too far into my exploration before i encountered the face that would dominate my mind for years following.

The face belonged to Cindy Crawford.

That one image launched a 5-year long hobby of mine that had me scouring every monthly beauty rag out there for shots of my Cindy. In that span of time, i accumulated four 3-ring binders of pictures of her. I used to sneak into book stores and quickly flip through their magazines in hopes of scoring me yet another photospread, where i would brandish the Exact-O knife i carried in my pocket to quickly extract the goods. I'm not sure what aim i was attempting to accomplish collecting all these images. I guess i'd made a claim on Ms. Crawford (i even set to memory every biographical piece of information i could about her), and felt the closest i would come to possessing her was through these binders.

Over time, the habit of scouring these advertisement-laden publications for Crawford kibble fluttered away. But what remained in its place was an appreciation for and attachment to the inner workings of the fashion industry. In these few years, i mentally catalogued every model, every designer and nearly every trend each fashion house put forth. In doing so, i was trying to explore the possibilities of robing the female body, accentuating its beauty, exciting the imagination through the adornment of the feminine curves. I appreciated the slender yet graceful approach to apparel the folks at Dior had. In the hands of Chanel, the female body had strength, wisdom and prowess. I didn't care for the syrupy style of Dolce and Gabbana, nor the fiery flare of Versace. However, all of these centres du mode came off as middlingly pedestrian when i first encountered the diabolically fetishistic styling of Thierry Mugler.

Monsieur Mugler's appreciation and utilization of PVC, latex and corsets in his haute couture shows might've been enough to make him the singular favorite of mine, but as i grew accustomed to his dark, bent aesthetic, it was then that i discovered his most profound creations that seared his imaginative work to my psyche.

As the photo above illustrates, Mugler, who burst onto the fashion scene in the mid 80's staying until his last show in the year 2000, replaced the typical en vogue wardrobe with his warped, twisted visions of the evolution and metamorphosis of the female creature. Literally. He took the sleek waspy lines formed by a tightly laced corset, and fashioned an alien bird creature with brilliant colorful plumage that surrounded an insect-like abdomen. Even her makeup expressed supra-human qualities. I remember my first peek at this ornithic humanoid, and the way she stood engrossed in the transformation of her body into a sleek, sexual creature, the way she leered out at the worthless homo sapiens in the audience penetrated me with such gross sexual urges.

Thierry Mugler explored this were-creature exercise multiple times throughout his brilliant but short career.

Seeing this unabashed expression of the erotic qualities of transforming the female into another being, a different vessel, on such a public and revered stage allowed my young mind, which was grappling with my own intense desires to manipulate and convert the girls in my immediate vicinity, to relax in what i felt was camaraderie with a Frenchman i would never have the chance to meet.

The more research i did into Mugler's work, the more objectification and metamorphosis i encountered, and strangely, it was the fashion world (not exactly the bastion of machismo for most straight men) that gave me the bolt of confidence to explore and demand the specific sexual nuances i still insist on to this day.

In these female robot images, the aspect that stimulated me most was the idea of a proto-typical girl submitting to the conversion from human to part machine. She wanted her dynamic sexual fire to be preserved and amalgamated in a metallic suit, letting the rigidity of her existence as part machine alter and shape her behavior and movement. I've never found robots manufactured to look like females enticing, but rather the notion of a normal girl submitting (either forced or consensual - it didn't matter in my fantasies) to the mad scientist's designs that altered her body permanently, especially her mind, has for the longest time chimed my erotic bells.

I offer the reader these final two videos that show first the robot-girl, removing her human clothing, strutting around in her awkward, newly acquired metallic exterior, then followed by the bird-creature that stares into the audience (found approximately at the 2:16 point of the video), looking for it's first victim since its recent conversion into an aviary predator. Listen to the change in music, even Mugler acknowledges the psychotic statement he makes with this feminine beast, darkening the tone and the mood appropriately. I am so deeply grateful for this one man's contribution to my sexuality, it's hard for me to realize how fortunate i was to encounter his articulation when i did.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 3

A man and his tools.

There is a very precise and precious relationship between the two. The first few items he acquires are usually found, inherited or errantly purchased just to satisfy his immediate needs. But that does not diminish the man's connection to them. He uses them to craft, to tinker, to fix and repair. And he does this mostly in solitude - A man alone with his tools, jointly focused on the object to which they are applied. Over the years, he will acquire new additions, retiring old ones, finetuning his collection which serves as a non-vocal expression of himself.

A man rarely thinks about how he may appear to others amidst the use of his instruments. They sometimes take on the status of a secret mistress, where the man doesn't act the same way around them as he does around his friends. I myself witnessed this with a chum of mine i'd known for over a decade. One day, he invited me to his woodshop for the first time, to work on a project of my own design. When he first greeted me, he looked the same as he always had, but once set in front of the racks of tools hanging from his shop's walls, his appearance changed. He took on more the likeness of a little boy, with a gleam in his eye, as he greeted the numerous implements in his collection and contemplated their potential to create an object out of raw, uncut materials. He had no idea he'd come off differently, but he later offered that it was strange, almost difficult sharing that experience with me. He wasn't prepared for the vulnerability he felt inviting someone into his shed to view his intimate connection with his utensils.

Our last installment on the evening between me, my girl, K and his had us just at the beginning of our use of a newly ordered supply of jute rope. It wasn't until i was walking back to the living room with the rope-filled bag that i realized i felt odd, perhaps a little bare. Hundreds of times, i'd grabbed this satchel, digging in it for the precise equipment i required. In many ways, this sack represented a physical manifestation of my imagination, the ladder to the next level in my imaginary world. Once i stepped into the warm light of the den that cast on my girl and our guests, i would be exposing a very delicate entrance to my internals.

I undid the latch, and began to disembowel the case of its ropey entrails. Bundle after bundle of khaki coils piled up on the coffee table, wafting a sweet and rich aroma of seaweed and leather into the air. I called my girl to me, and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. Her proximity brought me comfort. I kissed her on the lips, then instructed her to disrobe. I didn't pay close attention to the other couple, but in my periphery, i could see a tender exchange of caresses and movements that eventually had K's girl in the same naked state as mine. I looked to K for his lead for what should take place next. I've bound my girl dozens of times, even leaving her tied for hours with confidence that my self-educated rope skills would satisfy the purpose. That night's activity, however, would require a level of acumen i didn't possess, and for that reason, K served (nobly, patiently and graciously) as my guide.

He grabbed a 7 meter coil and with it methodically bound the hands of his girl behind her back, starting what would become a basic but sturdy torso harness. I mimicked each tug and turn of the malleable jute, arranging my girl's limbs to resemble her counterpart's. I loved the friction of the rope's fibers across my flesh, leaving a slight trail of burn between my fingers and thumb. The detail-obsessed demon inside me found ample opportunity to commandeer the rigging, as it took meticulous care to make sure the rope lay beautifully across her skin, both lining it up and coiling it in a perfectly eye-pleasing way. In very short time, we had both girl's arms immobilized, as well as their naked tits bound tightly by the interweave of sea foam-colored rope.

At this point, K excused he and i from the bound bottoms in order to go examine the pull-up bar as well as provide a little more tutorial. The apex of the evening as we had planned it would culminate in my girl's inaugural suspension. Nervous but confident in my tutor, i reworked his oral instruction over and over in my head standing beneath the rigid rail that extended between the door frame of my study. When we returned, the strangest but loveliest of spectacles met our eyes. As we left them, constricted, topless and armless, the girls had found seats and taken up a conversation they'd started some hours before as if the configuration of their limbs were normal and warranted. This touched me for some reason. I believe it spoke to the level of comfort established by us all in that atmosphere, but also the pure peace each girl sank into when bound as such.

K led his bottom into my study and quickly anchored another length of rope to the back of the rigid harness trussed around her frame. Every inch of movement or action he took, he dictated to me the methods he employed, ensuring i understood why the rope was attached at that exact location or how to protect the submissive from being whipped in the face by the rapidly yanked lariat. In what seemed like an instant, he was ready to hoist his girl into the air. She'd mentally retracted inside of herself (or it could be seen as opening herself to everything and anything), that when he tugged on the lever that he'd created, lifting her from the ground, she responded as if that was the natural location her body was to occupy for the next few moments of time. He asked me if i caught all of that. I had not. He asked again, firmly, but patiently. Again, i indicated that some of it had been lost on me. With exquisite confidence, he then lowered her and raised her several times, until my mind captured the mechanics of the winch, allowing me to transfer the instructions to my hands that held tightly to my excited but uncertain girl.

K finally let his girl hang for a few minutes with her legs wiggling beneath her, giving her the pleasure of suspension, before he released her. Rather than immediately attend to me, as i awaited to repeat this effect with my girl, he ministered to his roped submissive, quickly checking to see if she was in order before proceeding. As he did this, i continued to replay in my head the step-by-step instructions he gave me, trying to implant my girl into the pictographic illustrations. When it came time to perform, i felt a sensation of calm firmly in my grip.

Without much intercedence, K observed as i used the rope to craft a halyard to my girl's harness. I stopped a few times to allow him to inspect, but otherwise, i could sense a momentum building in my hands. I squatted a little as i held the tackled rope, and placed my shoulder into the cavity of my girl's chest. I spoke quietly to her.


She breathlessly indicated her affirmative, and i pulled, simultaneously lifting her with the rope while supporting her with my body. Once i was certain the suspension would hold, that the principles of Archimedes would indeed do all of the work, i held firmly to the working end of the line, and stepped out from underneath my hovering girl, leaving her hanging completely freely for the very first time in her life.

I was amazed at how little strain there was in the length of jute i held in my hand, yet the arrangement i crafted from the instructions i received looked suspiciously too simple. My darling submissive dangled in mid-air, completely unable to free herself from this predicament. Her skin sung a song of rosy awareness, while her cunt moistened her twin, exposed petals. I swung the girl-sack that hovered above me back and forth, snickering to myself at how vulnerable this item was in this position. A few minutes passed when, finally, i could detect a change in the composure of her physiognomy. It was time to come down.

As my nose picked up the effluvium of the not yet consumed, hearty soup drenching the air from the kitchen, i recognized that our evening was drawing to a close. I could sense how hungry my girl had become, and i accepted the fact that her time off the ground had ended. I knew she was done, there was not much more that i could purchase from her body. It was time to feed her and our guests the meal i'd been preparing all day. After all, i'd kept her in suspense quite long enough.

Monday, June 2, 2008


You never thought to ask, which you knew would yield you no answers if you had. You just stood there patiently still as i meticulously stretched a measuring tape over your body's different bends and angles. Initially, i stuck to the rudimentary lengths. Your waist, your bust, your trunk, the extent of your long, beautiful legs. Shortly after, you noticed that i started coming to you with a pencil in my mouth, and one of my small, leather-bound black notebooks in hand where i jotted down the measurements of such things as the width from your thumb to your pinkie, the span of your inner elbow, and yes, even the diameter of the entrance to your ears. All the while i'd smile, sometimes raise my eyes in surprise, and occasionally, my findings would elicit an exasperated "couldn't be!" from under my breath.

By now, i think i've grown accustomed to your lack of inquiry of my doings. I came and went with full knowledge of what i wanted, and later realized how easily you complied. This led me to contemplate how far you've progressed in your overall training. It amazes me what you are now capable of enduring and accepting as normal. Quite frankly, it titillates and arouses me. It fills me with such pride and elation, that i have been able to go with you on this journey. And it is precisely the reason why i feel with confidence your ability to handle what i had planned for you next.

When we sat at the table this morning for breakfast, you had no idea what i had as the centerpiece in my head. You were unaware that the dinner party we had scheduled for tonight would take a detour away from the social evening you expected. You couldn't know what i'd done with those well over 40 different measurements of your body. You couldn't expect the 4'X3'X4' shiny ivory-white sarcophagus that will be delivered later this afternoon. You cannot imagine the near-perfect negative relief the rigid foam insides of the box make of your gorgeous naked, packaged body. You won't anticipate the three inserts strategically positioned to hold open your mouth, your cunt and your asshole, dilating them to levels you have not yet experienced.

And once inside, once the darkness of the lid snapped tightly shut ensconces your mind, you will have no idea how to the outside observer, these three "orifices" appear as only smooth, featureless holes available for whatever use they may wish upon them. They do not reveal the nude creature muffling in near silence, deep within.