It starts with a brief conversation. We've been hanging out in the same chatroom with the generic topic of "BDSM". Looking at every profile embedded in each feminine-sounding handle, i'm searching for the right combination of vulnerability and nubility, but also a wicked and intelligent streak to her. I'll usually send a private message, something playful, but not too aggressive.
"What does a 20-year old like yourself look for in a random BDSM chatroom?"
I have no idea if she's 20. I have no idea if she's a "she". Most don't respond. Those that do, reveal their personality within the first five sentences of our chat. The fiery sprite who wants to flame any and everyone will toss some choice words for me to properly fuck myself. The bored will offer merely one word answers, never ask anything in return and sound too much like, despite her obvious digital multi-tasking with twelve open message windows, the world couldn't get more dull. Five sentences are up, and i move on. There have been only a handful of girls who captured my enigmatic energy and study.
There was a time i spent a great number of nights trolling chatroom after chatroom, seeking an exchange with this feminine source that invigorates and motivates me, in hopes to take it and warp it horribly. Lately, i've been thinking about this former practice of mine. I've noticed that my attention, when i've felt an aroused desire to splurge an hour on the internet, has largely been centered at erotic transformation fiction sites (one of my latest finds has many of the other stories i've poured over numerous times before, but presents these often, poorly written bits in a new and refreshing format). I've long gotten over how poorly constructed these stories are. Their language (when spelled correctly) affects an impatient tone from the writer and a feeble grasp of the proper manner of massaging the reader's anticipation. Yet, i'm still able to become impassionately turned on (why?).
For many years, my bimbo fetish has provided me with ample amounts of guilt regarding the unavoidable view of women materials touching on this interest seem to have. Mere objects, their worth arriving only in their physical undulations, brainless beauties who have few objections to their manhandling. As anyone who reads these humble pages knows, i have sheer admiration for the fairer (and i do mean the more forgiving and judicious) sex. How do i reconcile, then, my desire to achieve erotic climax by subjecting them to intense submarining of their well-deserved, hard-earned identity? Enter those lasses in my past who allowed me to explore with them my own fixation to turn them into ditzy, slutty fucktoys.
It was the recent torrid of ravished reading of a transformation tale that led me to understand what stabs me so succinctly to the core with this subject. The stories that launched me to festive erectile reverie all had one universal thing in common: the girl at the center of the tale is always an accomplished, independent, and incredibly intelligent girl. Here lies a classic example of my approach to SM. In order for me to get fulfillment, i must conquer, i must command, and i must completely rule. If, however, the girl in question offers no challenge or bounty, i may as well depart before the requisite five sentences expire. Taking the feisty, spunky girl-creature and transforming her into a perverted twist of a voracious slut-object who has no awareness of social mores and expectations indulges the basest of my hungers.
Amidst this process, another unexpected transformation occurs. When i view evidence of the transported acting on sloven desires with which i have conditioned it, i too disappear. I morph into a deduction of myself, where only senses (that are afire and sizzling) matter. I don't want her to remain a bimbo any more than i want to maintain this status of wild beast. This is a single act (depending on the duration and our endurance) that has a finite end.
I recognize why this excites me so entirely. By slipping this deep, by allowing me to guide her to the point of inhuman recognition, i am allowed to expose myself entirely and act without any dread from judgment or scorn. High-octane cylinders that fire engines of pure ecstatic bliss are driving me, and i'm merely along for the gloriously, thrilling ride.