Friday, August 29, 2008

ces choses

these things you need weren't there before.

these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.

these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.

what happened to you?

you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.

you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?

you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.

still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.

you've changed. what happened to you?

what happened to me? i've changed too.

my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.

i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.

i've become attached to these things. Quite so.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Mydentity

There are days that i want to plop a picture of myself, or my girl, onto the celluloid of this site, declaring once and for all a face to match the name, the words. For those of you who have paid attention, the only declarative image of either of us are those found in a few posts or the ocular avatar staring at you, the reader. All of these are meant to be obscure, indefinite and unadherent.

I've had a public persona, dabbling for awhile in the SM scene under this very same handle i ply here, but that's not quite the same. Few people "stumbled" upon the bondage clubs where i might give a demonstration of which of my submissive's buttocks were more tolerant than the other, whereas there are many who happen upon this site completely unintentionally. With that brings a greater risk of my professional life intersecting with my personal, and as i dabble in games of ill repute and social taboos, it is too much of a liability. I still remember the day when, while scanning the lineup of visitors to Lustful Quality via my site statistics, i came across a visitor who had the same IP address that was assigned to my office's network. I panicked. Had someone discovered my identity, these archives, was blackmail to ensue? Luckily, nothing came about it, and it turned out to be a glitch in the software, but it made me think.

It made me think how angry i am that despite my comfort and openness about this side of my life, i still feel the need to conceal it and hide it away from 98% of the people in my life. It made me confront the overall ignorance of society (i distinguish this from "people", because clearly, individuals have an inclination to SM-related material due to how often i find a new web journal popping up of someone exploring this avenue in their lives), and perhaps accept that there will never come a day where my professional life can happily fall in the comfortable shadow of this passion, this desire, this need.

I pursue SM and my fetishes out of a driving impulse to discover more about myself, which in turn is my way of not rejecting my appetites and nuances. I don't do this every few days, once a week, or even when the occasional moment strikes me. I do it every single minute of every single day. And sometimes it gets very old having to hide this albatross.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Working the kinks out

As i write this (and i usually write my posts, instead of type them. I use the typing portion as the editing stage. Did someone say intern?), my girl is in her den click-clacking away on her laptop. She doesn't know that in about two hours from now, i will call for her, wherein she will expeditiously respond by coming into my den. I will be situated in my comfortable chair, exposing a large amount of lap for her to situate her little tummy right on top. Before she stretches herself over my knees, she will lower her panties (perhaps even remove them), and gather her skirt over her hips. There is much i enjoy with taking her over my knee. It paints such a beautiful image.

-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.

However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.

Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).

And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.

But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

When a kiss just isn't a kiss

All these whips and shackles and plastic sheeting present a very high maintenance view of my sexual countenance. I in fact have heard numerous times:

"Can you get off without all the gear and rigmarole?"

My immediate snide and sarcastic response would usually be,"Why would i want to?" And largely, that is true. I'm one who feels that this here world offers only so many opportunities for us to explore, expand and expedite these bodies we have - why waste them by first questioning my appetites and then follow that by not listening to them?

But, i recognize that by choosing a semi-public persona as established by this site i have a responsibility to my readers to be more forthcoming than the brash idiot above who rigidly rejects any deviation from his trajectory. For this reason, i feel the need to put to rest any notions out there that anyone might have of me constantly needing some level of SM-related paraphernalia or protocol in order for me to find my arousal. Certainly, painted upon the walls of my identity, my sexual graffiti has often come from the spraycans of a sadist. But, boy, if i'm not about the biggest romantic sap out there. Folks, let me tell you, i cry at sentimental scenes in romantic movies where the two characters come to the final realization that they'd found...the one.

The very same operates in my own life. My girl has the ability to arrest my heart with just a glance, a gesture, or even a passing image of her getting ready in the bathroom mirror as i prance down the hallway. I have often told her that (okay blamed her for them) i'm easy, and it doesn't take much to arouse me, to get me erect. I offer this warning to her both as a warning but also as an invitation to continue with her current behavior, because after a certain point, she will not have a choice as to the outcome.

Just this morning, we were sharing our morning ritual of coffee and breakfast on the couch. We were chatting about the upcoming day's events, and then suddenly, she leaned in and gave me the slightest, most tender and invigorating kiss on the lips. These were the jumper cables to my idle engine, the spark igniting a desire for more. We continued to kiss. Her lips pushing into mine as if they might merge, and before too long, i'd reached a point where there was only one possible discourse. I moved us to the bedroom, and proceeded to stretch that kiss into a long, dwindling crescendo of sexual intercourse.

For this moment, there was no power exchange. Just an unabiding, rapid and hasty race to become one. One. One. One.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

you

you
to grab you
i want to grab you
telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
my stomach leaps as blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood, how badly, my stomach, telling me, grab you, how badly, gushes through, i want, how badly

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Save your self

Everybody wants a savior. We all want some divine presence who can snap us up from the madness of others, and the madness of a world we don't really understand. I've wanted salvation myself, for as long as i can remember. I've wanted the invisible hands to come into my life and push me out of the way of the speeding vehicle, or to nudge me forward when my courage has bled through my heels. The longer i await the arrival of this entity to set the sands of my conviction firm, the stronger my hunger becomes for it.

I know that most of what i pursue in my relationship with the female creature is an attempt to act as the great liberator they seek. My audacity to believe i could occupy such a role, to be able to shine a light on a path that leads to their ultimate self-awareness has driven my need to continue my own search. From a very early period, i deified my likeness, both mocking the idea that i might be a god but also hoping to approximate one. I make proclamations, orders with little reflection and a great deal of expectation that they are followed. Who am i to believe that i know the correct manner circumstances should occur? Something inside of me indicates that my actions, my will, my beliefs all have a lead. Everyone has an Alpha. A beginning. A moment greater than themselves. I am constantly seeking that moment, that singularity.

Everybody wants a savior. Everybody wants to believe they are valuable enough to see a hand stretched out at them - even if there is a whip dangling from it.

Monday, August 11, 2008

World Whyed Web



One thing i can confess great gratitude for in relation to this web journal of mine (other than the oft-mentioned therapy i derive from sharing my words with an audience) are the numerous individuals it has led me to meet through their comments and private e-mails. In fact, the interaction actually incents me to remain online, otherwise, long ago, i'd have taken my surliness offline and relegated it back to my paper journals.

My exploration of my sexuality has had a large digital component. Without the readily available portal to the Internet i've been blessed with having, i'm not certain where i'd be with my sexual development. Laying along side my search for information in my nascent discovery of all things kink, i interlaced an interaction with like-minded folks who also were online.

I scoured many sites, but Yahoo! reigned far supreme with its groups, its chatrooms and member directories, which allowed me to encounter a multitude of digital feminine avatars. Whenever i initiated a dialogue with some cyber lass, i always inquired how long she'd known she was submissive. I longed to hear the first instance she learned her kinky proclivities. I wanted to be brought back to the moment she realized a social taboo - being pinned down, being told what to do, a particular scene in a movie - held her in a way nothing else had. Without fail, i drove all conversations in this direction. I would probe them, peer into the shadows that lay between the folds of their personality, searching all for one simple thing.

The why.

I wanted to know why they identified themselves as submissive in order to help me identify why i identified myself as dominant. For the longest time i didn't know why (and i needed to know the why) i assumed the dominant role so immediately and instinctively, and without that knowledge, i found myself suffering out of anxiety and guilt for not coming to peace with my internal demons.

Eventually, i would find other sites (Bondage.com, Alt.com to name a few) that would provide opportunities to meet in person interested submissive girls in a much more direct and quicker fashion than real life afforded. I had a great deal of success through those sites, and i met some amazing females who helped me grow and develop even further - all more evidence for how much i owe the Information Superhighway for much of who i am today.

And here i sit, typing into yet another electronic hook. But, i see my presence here as much as for me as for those with whom it has graced my life. I currently house a profile on a site known as FetLife, which is a fantastic, kink-positive social network community. Like transformher.blogspot, I'm not there to find a play partner but to offer my experience should anyone find what i have to say worthwhile, in hopes i make my own understanding even whyder.

Friday, August 8, 2008

By any other name

What's in a name? Vowels? Consonants? Heritage? Symbolism?

I personally never felt like the name i'd been given ever suited me. I never organically attached to it. When i look in the mirror i don't think i look like a forbearer of the prenomenclature my parents selected for me. Frequently, there will be moments when a companion is staring straight at me, speaking to me, referring to me by my name, and i don't feel like they are directing their words at me - must be someone else they are talking to.

This syndrome has carried itself so far that i have (like the true dominant character i am) adopted a new name (no, not Deity), that i introduce myself to people as (including my girl), sign any correspondence with, and even have on all my official documentation. For this very reason, i recognize the power names can have. As i examined the other day my own reasons for handpicking a different handle than the one my folks felt suited me, i realized a great deal of it came down to sex and my own sexual identity. I associate control with my sexuality. Superficially, i could not survive under a label that i myself did not choose. In fact, every single one of my acquaintances has a nickname i've given them (whether i've told them this or not - it is true), so not only have i taken to choose my own holla, i've chosen the one's for those i know too (i know...).

More importantly, our sexual identities develop independent of our pre-selected names. In fact, our sexualities represent prime real estate that we're able to actually take a first crack at shaping. As i pushed further into my mind to clarify this association between names and sex, i saw that my desires - to dominate a girl; to torture her; to enforce a strict dress and disciplinary code on her - had absolutely, 100% nothing to do with what i was called. During scenes, i made girls refer to me as "Sir" or "Mr. *blank*". Never, not once were they allowed to use my first name.

I know for a fact that when every sensor on my body has been aroused and highly sensitized, i am the furthest point away from feeling an association to my name. I'm not slapping her flesh, sadistically giggling, pushing her limits, fucking my body into her core - someone else is. The me that calls up the bank teller to check my account balance (more name verification), is not the same "me" that has abandoned all custom, all manner and in various ways is patently slamming into the consenting female before me. That me goes by a different title (perhaps Deity - i honestly don't know), but i know that when i'm at that level (depending on your perspective, that high or that low), i have absolutely zero cognizance of the world within i'm typically arranged.

I'm not sure, however, if that reduces the power names have on us, or in fact does the opposite - by avoiding them, i'm acknowledging how powerful names are.

Names are never solitary; never signify just one aspect of a person. Hitchhikers ride off the tail syllables and hide in the accents and nuances of each inflection. Names come with stories. Most come with pasts. ALL of them come with vibrations.

Resonating in every object in the universe, vibrations compile all that we are. A person will grow, they will change. Their features will shift and fluctuate but the signature of the frequency in their name remains the same, marked with the directions for anyone with the right skills to uncover your true identity.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

de ma femme

I've been milling the decision about on how i can get my girl's perspective onto these pages for nearly the entire existence of "The Lustful Quality". Recently, the light bulb illuminated in my head.

"Eureka! I'll give her a writing assignment!"

(Not another assignment - Good God, man, aren't you hard enough on her?)

I know what i think and feel (mostly) when i mummify her. I wanted her to write out how she reacts to it. This will be her first writing assignment for this site. There might be more, there might not be. Rather than her crafting directly onto transformher, for now i'll re-post her writing*. That way i can keep her...

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Under Wraps


Usually the way I know it’s going to happen is because he tells me. As his girl, I wait for his cue, and he’s not shy about giving it. I’ve been mummified a few different ways — sometimes it’s a layer of cling wrap followed by a layer of duct tape, other times it’s gauze bandages — but every time, the medium is his choice. Part of the excitement for me is that I am but a pawn in his game, the base for his sculpture. Were it not for the relationship between us, I might as well be just another girl from a classified ad, but the fact that I’m not changes the nature of the scene.

Cling wrap is typically used in the winter, when it’s already generally cool in the house, but even then we usually have to turn a fan. He often uses the green cling wrap, since it’s one of my favorite colors, but sticks to the plain gray or black duct tape when a more industrial look is preferred. On other occasions, he might not use duct tape at all, and just leave it at green shrink wrap. When the gauze is used by itself, my skin can breathe, and my body becomes a rainbow of bandages. Sometimes my mouth and nose are kept free for breathing (and other things), other times I breathe through a tube. As with everything else, it’s ultimately his choice. When I am his mummy, I am his creation.

For me, this is entirely freeing. I love sleeping, so being forced to remain in one position for a long time and turn my mind inside of itself is both a treat and a relief. At the start of the session there is almost always a period where it takes some time for me to adjust to the fact that I am powerless, but eventually it comes to me that I’m actually powerless all the time. When mummified, I can do nothing but breathe, which is the very least I need to do to survive no matter what the case. The gradual acceptance that so little of my life is in my control is ultimately liberating, although frightening at first. Once I reach that point, my test is one of endurance. How long can I sustain having my legs bent backwards, my arms forced into a reverse prayer? How long can I go without being able to take deep breaths as I please?

Part of my responsibility as the mummified object is to let him know my limits. Boundaries being what they are, sometimes I don’t know where the line is until it is crossed, and that’s another facet of our play together. Throughout a session, he talks to me, checks in on me, and I can indicate my status with grunts that tell him whether I am okay or in need of release. Moreover, my head is usually one of the last things to be wrapped, and so while my body is contorted he asks me how long I think I can last in this position and works from there. This part is really important to me. I may be his subject, his work of art or even his victim, but at the end of the line my needs come first. Similarly, his needs are defined once I’ve named mine, which for my part are determined with his satisfaction in mind. If this sounds confusing, I don’t blame you. Where the wants and needs of two people are in constant flux and communication, that is where you will find the rarest of things--a true partnership of trust. For me, mummification is an expression of this trust, and I hope it is as positive and relaxing for everyone else as it is for me and my man.

*If you'd like to leave a comment for her, please do so. She reads these pages and the comments and loves feedback.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

The Price

The other day, i was chatting on a completely benign subject with a friend of mine who resides on the complete opposite side of the continent from i, when a very vivid image of a scene came into my head. Amidst our amicable catch up, i started writing down the pictures and the narrative that came attached with it, fleshing out characters and actions and speech. What follows is the opening of the story that pronounces the imagery that had slid into my head.

I'm not certain what i'll do with it. I don't know if i'll continue it. I don't know if i'll make it a subscription-only piece of fiction. I have no idea what will happen beyond this post. All i know is that i offer to you, the reader, the opening to what i've come to think of in my head as "The Price".

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During the day, I work in the financial district of Lower Ambourdy. I've managed to amass a good amount of wealth by managing the money of the affluent. These upper crust members of the population acquired this surplus through various ways. Some entrepreneurial, a few through windfalls that brought a sudden cashflow, but most of it inherited. The old money came about through the hard work, the cheating, the conniving, the finagling, and backstabbing of their ancestors - but most importantly on the back's of indentured servants and slaves.

I can make this harsh pronouncement firstly because it's true - I've seen it in person. Secondly, because having my own expanding bank account, I too have relied on the fruits of bondage. Now currently, at the moment, I do not have any chattel in my possession. However, that will change come week's end.

For the past decade, I foreswore myself off the practice of human trafficking, and for many years, I'd been successful at keeping those yearnings at bay. Perhaps the pressure of my career (which is an excuse, I know) leads me to reconsider my prohibition. In actuality, I understand that it is the utter abyss of soullessness that surrounds me at every turn in my vocation - the pursuit of money and nothing else is a carcinogen of the worst form - that I find myself dialing dark numbers, recalling old cryptic passwords I once had set to memory, and making cash withdrawals from my bank in only small bills. I feel the same revulsion at my decision to go this route as I did years past, but I also feel a familiar sublime weightlessness that accompanied the guilt and self-doubt.

Exactly two weeks ago, I acquired in my possession a new charge through contacts I had in the underground market, and assuming her medical examination passes without any alarms, she is to be delivered to my residence by Noon on Sunday. I assigned my sergeant-at-arms with the task of personally conducting the search for the hired girl. In a period of five months, he examined well over 300 females, in different venues scattered about the Sound Staten proper. In regards the one he selected, his report has her as young, early 20's, very quiet and shy, and of exceptional refinement. He said that throughout the entire time he spent scrutinizing her, she only said - actually, yelled - one thing. She didn't demand that he stop his manhandling, or cease his drudgery, instead she insisted with four words.

"PLEASE - KEEP ME PURE!"

I can't imagine what this means, and it has me quite frankly intrigued. Is this creature's purity so precious that in the midst of being sold as an object, she must pronounce its sanctity to the evaluating audience? The urgency in her tone, aroused me, but her apparent acceptance of her fate gave me a deeper fulfillment. I allowed myself to sink back into old habits where each breath I respire has an immediate purpose. That of torment, pain, transformation. Every thought, every daydreaming moment focused on this girl's arrival and my preparation for it. Thankfully, I remembered lessons I'd learned from past experiences that stayed fresh on my mind as I continued to stretch my mental faculties. It's crucial that I avoid learning too much about these girls before they arrive, and I absolutely never ask for their name. Once they enter my chambers, their past becomes a shadow that only they can see.