Sunday, September 28, 2008
I'm a huge fan of 'cloud tags', as evidence by my 'Lures' in the right sidebar. I was able to take my current slate of entries and parse them through Wordle's services, creating the above word cloud. The larger the word, the greater instance of its occurrence in the posts that appear on my homepage.
With that said, i'm particularly proud of the most prominent and largest term featured on "transformher.blogspot":
Makes me proud. Check it out, and have fun making clouds from your own favorite sites.
**I would not be embarrassed if those of you out there chose one of your favorite "Lustful Demise" posts and made a wordle cloud out of it (and sharing it with me discreetly, should you prefer). I'd like to see the visualization, but i'd also like to know which posts you kind folks respond to the most.**
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I stood at the end of the bed, looking at each post, then studying the steel scrollwork that formed the footboard. I spread my legs as far as i could, until each foot rested against the bed's supporting trestle. I gathered my bearings, feeling how much balance i'd lost from when i was just standing straight up. I examined the thick, black railing that travelled between the two posts. I rested my wrists on it, spreading them as far out as i could.
More. I'd need more.
I leaned my torso forward so that my arms could lie against the railing. I noticed the arch in my back in this position.
More. I'd want more.
I folded my top half fully over the bar, pressing the center of my chest into it. This brought my entirety of both arms in contact with the rail, even my armpit rested on it, but more importantly, it caused an extreme, even taxing arch of the back. My butt peaked into the air like a mountain ridge - impassable, unavoidable, intense.
I'd found my posture.
She emerged from the shower, glistening with freshness. Truthfully, i adore every inch of my girl, but my favorite moments to put my hands and mouth on and in every crevice and cavity is right after she's bathed.
"Darling, are you gon-"
I interrupted her by grabbing her by the wrist and directed her to the bathroom. She followed silently, accepting of the transaction about to take place. I pressed her body into the bed's end and asked her to let me know if she should grow cold. I then set to work.
Feverishly, i grabbed a coil of jute, positioned her right ankle to the same spot my own was in modeling this posture. I quickly anchored her foot to the bed, traveling up her leg, attaching every twelve inches or so the rest of her thigh to the bed's frame. I switched to her other leg, and mirrored my rigging. I specifically pulled the rope that ran just under her ass cheeks on both sides particularly tight for three reasons:
-this cradle would provide an inordinate amount of support and security to her, allowing her to lean back in the bondage
-it pinched the meat of her ass, causing it to bubble out and protrude in a cartoon-like fashion
-it would trap more blood in the sub-cutaneous levels, resulting in dramatically-enhanced markings from the cane
I fashioned her arms to the railing with as much greediness as i had enjoyed on her legs. In fact, several times, i had to pause and re-adjust the sizable erection straining upward in the crotch of my pants. When i was finished, she sat there completely immobilized. Her naked flesh angrily conversed with the rope that bound it to the steel bedframe. It was an inviting picture, her body hung like captured prey in my trap, juxtaposed by the very furniture she and i sought for re-energizing and slumber. It reminded me of the a rhyme from my childhood days:
- Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,
- When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
- When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
- And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Monday, September 22, 2008
When i strike her exposed behind, the bludgeoning is not the end of the dialogue for me. I seek her response. I'm not poking and prodding a lifeless doll. Her pleas for clemency are the fruits i seek to feast upon. Her appeals for leniency give me the sustenance i require. She knows i'll listen, but what makes me grin wickedly is that she knows that's all i'll do. Now the question that should be carefully handled is does this man who calls himself 'Deity' like any and all torture?
I've collected a large number of SM videos wherein there are many scenes with a girl getting tortured and screaming bloody murder out to the heavens, and for the most part, this does absolutely nothing for me. On the intellectual side, i'd like to think that speaks to how little misogyny plays into my sexuality. On the emotional side, i know precisely why it doesn't excite me. What i need is a relationship between the 'victim' and the 'torturer'. Simply seeing a girl withstand lashing after lashing across her back does nothing for me. Now, if you were to provide some narrative details that reveals the level of intimacy between the two parties, then it would suddenly become interesting. What excites me is understanding the amount of submission and sacrifice the girl is offering. Watching two complete strangers engage in corporal punishment will never arouse my interest.
This reminds me of a public flogging me and my girl witnessed at a local play party a few years back. It was a thing of utter beauty. The setting for this event was a loft converted into a multi-chambered torture vault. This allowed many voyeurs to scuttle along the hallways and peek their heads into different rooms where scenes of various nature (medical play, water play, knife play, etc.) could be viewed. I'd brought my girl, at an early point in our relationship, as way of giving her her first public spanking. Being as gorgeous a creature as she is, she received the grand share of interest of most any girl in attendance, except for one named 'lacey' who we found bound, nude to a St. Andrew's cross in an all candle-lit room. Being so packed with gawkers, it truly was standing room only. We found a place that had my girl and i only a few feet from lacey's naked backside.
She was blindfolded, wrists and ankles bound by leather shackles to the wooden frame. Not a single stitch of clothing, she hung there, waiting. For what, none of us really knew. Then suddenly, a man entered the room, black button-down, black jeans, black boots, in his hand a sheath that held multiple rattan canes. Without seeing him or hearing his voice, somehow lacey sensed it was "Him". Her body tensed. Her posture improved. Her buttocks pointed out with intense supplication. Over the next 40 minutes, me and my girl would bear witness to eight different canes being broken over lacey's backside, accompanied by her marvelous masochistic expletives. The colors of the streaks across lacey's flesh, held up by the swollen welts that gave her torment raised dimension were stunning and beautiful, but they were not the most admirable object on display that evening. The relationship that lacey had with her Top, the intimacy she invited us to witness, and the gift of seeing her torment (as it was quite clear that she was not just suffering for "him" but for all of us in the room) touched me for many, many days.
When i force pain upon my girl and make her endure it, the end result isn't that she's simply taken it, but rather we've explored, together, another dimension of our relationship. I adore her when she wakes in the morning, hair all mussed by her trip to beddy-by, and it's that which i value as i strip her of her personality and flog her beautiful ass until she pleads with me to stop. That she puts herself in that position, that she puts her limitless intelligence and emotional aptitude in my hands to suspend for the duration of our disciplinary scene is a strange way of achieving intimacy, but what i understand is that its her struggle, her sacrifice, her surrender to me that ultimately satisfies my sadistic bent. Pure pain doesn't capture me, but rather sacrifice and humility.
Friday, September 19, 2008
I am an unabashed fan of this site, and i have mentioned it and my affection for long, fake fingernails a few times before. It took me awhile to admit this to myself, let alone anyone else. I remember doing so for the first time on this portal and still feeling a little vulnerable about declaring my love for these freakishly long unguils. But, i've found myself going to OurNails.com so frequently these past few days, that i cannot hold in my love for it. I invite others to travel over there and see the beautiful models they've assembled.
In looking for more OurNails girls online, i've found a TROVE of replicated digitized doubles that will serve as the body of my ode to them. Without further ado:
Ode to OurNails.com
Here's to them having their own YouTube channel.
Here's to them letting Cassandra pop balloons on vuze.com.
Hip-hip hooray to their MySpace page!
And let us raise a glass to the slideshow that landed me the caketopper to this post (yes, i've watched it easily over 10 times).
Thank you, OurNails. You nails it every time.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
"I wished i'd lived during the 1940's and 50's"
The music of that era - jazz, dance hall, rockabilly, surf music - occupies my record (yes, records - actual records) shelf. The only channels i tend to regularly watch on the tube are two whose exclusive programming overflows exclusively with classic movies (black and white, even). I dress in a fashion that yearns for natty haberdasheries. I dictate that my girl follows suit, always dressed in skirts and always dressed like a lady. Even the pornography that emerged from this gilded era strikes my interest more than the mainstream drivel of today (gratuitous blowjob, intercourse, money shot - cut and print).
I'd like to offer a correction to a statement made earlier in this post. Until recently, i only watched classic movies and the occasional sports broadcast on TV. But then i discovered AMC's show "Mad Men".
Here was an exhibition on the very time period and aesthetic i myself try to recreate on a daily basis, from the way people dressed to the social outlets commonly pursued. I've spent a good amount of money and time attempting to recreate the social spoils that this show, week after week, accomplished. However, as i devoured each rich episode, i came to realize that there was a reason why this show has the impact it has now, and why this era quietly died down.
Developing my own dedicated following of a TV show once again, of a period that no longer exists, i came to understand the fruitful explanations as to why time - and history - have progressed. While i applaud the costuming of the show, while i proudly proclaim the adherence to strict feminine/masculine restrictive definitions addressed by this teleplay, i'm struck by the pride i have over the progress we as a society have made since the late 1950's, early 1960's. No longer do we automatically accept the ill treatment of women as meat and targets of our office-related swats to the tush and sex-denigrating comments. Instead, i can embrace the well-weathered facts that now, should a woman decide to dress and act as they do in this show, they do so by choice. It is their hard-earned right to don clothes of pure, classic feminine beauty, rather than it being the norm.
This to me helps me advance my own sense of alienation that i was born in the wrong era, because i'm able to embrace the social structures that have been appropriately questioned, negotiated and established. Now, i'm free to watch a show like this, link it to my own life, and comfortably stand back as the modern era flexes its all-too-little-used muscle that says women have not only a right but a privilege to constantly express themselves in our social dialogue.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
It's just her hands, and her upper thighs.
The rest diminished, erased, leaving you wanting, drawing with your mental graphite the rest, how you want it to look, act, respond.
It's the absence of those other parts that starts to drive you mad. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your nostrils flare, until suddenly the civility you use as your mask has come off.
It lies there on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. You will return to it, eventually, but only once you've finished with her.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"Well, it was okay, but i think there was something wrong with the hummus i bought."
"So, what did you do?"
"I ate the rest, unhappily."
I'd left her alone to tend to herself one evening, while i was out with a friend. This already sounds like my girl is incapable of autonomy, and quite frankly, that is categorically untrue. For many years, she managed her own life, finances, her wardrobe more successfully than most young ladies her age. The level of responsibility she demonstrated shames most folks 20 years her senior.
"You did what?!?"
Her posture drooped. Her face turned from me.
"Go get it out of the fridge." Fetching the leftovers of the pasty garbanzo dip, she handed the container to me. I could tell just by the bulge of the lid that the internal contents were rotten. An acrid hiss sprayed into the air as i lifted the lid, mirroring her diminishing confidence in her decision to soldier through with the slop the night before.
Rather than bore the reader with the seven bars of conversation wherein i demand in demonic perplexities why she would allow herself to eat spoiled food instead of lifting herself off of her keister and marching to the befouling store, i'll fast forward to the lesson learned.
The lesson, that is, that i learned.
She is my girl. My responsibility. Her safety, comfort, behavior, appearance are my responsibility. As mentioned earlier, this is not because she is incapable of handling these responsibilities, but because we have both found that we want this arrangement. I think of my girl as one of the most intelligent individuals i know, and for her to willingly grant me the gift of marshaling over her speaks not only of her trust in me, but her intellectual acuity. However, what i said, and more importantly, how i said it, made her feel stupid.
Instead of feeling corrected, informed, she felt incapable, inept and imbecilic. I did not practice any restraint on my tone or my irritation. I let it fall freely into the air and obtusely onto her chest. It is never my intention to make her feel stupid. That is errantly irresponsible, and not worthy of the very responsibility she delicately places into my hand, everyday, as we walk together to our respective day jobs.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
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 #146? Submit a link to your best post of the weekby emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
“They couldn’t understand what the appeal of a civil union was for us.”
“He turned around to kiss me and I melted.”
“The excitement is too much for both of us”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
You Can???t Make This Shit Up, Part 2
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)BDSM & Fetish
A knock on his bureau door, tore him away from the file in his hand he'd been aimlessly studying.
"Uhm, everything is as you asked," said the male voice on the other side of the closed door.
"Ahhh, yes. Good. Excellent."
The unseen person's footsteps sounded off their departure down the hallway that extended from his private den. Almost with a sense of gratitude for the interruption, he closed the manila folder, sliding it onto his desk. He stared intensely at a spot on the wall just beyond the oak appointment, while his fingers drummed out the patter of calculation. He'd nearly forgotten about these arrangements as their reminder came as a pleasant surprise.
He lifted himself from his chaise and stepped into the corridor. As he strode down the long, empty lane, with each step, he ran his fingers along the textured surface of the wall. Turning into the downward stairwell, he placed his weight on the top step, then flicked the switch just to the right of his shoulder. The quiet cellar beneath him illuminated with a dim, yellow glow. Cool air accompanied the silence as his escort for his descent.
A thin, dripping sound greeted his arrival to the cellar. As he gathered his bearings, his eyes fell upon the door marked "Arrivals", just opposite the landing of the stairs. He approached the door, and slid open the eye-level wooden hatch. Peering inside, he saw her.
Curled up in a ball, squinting up at the intrusion of sudden light.
She'd turned, at the sound from the hatch opening, toward the thick wooden entrance, but as he had designed it, the imposing, luminating fixture aloft kept her from seeing anything of real recognition through the momentary slot in the door. He quickly sliced the panel shut.
Just to the right of the entrance to the cell, on top of a flimsy metal stand sat the interned inhabitant's nighttime meal. As instructed, he noticed a complete lack of utensils accompanying the tray of warm morsels. Lifting the coiled leather whip hanging from the wall, he grabbed a hold of the modest meal, and undid the latch to the door.
Pulling the loaded portal open, he stepped foot into the small prison. His presense - his warmth, his commotion, his smell - caused the collapsed girl to shrivel even more into her epidermal ball.
He didn't wait for nor expect a response.
He paced about the room, tray in one hand, leather flogger in the other, looking for a suitable place to rest her food. He settled for putting it right in front of her, on the cold concrete floor. The figure before him moved not a single inch.
"I'm not sure you understand what is to happen to you. As it has been told to me, you gave your full consent. However, i've come to learn, that isn't ever something the gift-giver completely grasps."
He crouched down to one knee, lowering himself so that his face hung just above her arm-covered head.
"Look at me." He spoke with a complete absence of urgency or contempt. She pulled her head out of the nest of her arms, and gave him a first-time view of her stunning, chestnut brown eyes.
"I've heard you are refusing to eat. That can't continue," on this command, she looked down at the aluminum tray of food at her feet. "I must apologize for the lack of proper utensils."
He took the butt of the whip's handle, and dug it into the scoop of beans occupying the upper right quadrant. Lifting this upward to her mouth, he held it in front of her face. Gradually, she opened it, allowing him to slowly place the thick, leather stave inside. With the smallest of movements, she cleaned the sweet, briny beans from the handle.
He laid the whip over the tray, and stood back up. He brushed his hand over her head, feeling the warmth exuding from her crown, then stepped towards the open door.
"I expect to hear that you've finished all of that."
Thursday, September 4, 2008
by John Donne
I NEVER stoop'd so low, as they
Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey ;
Seldom to them which soar no higher
Than virtue, or the mind to admire.
For sense and understanding may
Know what gives fuel to their fire ;
My love, though silly, is more brave ;
For may I miss, whene'er I crave,
If I know yet what I would have.
If that be simply perfectest,
Which can by no way be express'd
But negatives, my love is so.
To all, which all love, I say no.
If any who deciphers best,
What we know not—ourselves—can know,
Let him teach me that nothing. This
As yet my ease and comfort is,
Though I speed not, I cannot miss.
Monday, September 1, 2008
I told her to remove all of her clothing, to place foam earplugs into her ears, and come into the den. I put on some music which i knew would throw her off. Even though the plugs would dampen what sound she heard, she'd still be able to hear when i spoke to her. When she came into my den, she showed a bit of defiance by leaving her house slippers on.
"Take those off!"
"Oh...", was all she simply said. Instantly, we simultaneously reacted to the use of the earplugs by using few, if any, words. This continued throughout the arrangement. I produced her black, leather posture collar, and instead of telling her to hold onto the front as i laced up the back, i grabbed her hand and placed it on her throat. I lifted her other hand onto her ebony hair gathered into a mound atop her head. I positioned her in front of the full-length mirror, and laced up the neck corset rigidly tight. I like to have her looking at herself in the mirror, to watch her slow transformation from dignified lady with ample autonomy to my submissive plaything. But even then, this drew up more of her defiant posture. I pointed at the mirror, to indicate that she stay focused on her image in it, and instead of simply abiding this direction, she widened her eyes as if to say: Yeah! I get it!
Much, much to be addressed, i could see. I pulled her body to right beneath the black bar spanning my doorframe. Instead of lassoing her hands together like before, i individually bound each to the horizontal bar with its own coil of jute. Satisfied that should she see fit to try to wiggle out of the binding (more defiance), i proceeded to the next stage.
Taking another coil, i ran the bitter ends through the o-rings attached on both sides of the collar, wrapped this around the front of her neck, pulling the two lengths over her mouth. Even with the presence of the rope right at her lips, the petulant girl needed illustration by my own mouth what she was to do. Opening her lips, i drafted the rope tightly through them and continued around to the back of her head. Following the high line of the corset, i criss-crossed the rope again, and pulled it sternly over her eyes, wrapping it several times to ensure her vision was impaired. I knew i'd tugged it tight, and could see that it would tax her. I wanted more. She deserved more. I knew that this whole episode would reach a point that had her in that realm where she wasn't enjoying the predicament. Put simply: i wasn't doing it for her enjoyment.
Not completely satisfied with her immobility, i took one more coil of jute and at her elevated elbows, began another wrap, which would be led over her face, at her eyes. In the empty spaces between her extended arms and her rigidly held head, i slowly coiled the rope, effectively vicing her head to her static arms. Any movements she should make while being flogged would be commuted to her entire upper torso, thus reducing any potential movement. Sighing with satisfaction, i proceeded.
Awhile back, rummaging through some old possessions in storage, i came across a mini replica wooden hockey stick that i used to play with all the time as a kid. I knew immediately when my hand found its 18 inch trunk, that i had to add it to my arsenal. It goes without saying that i enjoyed the perversity of me using a toy from my childhood to corporally punish my girl. And boy, can that thing smack!
I flailed on her backside with great force, as she cried out through the rope gag. I would jerk her body back into position, only to beat the ivory flesh of her buttocks again. Repeatedly, i pounded the flat, wooden blade on her ass, on her thighs, in between her legs, and each time, she disobediently twisted away from me. I told her that should she wish this to stop, that she might want to find a way to hold as still as she could. No matter how much i slapped with the stick, her stubbornness saw fit to remain as high as her hands above her head. I decided to take much more drastic measures.
My girl (and don't tell anybody) is incredibly, and i mean incredibly with an emphasis on the "incredible" part, ticklish. All up and down her entire body. Usually, just to be playful, i will tickle her sides to get her to squirm and giggle, but i rarely do so in a scene. It can be quite torture for her to have to endure a tickling barrage and not be able to squirm away. I started slowly, drawing the tip of the stick's handle gracefully up and down her vulnerable naked sides. She immediately sensed my motives and began to plead very vocally through the rope that i desist (doesn't she know that's precisely what i want to hear?). In response, i poked the stick into her sides, to which she writhed, leaning as far away from me as her aloft binds would allow. And then the deluge burst upon her.
Without any remorse i attacked her sides with the stick, arousing tormented guffaws from this naked bound creature's mouth. I stopped suddenly, allowing her to get her bearings, only to slap her rotund cheeks viciously with the blade. I cycled like this between the two tortures for a minute or so. During a lull, whilst gathering her breath, i heard her say something through the ropes, but i couldn't make it out exactly.
"You aw in ath ho."
"Did you just call me an asshole?"
"It's not the smartest thing to call the person who tied you to a pole and has a wooden weapon in his hand an 'asshole'."
"I dow keh."
"We'll see. Pick a number."
"Pick a real number."
Thirteen it was.