Appliqué

I assume that those of you who make the trek to TransformHer, do so in part out of an affection for obsession. Witnessing the material that emerges from someone's obsession is one of my all time pursuits. I adore the poets who are so fixated upon a single word that they use it in numerous poems, re-use it, repeat it, dissect it, and string it together in an endless train of circuitous discovery (see Gertrude Stein's exposition on 'full', 'exactly' and 'he').

One of my biggest thrills when i first moved to my adopted hometown was the regular trip to the Guggenheim Museum where the most comprehensive collection of Kandinsky art exists. My initial encounter with Wassily's art had me react with revolt at the possibility that someone might've plagiarized my own drawings. I wasn't aware of the time period this man had created his artistic embellishments, so my hubris allowed me to believe my own geometric sketches wherein i explored, expunged and evaporated the circular shape had been completely original. Learning that he'd trotted out his own obsession with the curvaceous geometry nearly 100 years before me not only put my mind at ease, but a distant connection with a foreign, long-passed stranger developed in my heart, so that when i first was able to see his work hanging in the gorgeous air of the Guggenheim, i reached out to it, as if it were the output of a dearly departed friend.

To say that i've been obsessed with the ballet boots i purchased for my girl would be as tame as saying that the Sun is a moderate lighting device. No fewer than 10 times daily, since we've received them, do they enter into my mind. The images of them that i took to post to these pages still sit on my mobile, and as if they were pictures from a nursery, i visit my "babies" regularly throughout the day. As in the past, when i've acquired new kinky accoutrements, i remain wary of "blowing my load" prematurely by too frequently implementing the latest device in my toy chest. Truth be told, this is an academic understanding. Inwardly, i don't care one bit.

The first evening we had them, i made my girl give them an impromptu try. It was scintillating fun watching her slide her naked foot into these black, shiny stallions. I remember that i placed myself on the far end of the couch, restraining myself from grabbing onto her left leg and jerking the other pair on hastily. She could hardly stand in them (which wasn't a surprise), but that didn't matter. They immediately changed the way she looked, the way she thought of her legs, the way i thought of her. In ballet boots, especially knee-high, you cannot look normal. You don't even resemble a human. You've left the terrestrial species once your toes serve as your only contact with the ground. Gushes of erotic energy flooded into my body. So much that even after i'd expended multiple volts of it by fucking her naked-all-but-the-boots body, i buzzed for hours afterward.

As days passed, i fantasized about the boots, me putting them on her, my girl wearing them around, as well as the numerous torments i'd put her through as she did. Outwardly, i tried to appear indifferent to this footwear, referencing them only occasionally in conversation with my girl - i didn't want to acknowledge the realistic hold they had over me. However, on the inside, i felt strangely subservient to them. It was almost as if i was no longer in control.

And then another Friday came upon us. It was time for some form of correction. The long week had ended and we had both earned this playful moment. In my mind, i conjured up numerous scenarios for us, purposely trying to avoid the bullying presence of those delectable shoes. I wrestled with their influence for awhile before finally relenting. After all their insistence, they would hold a central role in the evening's events. In greeting my girl at the entrance of our apartment, i asked her for her preference.

"Which would you prefer: swats or rope?"

This game, like all of them with her, was rigged. I knew that neither one posed the most pleasing of experiences for her, but even as she pondered her plight, she definitely did not detect the ace i hid in my hand. At the opportune time, i would slap this on the table.

"Swats."

I sent her to the bedroom to strip. I viewed the time that existed between this moment and the point in which i would grab the long white box from atop her armoir as if it were a decadent wish about to come true. Long ago, she had grown accustomed to my desire to keep her on her toes. Only now, the literal aspect of this fully realized volition presented itself as an interminable possibility.

I retrieved the boots from their case, and handed them to my naked girl. Without skipping a beat, she carefully tugged them onto her feet. I helped her upward and aided her promenade to the end of the bed. She grasped the black iron of the footboard with more industry than she normally did.

"Point it out."

God, what a site. Her delicious, pale skin pouring over her round cheeks and hips, collecting in the dark, sinister chalice of these boots. Her ass suspended in the air with an agility not typically viewed - i suspected it had to do with the extreme angle of her toes and calves. I viewed her from all angles, marveling at an image of something i'd lusted over only in the professional photographs of others. Because of my salivating lust, her backside received a sensational beating, however, due to the air in the chamber sizzling with arousal, she took each blow with esteem. Uncustomarily, i shortened the duration of her spanking, only because i couldn't hold out any longer.

I positioned her in the bed on all fours. The stiletto of the heels pointed at my swollen erection, but before i mounted her, i stopped short and did something i've never done before. A compulsion welled up inside of me, a need to worship her boots. I bent down and with as much passion as if i were embracing my girl, i kissed and licked the shiny, patent leather encasing her legs. My eyes closed for a moment as i did this, opening them again only to continue on with my dream.