Concealer

I have a colleague at my office who has, gradually over time, gained knowledge of my kinky side. Whether it's from his occasional strolls into my den where he'll catch me gazing at a glossy image of some ball-gagged and bound gal in shiny black latex or he'll remark about my grasp of sexual slang like "Cleveland steamer" or "going Commando". When he sees the image blazing up to his eyes from my screen, he wants to see more, but i know better. I always decline his requests because i know that what i possess on my computer is considerably more perverse than a glossed-up rubber doll, and two things will happen should i take him down my rabbit hole.

The first being that it will shock him, similar to coaxing someone, who has never experienced it, to leap into the ocean in the dead cold of winter. It will attack their system. I've learned that in order to really allow someone to have a substantially beneficial experience with SM, you must gradually, slowly introduce them to the concept and its practice. Otherwise, flashing him a bunch of material would merely serve to startle him which is not at all interesting to me. It's bad enough that he thinks to send me every bizarre news story about some dominatrix arrested in Boca Raton, or makes a whipping reference ("we need to really whip them into action...") during a meeting and looks directly at me as if i should appreciate it. I don't really want to be someone's kink ambassador, let alone this guy who succinctly gets on my nerves more than anyone else in the workplace.

The second , and much more serious thing that would occur would be the potential loss of anonymity. I hold a place in my industry and my community that should my authorship of "The Lustful Quality..." be found out, my life would be dramatically affected. In fact, i had a recent scare where i was certain that someone at work had sniffed me out. I monitor, fairly regularly, the tracking software i initially installed on this site. One morning i came across the footprint of someone who had accessed this journal from the very same work IP address and domain that i use. Immediately, i thought it was the aforementioned irritating gentleman. I got very afraid. I printed out the web page of evidence, and then carefully stalked around my high-rise office floor, fully anticipating that at any minute some colleague would come up to me and offer me their sarcastic greeting:

"Hi, Deity."

For the record, it never happened. I can't explain how the tracking system indicated that some underling had landed on transformher.blogspot, but it brought up a larger point that i never forget, but sometimes don't address as much as i should.

I've been writing in this space for over a year now (yes, i recently, discreetly celebrated my one year anniversary) and while i'm mighty proud of the interaction, the community and the somewhat mildly heralded niche i've carved out in the land of kinky web journalists, i cannot for sake of my own longevity, share this with those in my everyday life. Basically, i hide beneath the cloak of a theistic honorific in order to explore what is essentially a prime component of my base material, but because we live in the society that we do, i must conceal this quotient of mine. Recent happenings in the UK offers further reason why those of us who regularly practice SM are not safe.

If you haven't heard about these developments, the usually forward thinking folks of the United Kingdom are on the precipice of vaguely outlawing any pornography that features bondage or, especially, corporal punishment (i.e. spanking and flogging). This saddens me on a personal level, because i believe that it is a drastic, albeit perhaps too late, response to some tragic events that happened which were loosely connected to the exploration of SM. On a larger level, it frightens me. It offers further reminders of the intolerant and misunderstanding world i live in, but more importantly, from which i must hide a certain significant part of myself.

Conjectural relations

Visiting family for the holidays does not in any way feel sexy or erotic. In fact, in many ways it sucks any urges i may have to indulge in my sexual needs. When i travel back home, i use the downtime that comes from driving from one widely spaced-out relative to another as a way to decompress from the often stressful experience spending time with the relations provides. Typically, i manage to pack in well over a dozen individual visits with a different person on my holiday sojourn, sometimes seeing a handful of people in one day (i have a humongous family and many old friends). Over the past few years, i've brought my girl along with me which has introduced variables i hadn't fully anticipated.

Most commonly, we stay at someone's house, sleeping in guest rooms, bedrooms of children momentarily discharged on our behalf, or even couches. Even though there are moments of arousal as we lie together in our temporary sleeping quarters, we do not dare act on them out of propriety and respect for our host.

To remedy this urge to consummate, i have taken the initiative to declare one evening out of our stay of pure solitude for me and my girl. We stay at a secluded lodge tucked away in the mountains. The bed and breakfast we escape to is a completely self-contained cabin that offers us total privacy. To me, this option serves as such a relief, as it permits a much needed outlet of stress and anxiety these visits with family always wallop me with. In preparation, i'll pack a TSA-alerting assortment of toys and equipment (without fail, every time we open our bag we find a little "how do ya do") that allows us to have a decent but modest play session, invariably replete with some much needed spanking.

Another variable involves how my kin reacts to us. I grow so accustomed to the way in which my relationship with my girl functions that i tend to overlook how it appears to others. Where i live, we have established such a comfortable niche that few interruptions to our sexual agenda present themselves. However, my family and hometown friends do not regularly see a corseted girl who wears nothing but skirts and dresses in the chill of winter or has inch-long artificial nails dangling from each of her fingertips. In this way, to these incredibly vanilla people, my girl comes off a little out of place.

I'm always struck by how much defensiveness i feel whenever a relative makes a comment about how odd her extremely hour-glassed waist appears or when their eyes grow big at the first sight of her manicured talons thrashing through the air as she gestures with her hands while relating some entertaining story of hers. I know that in the worst-case scenario they judge her, which always riles me up. I see these few disparagements as a rejection of our lifestyle, of someone i deeply love and, ultimately, me. Thankfully, these altercations are few, as most of my family members remain politely uncertain as to why someone would choose to "limit" themselves this way. My close family has grown accustomed to my girl's appearance and the occasional times i act in a dominant fashion towards her. A few have even inquired further, indulging in natural curiosities such oddities arouse, which have led to some gentle but eye opening discussions about power exchange. I value these opportunities to chat about SM with a selected set of family members because it allows me to be myself around them, more and more, but also gives me a thrill that i may provide insight into a way of life they themselves would enjoy. I can't be the only sadistic nut hanging from our family tree.

Dom-i-Nation

When our schedules allow, we meet once a month, usually over a meal like two predators. On the surface, our appearance assumes that of two urban men who have commuted back to their neighborhood from work and are now relaxing by patronizing a local eatery. We do not have bags containing coils of rope, a collection of shackles, clamps or gags sitting at our feet, nor are there whips hanging from our belts. To look at us, you would never guess that our sexual proclivities involved the sado-masochistic actions we project onto our female partners nor that these activities made up the bulk of our discussions when we commune monthly. Luckily, our waitresses have not been in range to hear such words as "knifeplay", "breath control", "Shibari", or "nooses" to arouse suspicion.

I lose track of time when i meet with my dominant friend K. We could've just sat down, and in a flash, we will have digested three hours. One explanation for this comes from how engrossing our discussions tend to be. I have a limited number of people in my life i can stretch out a palaver over the issues arising in a power exchange. From our first conversation, i felt like i was swimming in an endless stream of water. On occasion, i needed to stick my head above the surface to breathe, otherwise, i was practicing a new form of respiration - fully submerged - one that i had not had the opportunity to try before. Most of my vanilla friends have no clue as to my sexuality, and those that do, treat it like something they'd wished never to gain more than the small inkling they possess. This has led me to filling up hundreds of notebooks with stories, fantasies, doubts, questions and one-sided dialogues in order to express the deep-seeded wellings of my psychology. With K, i not only gain the opportunity to receive experience-derived feedback, but i learn about an entirely different experience and approach to SM. And yet, there is much common ground between us, which makes our dialogue even more fulfilling.

We've recently turned our discussion to negotiating an evening of us together with our partners. I proposed the idea to K first, and him being the AMAZING sport that he is, accepted the offer. Since my girl reads this journal from time to time, i won't go into detail about what K and i have decided upon (i won't even apply the "my girl" label as i know she insists on reading those posts specifically). The negotiations themselves have been a learning process for me, bringing up all sorts of questions and uncertainties that i hadn't expected. Luckily, K has been more than forthcoming in letting me express these and respond with sincerity and understanding.

I suspect the girls (who also meet together, on their own) do not look upon these gatherings of two tops as being completely beneficial to their well-being. It's sort of tantamount to two super-powers gathering for a summit and exchanging methods (i.e. pillaging, plundering, raping) they use to carve up little nations in order to exploit their natural resources. But as K i'm sure would assert, we come in peace.

Egalité

I find some of my most productive discussions with my girl regarding our power exchange tend to occur during our morning routine of breakfast. It could be that we've had nothing of the real world actively pressing on us for the duration of our slumber, thus freeing our minds to comfortably explore the topic. It could be the soft light of the morning that spills into our dining foyer that eases the conversation along, like the first incubating warmth of a mother hen as she sits on her darling little eggs. Or perhaps it's the act of breaking our fast, the comfort of being once again part of the collective waking that happens around this city - all over a cup of coffee and some toast.

Whatever factors play into this phenomenon, i look forward to the real progress her and i tend to make during these conversations. A few weeks back, a discussion that has often come up, dribbled back into the porous but sound foundation of our power exchange. We'd prattled in a playful way about how corset season was rapidly approaching. The weather was slowly releasing its grip on its romance with the tropics, giving way to a crisper peel in the air, and i had indicated that it was starting to be time where she would need to lace everyday. She objected, citing the still high level of humidity, which despite the air temperature, makes binding a thick corset around one's mid-section akin to a localized trip to the tropics. I chided her, asking where my resilient girl had gone and who was this easily discouraged creature in her place. She rebutted my efforts at cajolery with a simple oral intake of her upper lip, sucking on it between her teeth.

Now, as the dominant, it is my job (one of many) to push, challenge, and expand the frontiers of our intimate connection. I have many tools i can use to perform this role. But, this is not a simple-minded role, one made without reflection, study or observation. I'm not merely pushing a round stone to the edge of an embankment, searching for that final point right before it tilts its weight into a freefall below. A thousand factors differentiate my girl from a boulder. I must account for these, or risk pushing too far by simply being an ass.

"You know, Cathie Jung laces every day."

She looked at me, with her chin on the back of her hand, blinking one long drawn out shutter of her eyes. I saw i hadn't been effective. Further, i had to push further.

"I've no doubt that Dita would tough it out."

I didn't even need to check to see if my attempt had successfully motivated her. I could tell by the sensation of daggers at my throat that came from her icy stare what she thought of that remark. I looked anyway. Yep, i'd gone too far.

My girl is incredibly competitive, insisting on many avenues at being the best and most accomplished. Parading into our discussion two icons in the field of tightlacing who have the resources and daily accoutrements to comfortably tackle their goal squeezed the last bit of playfulness out of our exchange. I saw what i'd done. But, i hadn't anticipated the turn the dialogue would take.

She remained in her seat, but i could tell that only her body was present. Her mind had lifted her torso up and walked into the other room out of pride. The specter of silence hovered in the air above us, holding still all objects that would seem to move autonomously on their own: the sunbeams arching in through the window, the hands of the wall clock hanging in the living room. I asked her for her thoughts.

"Why do you insist on us being unequal?"

Excuse me? I had expected a complaint about my stubborn views regarding her intolerance of a swampy torso, but this was deeper than i had even envisioned. But, immediately, i saw what she was after. In absorbing my egotistical push for as much as i could get, she'd found herself examining what she felt was a disparity in our exchange. I ask, i shove, i demand...where does she ever get to exact this same toll?

This theme has come up many times in my life. They will struggle with the unending give they are asked for, seeing the direction in the vector that passes between us, and perceive that it is only one way. I've discussed this with my girl many times, when she encounters concerns that her behavior indicates weakness, and even ineptitude. Because this is not a new topic, testing the quality of our power exchange, i employ a tactic not previously considered.

"Do you want a cock?"

"A what?"

"A cock."

I'm not asking her if she craves the sensation of her various orifices filled with my male anatomy. I'm asking if she wants a large penetrating member hanging down between her legs instead of the beautiful petals that blossom there now.

"No. Of course not."

"Then why ask for equality?"

I say this with two things in mind. The first being that equality, as it is being defined here, is largely impossible. Secondly, why is equality so important?

I'll address the first notion, that equality cannot fit in a power exchange, and i'll do so by examining the pure physicality of this arrangement. I have often seen my manifestation in this exchange as the plug, and she as the outlet. I implant my prongs into her slots, and she provides the energy that powers our mechanism. What is equal about that? Without her, the flow never initiates, yet it cannot occur without me penetrating her, somehow, some way. What goes often overlooked is the natural anatomy (and what in the early days of my venture into SM that had me convinced that all girls are submissive) that exists between the two of us. In order for us to copulate, i must enter her, she must accept me, take me in. Regardless of how you choose to look at this, equality can never be established. Which leads me to my second point.

What is so great about equality? Simply, i choose to treat my girl whenever i can. I never look for her to catch up with me. Whenever we are out on a shopping venture (not as common an activity as it may seem), i can assure you that 80% or more of that is dedicated to perfecting her wardrobe or getting something that either one or both of us are obsessed with her having.

I understand what her message is. She struggles sometimes with the notion that her whole life she has chosen for herself how to live, look and act and now finds herself in a situation where a large percentage of that is decided for her. She sometimes feels guilty that she is betraying the morals and standards she feels she was raised with, and other times experiences remorse that she's able to live a life she'd always fantasized about.

For me, i'm too busy enjoying myself to really evaluate who is ahead and who is behind.

Entrapment

In the climax of Sam Raimi's first Spiderman installment, we find our hero hanging from the 59th Street bridge in New York City faced with an incredibly mortifying decision. In his outstretched arm hangs the severed tramway cable that the arch-villain has cut, putting at risk the lives of the school children who are shrieking in fear within the dangling car. Back in the arch-villain's hand hovering overhead, the hero's fair maiden who he has secretly loved his entire, modest and chivalrous young life, screams for his aid - the evil menace threatens to drop her hundreds of feet into the rushing river below. The hero must make a choice: the lives of the children or the life of his muse.

I adore this conflict. Simply adore it, although, i'd replace the children with dozens of young golden lab puppies just to turn the screw a little more. My reaction to this scene follows a similar pattern that i have managed my entire life:

i always root for the bad guy

In all things, i've consistently found a connection to the most ruthless characters in the scenario. I rooted for Captain Nemo in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I experienced a fealty to his rage, his disgust and his contempt for the malodorous sides of humanity (which he ultimately saw in himself - something he could never excuse or rid himself of the guilt, causing him the most pain). I found the evil characters more interesting, more complex. The good guys just did...good, but more importantly, they stopped the evil from happening. Whereas, the dark figure labored, schemed, plotted, calculated, and used their evil genius brain to come up with some awful calamity meant to confound the simple minds of the 'men in white'. Faced with the mother lode of exposition, the malevolent ones had in their arsenal the most deliciously sadistic and beautiful device: the predicament.

To place a girl in a situation where she must endure pain, and endure it without any way to rectify it is cruel. But to put her in a position where she can choose to shift her body in such a way that she alleviates pain in her feet only to transfer an equal amount of pain, if not greater, to her shoulders, is ingenious, and purely maniacal. Owing much to my desire to always remain unpredictable, this ploy has frequently entered my playtime. I adore binding my girl by the wrists which pulls her shoulders back into an excruciating tug only to contrast that with a rigid crotch rope yanking in the opposite direction. She has a choice to relieve her aching joints or to punish her fragile little pussy.

I'd like to share with the reader one of my favorite inspirations for such predicaments, namely that of the now defunct Insex website. These individuals who have moved on to other online SM sites were masters in presenting their female participants with predicaments they'd need to navigate. One such delectable had the ravishingly beautiful model 49 stationed on all fours, naked on the cold concrete floor. Her hands are taped up so that they form a shiny, electrically-taped clump, as are her feet. Her hair is pulled up above her by a leather strap knotted into her locks and then ratcheted into a pulley block above. Her prone nipples are pinched between surgical clamps that are then each tied off to the same D-ring anchored to the concrete floor. In order to relieve the sustained tug on her hair, she must lift her body up from the floor, which in turn causes her to jerk on the clamps biting into her sensitive nipply sparkplugs. Of course, since her hands are taped, she cannot free herself of the various contraptions. And, ad infinitum, begins the dialogue of pure sadistic debauchery.

A careful analysis of this arousal produces a clear extension of control. There is nothing overtly sexual about subjecting a submissive to this sort of beratement. I have employed this on even simpler arrangements, where i have not placed as serious demands upon the girl's body, but instead her mind. I have insisted that she make a decision between the destruction of one favored article of clothing in return for leniency over the scrutiny of a behavior or reaction. Essentially, i am asking her to decide whether her well-being is worth preserving over that of another object. She's engaging in this transaction simply because she wants to, or believes that she has to in order to attain that perfect summation of pure and complete submission.

As for who prevails, i leave it to the reader to decide whether good or evil rues the day.

Ecstasy

I'm not one to take dictation, but from such a nice girl, i think i can oblige.

Oatmeal girl in a comment on this post quoted something i wrote and then asked a follow-up:

" Without realizing it, i've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction."

the Dom's equivalent of subspace? i'm always wanting to know... again and again i ask: what did it feel like? what does it do for you?

Is there an equivalent for the dominant to subspace? Well, to be honest, i hadn't considered it before. I think this comes partially from the fact that i'd never fully confirmed the existence of subspace or headspace as it is sometimes called. I've always bristled at convention, commonly-held definitions, large generalised solutions. Like Murray Burns of A Thousand Clowns, i've railed against conformity. For this reason, i do not refer to myself as my girl's Master or Sir, nor do i refer to her as my slave or submissive. I use the term "dominant" to refer to my half of the power exchange we engage in, but not because that is my title. Following this "Rage Against the Machine", it makes sense that i hadn't verified with sound evidence the exact parameters of subspace nor claimed my own version of the submissive's hideaway.

Effusively threaded throughout my interactions with submissive girls is an achievement i've managed to experience several times. I've described it earlier here as a field of electricity that forms in a small pocket in the chest and grows, soon overtaking the body. I've never gone as far as clinically verifying the anatomy of this charge for the girl, i've simply intuited that is it for me how it is for her how it is for me. I've even witnessed altered states wherein the girl's previously chatty, demure, lady-like corporeal frame has vanished into an ether that fogs her mind with a delicate plushness. I've encountered the production of massive amounts of viscous lubrication that bubbles forth from an artesianal source inside, making this flow feel inhuman if not ungodly. I've heard whispered leathery tongues of Cyrillic chatter channeled by a girl who'd never taken a day of foreign language in her life. I still cannot say, based on the evidence of these ends to my sadistic means, that i have witnessed subspace.

Rapture causes one to react, respond, pronounce out loud a great overcoming. Rapture stimulates one to action. Ecstasy silences. It paralyzes the body with an overflow of joy, freezing the person in the moment of complete exaltation. I have experienced both, during meditation by myself and during the exploration of SM play with a submissive girl. More often than not, when i feel that current blossoming beneath my ribs as i'm marauding across the flesh of my female target, ecstasy enraptures me.

I don't believe i can speak with enough authority about other people's experiences out there to say what it is that happens to me happens to them, but for me there is a click. A very dangerous, audible and physical click where the head no longer controls the body. The circuit breaker in my mind that provides my social congenialities with enough sustaining energy gets tripped. There my "victim" sits, in the dark, uncertain of how large the beast is that looms near her, nor how hungry he is.

My voice changes. It grows deeper, quieter. My breathing also dives deeper, instead of deriving from my lungs, i seem to pull it from way deep in my diaphragm. My temples tingle and pulse. My touch feels electric. Every surface that i press with my fingertips erupts with a field of static separating it from my skin. I feel a heaviness building right at the base of my sternum, that pushes on and then into my stomach, to which my entire digestive system awakens. My cock grows emphatically hard, almost painfully so. A rush of blood engorges my entire groin, making every vein and muscle in this area swell.

But what is not obviously apparent is the harmonic of overwhelming peace that hovers above, acting as a guide through a dark unknown forest. Despite the fact that it takes rather aggressive actions on my part - whipping a leather belt across her buttocks, binding her with tight knots into a hog tie, destroying her identity by layering her under layer after layer of latex - a tranquility does emerge from her consternation. This may come from the rare connection made between two souls who have momentarily rubbed together, or it could just be a tremendous high experienced by two incredibly horny lovers. I'll not try to define (and hence negate) what it is that's happening here because i feel that there is still so much to experience which could prove my rush to definition wrong.

But, i know i'd like to think that what i experience as the dominant is not so drastically different from what she the submissive experiences. She acts as the vessel and i perform the role of the flow - the shape of the sum gets created by our individual nuances. It would make sense that we are equal halves of the same whole, our hemispheres merely a reflection of one another.

Marking what is mine

"Absolutely not!"

I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.

The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.

I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.

One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.

Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.

Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.

I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.

As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.

I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.

Public identification

For many years, before this frightful beast called the internet, and once i'd grown tired of the boredom i found in vanilla-type dynamics, i embarked on a frequent search for an SM-consenting female. How, you might ask? Through a gay friend of mine, i'd learned about this thing called the handkerchief or hankey/hanky code. He introduced it to me when in response to him coming out to me about his homosexuality, i came out to him. That is, i told him that i like to spank and tie up girls and tell them how to behave. He was shocked (as are most folks who know me and i inform them of this or meet me for the first time once they've learned of my kink; i just have that sweet and angelic of a face), but not appalled. In fact, rather excited about assisting me in finding some girl i could torment.

I went and purchased a grey handkerchief and began putting it in my back left pocket. I felt silly at first because it clashed with my look. Over time the silliness turned into straight up awkwardness as i found myself on the receiving end of numerous propositions from gay male bottoms. In fact, it didn't yield me a single willing female.

I've often tried to grapple with the establishment of a system of public identification that would streamline the introduction of individuals on opposite sides of the power exchange. I have tired as much at avoiding the drole, "normal" dating world as i have with needing to use the same, few tired portals out there that exist to facilitate finding submissive girls. But, i also sometimes want to be able to publicly let others know about my sexuality, to let others know more about me. There are those days when i want a "Power Exchange" Pride parade. Or even just times when i'm walking with my girl, and someone would see us and could tell that she's submissive and i'm dominant.

Why i pursue this is not always about sex and fucking. Just like being gay isn't just about making out with the same sex. For me, i do not choose how i react to the opposite sex. It is an innate and completely fundamental response. I've tried many times to silence or ignore it, and i can't.

I'm not sure if it's just for sentimental reasons, or because i still secretly hope to see if it would've ever worked, but i still carry my grey handkerchief in my left pocket. I pull it out every once in awhile to wipe sweat off my brow, or to grab a door handle, and then look around to see if anyone's noticed.

The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

Every opportunity i had to gather loose nickels and dimes, i took. A cousin taught me the trick of checking the coin return slot of pay phones for overlooked booty. My father instructed me on walking with my eyes trained to the sidewalk so as not to miss the orphaned pieces of silver currency. Everywhere i turned, an opportunity for treasure hunting arose. But it wasn't these doubloons i sought, rather what i could turn them into. Rubber balls.

Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.

I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.

She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.

I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.

Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.

I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.

I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.

Work and home

Inspired, I thought it good to write down my most recent SM interaction, this time taking it to a little more personal place than my previous blogs. My friend Deity returns today. It's been a pleasure filling in during his absence and I look forward to welcoming him back as normal service is resumed.

The question I get asked most is this: am I able to retain a passion for my own fetishes while working in it each and every day? The short answer is yes and no. As you might expect, I find my personal fetish life to be irregular and subject to change. I am currently having a on/off, what word can I even call this... 'thing' with a friend. Thing seems the best word. It's not a relationship. Fuckbuddy might do the descriptive trick. We have been playing for nearly 2 years.

He is a sub with me but not with his girlfriend. I should say ex-girlfriend because they split last week after 18 months together. We have been friends for many years and he is a joy to look at - an English born, Mauritian descended biker, a burly, musclebound gentleman with a tremendously erotic voice, deep in cadence. The first half of the evening is always jovial and chatty. Fortunately, my flat mate was out so we had full access to the apartment. With his back towards me, I allowed myself a smile as I forced him to stand by the living room window wearing only a transparent sheer thong and hood with inbuilt blindfold as I turned his ass cheeks red with my crop (I prefer a flogger but seem to have temporarily mislaid my red plastic, with metal handle, German-made implement. I like it best because it hurts the most!) As you'd imagine, he's aroused by the thought of passersby looking up to see him standing in the window. He posed for me in underwear, he is servant to his thong fetish and has hundreds of pairs.

When it was time to leave I plugged him (with a too small plug I thought, next time a larger one will be used) to signify my ownership and mentioned that we had not yet used my triangular stainless steel plug. His eyes lit up at the very idea. He drove home with it still inside of course.

What all this signifies is that I am able to retain a frisson of excitement for private SM life, despite my job. I find that if these occasions are sparingly used then I will keep my interest in such things. Were he and I to do this every week I'm sure I would become quickly bored. As it was, it was a satisfying evening.

Red alert

I'm preparing to leave on my vacation - my much needed vacation. In my preparation, i must think of the items i'll need for the duration of my trip. Having never been to my destination before, i don't know what i'll need to bring and what i'll be able to pick up remotely.

I've travelled hundreds of times whilst engaging in SM-based activities (and with the intention of transporting those activities). It goes without saying that travel before 9/11 came with much less scrutiny of my personal belongings. Since the events and repercussions of that day, i've been subjected to over 40 different bag searches, a dozen private screenings (with my girl having to endure just as many herself because the steel boning of her corset triggers the metal detectors), and numerous times i've found "Just Looking" messages from the TSA in my checked baggage. Steeling myself for this invasion of privacy, i have resolutely refused to let this ridiculous reduction in civil liberties hamper my personal life. I have hauled in my carry-on baggage, at one point or another, the following:

Spools of leather strips
Rattan cane
Nipple clamps
Butt plug(s)
Locking leather cuffs
Spreader bar
Latex corset, hood, panties, sheeting
Leather harness with bit-gag
Cat-o-nine tails
Bondage tape
Armbinder
Ballgag
Electrical tape
Various lengths of rope, Kevlar line, and nylon strapping
Mini-flogger (a gift, courtesy of Fetish Insider, my gracious guest contributor while i'm away)

I find the security personnel working the examination lines to be much more lax in my city than those of my destinations. I'm not really sure why that is. I'm able to sneak things by the hometown crew that the away squad gives me the biggest pain over. I enjoy playing with them, acting dumb, but i also enjoy taking the opportunity to embarrass my girl a little. I make sure she goes in front of me (which isn't necessarily a walk in the park. I swear, they never saw a custom-made corset before???). Then, when i know my bag is going to flag one of the inspectors, i make sure to call my girl's name out loud:

"OH, honey! Wait!"

The unknowing guard will hold up her leather head harness and inquire as to what that is. Now, by this point, as she eyes this device that just the previous night had been strapped to her head, forcing her mouth to be held unwillingly open, my girl's cheeks have changed nine shades of red. To let her off the hook (plus, for some reason, i'm spooked into thinking that being kinky is somehow aiding the terrorists. Thank you Dick Cheney), i'll simply explain that it's bridle gear for a horse, which easily passes muster. On our merry way they let us, to infect the general populace with our very dangerous and national security-threatening power exchange.

This vacation presents a different scenario than others as i am not travelling with my girl. She has left already, having business to deal with before my arrival. As a result of this, i felt the need to leave her with something that she could look after, tending to it until i arrive at her side. Hours before she left for the airport, i had her strip down to just her bra, and proceeded to lash her well-primed ass with three magnificent welts. Should anyone see fit to examine her undercarriage, they would find these trademarks - a calling card, if you will - which would certainly lead to her embarrassment.

It's unlikely that any TSA personnel would ask for that kind of access, which leaves me the task of picking the right apparatus to stuff into my bag, just to ensure the appropriate amount of shame occurs on our return trip.

The Circle

In the early stages of my career, i was quite fortunate for two specific reasons:

Firstly, due to my inexperience, i felt the need to alter, stretch or even fabricate what knowledge i had in order to get me in the door.

Secondly, i had the luck of encountering potential employers who couldn't tell i did this or didn't care.

Either way, my early jobs, as a result of my embellishments, were often more fantastic than i probably deserved. I travelled all over, spending long spans of time going from one locale to the next. I remember one notable 20 day period had me dashing through no less than 15 different cities. It was exhausting, but for a young man my age, equally exhilirating. Over time, i learned how to find the basic comforts and needs in any town that i'd grown accustomed to having back at home. Except one thing: companionship.

Unfortunately, the kind of female company i sought wasn't outfitted by calling a local escort service. For several reasons, you just can't hire a submissive girl. This unique problem sent me on the difficult course of finding a submissive in as many of my ports of call as possible. In retrospect, as i type this now, i can see how arrogant and mostly unpragmatic this pursuit was.

In all, i had a girl i could call on in Chicago, Tampa, Philly, San Antone, Toronto, New York and Nawlins. When i knew far enough in advance that i would be visiting, i'd call up my host and arrange some time with her. Usual protocol would be for her to begin wearing a buttplug that i had given her early on in our exchange, at least a day before i arrived. I wanted to make my unique impression on her. There is something about meeting with a girl who's been plugging her ass for you for a period of hours that just builds this insane level of anticipation. She knew i had put so much thought and energy into her stationed this way, and i knew she felt the constant pressure. Most visits were rather calm, and would not have filled the shelves of the erotica section of your local bookstore, especially since i usually just wanted her to serve as company. When you are in a city all by yourself, peace comes in a familiar face. Very often, i would have her sitting near me as i drank a cocktail to unwind, her beauty and grace serving as a shield against the day's stress.

My favorite girl was my Toronto hostess. We connected on so many levels, but she also served as the most mysterious. She would ask me to pick her up in the most random of spots. A busstop out on Dundas. In front of a vegetable vendor in St. Lawrence. I didn't ask. Well, until it got in the way of being served. After she stood me up once, i insisted on knowing why. What she told me i still haven't fully grasped.

I know i risk exposing myself to a kind of unwelcome attention by merely having the title i've chosen for this post. Should i speak of this subject as if it were false and it proves not to be, i've put myself in an unfortunate position.

She told me that she was a member of a society known as "The Circle". This was a collection of incredibly wealthy men who have their various representatives approach incredibly gorgeous young women proposing them the opportunity to live very comfortably in exchange for their liberty. These young, consenting women are then taken to a remote location, drilled in the rudiments of sexual service, and then traded amongst the spokes of "The Circle".

I know, preposterous. But, why did i want to believe it? I remember asking her only one question about it. Why was i able to enjoy her company if she was essentially a slave to this group? She said it was part of her ongoing training. That satisfied me. I didn't want to know more because i didn't believe her, and her company was a luxurious oasis in a desert of hostile faces that i was unwilling to do without. I also felt myself wanting to believe her. I wanted to believe that an organization such as this existed. It was incredibly arousing to think about. The powerful feasting on hand-selected and made toys.

Years later, after i'd relinquished my claim on these girls, i found myself coming back to the idea of "The Circle". I'd grown tired of my local SM scene. It was overrun by social rejects and folks who believed that kinky=freaky. I realized that the biggest problem behind these clubs and parties i would occasionally frequent was that there was no screening process. Anyone who wanted to explore could come and clog up the floorspace. I understood that not everyone raced along inside their deviant behavior at the speed i did, but i grew tired of having to share the same racing track with the beginners and finding few attractive submissives in the largely male-dominated chapters. I longed for some covert fellowship, where an intense, highly scrutinizing review took place for potential newcomers. I sent out feelers to various contacts within the lifestyle, asking them to *wink-wink* level with me. I got no nibbles. And then it hit me, "they" would not want you to look for them. They'll find you when they want to.

I've always said patience is one of my best characteristics.

Holding her for ransom

Even i am a realistic man. I recognize that there are some fantasies that are not feasible. I'm someone who cringes at the statement: "Some things are best left as fantasies." I've always caustically railed against that. Speaks of laziness, fear, perhaps even self-doubt. Besides, most people who i've heard utter this remark offer fantasies that i deem tame enough to attempt (i.e none of them have the fantasy of making a bridge of foreskin across the English Channel). I believe rather than dismiss your fantasy as poison one should never consume, recognize it for the native energy and passion that it is, having been borne from your thoughts and neuroses. That being said, i am a realistic man. I have a rather intricate (read: detail-heavy) and therefore nearly impossible fantasy (read: too much propensity to spin out of my control).

I want to kidnap my girl.

I remember when i first learned of the Patty Hearst kidnapping, and the term "Stockholm syndrome", the idea of abducting someone, torturing them to the point where they would eventually offer you their allegiance and loyalty, something stirred very deep within me. I admit to feeling this same way when i've heard on the news of other females kidnapped (and thankfully not harmed). I viewed it as an exercise in absolute surrender. She, my victim, would be forced to, as a way to preserve herself, exist how i wanted her to, how i allowed her to, eventually losing what she had hoped to defend.

I recognized this was a dark, dark fantasy, but i also realized i never wanted to indulge in this without the victim's consent. It only sustained any of its stimulation at the point where i assumed all victims exhibited signs of the "Stockholm syndrome". Present a danger (the abduction, any weaponry used to enforce it), and practice heroism (spare her, show mercy, etc.) and she will gladly do your bidding. This was SM 101, as far as i was concerned.

Many obstacles exist for me to attempt in full glorious technicolor my kidnapping scenario. First of all, we live in a day and age (i.e. war on terror) where our neighbors' attentions are piqued for suspicious behavior. There have been enough times where, as a result of the heightened security, i have been put under unnecessary scrutiny by the TSA to save me and my girl from our own vacationing kinky perversions. I don't even want to test my common citizen's ability to absorb the latest crime-fighting tactics they've viewed on television. Secondly, I do not own a car. Transporting my victim would laughably be reliant upon public transportation or a hired car, which means transporting a bound, gagged and blindfolded damsel may arouse some severe alarm from even the most disinterested livery driver. Thirdly, this scenario seeps heavily with roleplay. I am not acting as my girl's dominant. Instead, i am a complete stranger, a fugitive who must create the possible fear that implies i may mean harm, and she must dissolve into this character, be it the 'bank teller, the 'school marm', the 'traffic cop' or whatever.

Accepting these limitations, i have assembled a decent collection of kidnapped-inspired sessions ranging from interrogation scenes to bouts of torture until she broke down. The most recent took place on an innocuous weekend afternoon, where my girl was lazing on the couch in the calm air of a gentle and mild day.

I snuck up behind her, and thrust a pillow case over her head, quickly securing it in place with a locking wire strap (the plastic kind cops use in place of metal handcuffs) i tightened around her neck. i pushed her over onto her belly, and held her arms above her head, as she squirmed, fighting against my aggression; shocked, uncertain, and definitely a little petrified. I ripped off her shirt, pulling it over her hooded head. I quickly removed her bra, tossing that to the floor. I lassoed her wrists down behind her back with one tight strap. I affixed another just below her elbows, squashing them together. I pulled her upto her feet, then walked her down along the hallway to the back room. I held her up as she stumbled along the way, gasping through the pillowcase, to the point where a moist oval darkened the spot where her mouth lay beneath the fabric. I threw her on top of the bed, onto her stomach, then pulled off her skirt and now completely damp panties. Bending her legs up behind her, i pulled out two more wire straps and bound her ankles to where they rested on her thighs.

I didn't say a single word to her the entire time.

I took my time retrieving a knife, letting the chain of events sink in. A period of eight minutes passed. I could hear the sweet evidence of her struggle while in the other room. The first thing i did upon my return was to lace another strap in between her lips and around the back of her head, gagging her, pulling more of the cotton pillowcase into her mouth, further heightening the stakes. I stood over her, giving space to a silence that separated her from i.

I reached out and touched her naked form. She jerked. I ran my hand up and down her side, letting my fingers trace the spectrum of her curves. I replaced my fingers with the single, thin blade of the knife, dragging the sharp surface gently across her flesh. She jerked again. Her minute gyrations told me she could tell the difference between these two implements. I turned the point into her side, pressing with a little force until she took notice and stopped. I traced the sharp metal down to her thighs, reaching the knee, then boomeranging back up to her bound ankles. I spread her legs wider, to reveal her glistening cunt and quivering fuckhole.

She could feel where i'd turned my focus, pondering the weapon in my hand, and could not contain the unwillingness to let this proceed without protest. She pleaded through her gag, straining all the muscles in her hips and thighs. I slapped her hard on her ass cheek. She froze. I drew a sinister line with the knife along her inner thigh, upto the darker flesh of her mound. She held onto any reflexes that might move her opening as i traced around it, alternating between softer and harder touches. I spread her glistening lips with the blade, looking deep into the heaving slit. With a flick of the wrist, i ran the blunt edge against her asshole and up her crack. She yelped. I slapped the flesh of her butt three times. I lubed up her asshole, then quickly forced a medium-sized buttplug inside, which appropriately did not receive any objections.

I left her again, to let her body adjust to the penetration, further sinking her into subliminal despair. I'd return shortly, pulling her open crotch to just the edge of the bed, to claim my ransom.

Motivations

The understanding of one's erotic reaction to things is sometimes tantamount to eating a bowl of soup with a spoon attached to the end of a pool cue. It's messy. It's clumsy. It's cold by the time you taste it. It's largely inefficient, and you don't really get an immediate satisfaction of understanding. The work it has taken to comprehend my own sexual stimuli has precluded that it's not easy to understand someone elses.

Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.

Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.

Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.

Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.

We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.

I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.

You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.

One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.

Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.

The Gain, pt. 2

I use the term "girl" universally. It can mean a female from any age between 18 and 60. Something in the term grabs me. It's like a wind that pushes me against the wall of the building i am standing on the ledge of, hoping not to fall off. I recognize that the term "girl" has an underage connotation to it, yet i am repulsed at the idea of eroticizing minors. The word "girl" also implies little. And that is where it excites the base primal wolf inside of me. Little, vulnerable, needing protection. I can be talking to a female associate at work about her weekend, in a completely innocuous social way, and she could suddenly utter the phrase "...but i'm just not that kind of girl." I will stop right in my tracks. A grown woman has just uttered a phrase that transforms her into a sexual target, the same way my head whips around whenever i hear the clod of highheels on the pavement. I'm suddenly hungry.

"r" was incensed when i first referred to her as a girl. Understandably. She was 15 years my senior. She'd wandered into a chat room i was hosting about body modification and (what else) transformation. Within 5 minutes of chatting with me, she'd called me an arrogant prick and an asshole, and did the equivalent of an Internet hangup - she exited the room. Now, i'd grown used to that reaction. What some girls expect when they are roaming in the SM corridors of chat rooms, i'm not sure, but they should not be surprised to find a man who is assertive and obstinate. Something about "r" told me that she'd return. Even through the stammer of a cold digital interaction, i could sense an arousal. In fact, i even said to her when she re-appeared a few days later:

"I knew you'd come back."

But unlike the other girls who flirted with the idea of lingering, she stuck around. She drilled me to find out all of what i demanded of a girl i modified. She accused me of bullshitting her. I provided her photo evidence, she still refused to believe. But deep inside of her protective armor of doubt, i could see something she did not want me to see: i could see that she was slipping. Her responses took longer. Her words were carefully selected and offered. She was doing her best to hold me at bay, but her house of sticks was falling in.

"Let's meet", i said.

Nothing from her end. Then finally:

"i have to go."

Eventually, we would agree to meet. Skirt, just above the knees. Black, 3" heels. Hair pulled back into a tight bun. Hoop earrings. A top to accentuate and allow access to her ample tits. And most importantly, no panties (when she agreed to this, i insisted she repeat the word "panties". A word she loathed). We met at a public place.

I was waiting for her, writing into my journal. She took the seat next to me and for the first 20 minutes of banal conversation, found ways to completely avoid eye contact with me. Finally, when her eyes fell on mine, i reached my hand across, and grabbed a hold of her wrist. I stood up and quietly led her to the men's bathroom. Cemented across her face, her fear, anxiety and excitement played interactively with her features. I held open the door and waved her inside. The few men in the bathroom looked at her with utter confusion, but i'm certain when they saw me open a stall door and motion for her to follow, they figured out some of what was about to happen. Closing the door behind us, in a whisper i told her to bend over the toilet, hike up her skirt, and then put her hands against the tile wall.

"Spread your legs."

She looked back at me. Her hand started to curl away from the wall, her instincts to strike rising. I didn't move, slicing my glance through her stare. She turned her head back around, and, staring up at the ceiling, spread her legs. A distinctive sheen glimmered between them. I rubbed my hand between her thighs, gathering some of her moistness, then spread it all up and down her backside. I pulled the "tool" i'd brought out of my pocket, smeared it with her juices, and applied more from a tube of lube. I poured more lube on my fingers and pushed at her asshole, delicately playing with the opening until i could feel it purse open. I repeated this gesture several times, making sure her passage was prepared.

"I want you to focus on your breathing. Just breathe, that is all i need you to do right now."

I pushed the "tool" up against her asshole, and slowly edged it forward. Her yelp brought a smile to my face. With gentle strokes, i pushed it deeper and deeper, reminding her to breathe. I told her to push out, as if she were defecating, when finally it popped "home", stationing itself firmly inside. I arched my arm around her mid-section, as her knees abandoned their efforts, giving way to the enormous shockwave of orgasm that overtook her body. Holding her for just a moment, allowing her to finish, i told her to pull her skirt back down. I led her back outside, kissed her on the cheek and sent her home.

"r" grew very attached to that butt plug. She was told to wear it regularly, but i wasn't always there to insert it, so for those times, she was to close her eyes and just envision it was my hand guiding it in. Over time, she didn't need to envision my hand, the plug soon embodied me. Around this time, i informed her of my reasons for the plug. I told her she was being anally trained, learning the new purpose for what i now called her "ass cunt". When we would chat or talk on the phone, she would sometimes leave the plug out of its home. I could tell that she wasn't full, just by her tone and her wily bite. I'd instruct her to go get it. Many times she'd resist, but my persistence would prevail. The instant that it entered her, she sunk deep into a coil of submission. She was full. She was open, vulnerable. She spoke to me about how she could feel her mind transform the function of her back passage. It no longer served the purpose she'd attached to it. It now served mine.

She hated the plug sometimes. Reviled it for its power over her. Other times she offered it long bouts of devotion, even losing her grip on sanity one afternoon when she couldn't find it. I used to cherish the glow she exhibited while she wore it, entranced with the acceptance and beauty cast by a girl captured and occupied by me.

*this continues on here