Exhibition on training

Someone mentioned to me that i don't put up enough photos, that instead i rely too heavily on words. I can buy that. Words are much easier to own and create, whereas to craft a photo i'd be proud to put up on my site takes resources and talents i do not have easy access to. But, i'm not one to turn down a challenge, so i will try to do a post (following these brief messages, of course) of pure pictoral pontification.*

Nipple training (care of Master Y):















Posture training (care of Kink.com, with an appearance by Claire Adams):





















Limbless training (care of insex.com):









Patience training:




Proper storage following training (care of houseofgord.com and charlottefetish.com):





















*My humble thanks to those whose copyrighted material i've used to try to prove my point.

Toying with her

I've been entirely obsessed with the idea of complete female immobilization and objectification. Engrossed and focused - purchased a one way ticket for the one-track mind express. Every inference of sexuality, every indulgence in a video from my collection, every plot twist/device/structure of erotica i've read involves some aspect of a girl's entrapment in extreme total bondage, and then put away for her internment, only to be used later - once her confinement has effectively altered her mind and transformed her into a willing and desirous object. Unfortunately, this pedestrian approach to providing me the necessary nutrient wasn't enough.

I took pen to paper. I started crafting a narrative involving the most convoluted story about a girl who inherits an estate, but in order to qualify for it, she must live precisely like the person who had bequeathed it to her. Of course, as was wont to happen in the Victorian era, it turns out this person lived her life as a household object, constantly confined to some body-entombing sarcophagi - as a lamp, as a table, as a statue, as a fountain, etc. The girl, in order to enjoy her outrageously vast inheritance, would have to endure similar bondage. I wrote quite extensively on the subject, going into great detail over each imprisoning contraption, and dissecting her gradual metamorphosis. All very enjoyable, but not nearly satisfying enough for me. I needed more.

I pulled out my sketch pad and drew out illustrations of the images salaciously tantalizing my mind. Contorted feminine bodies, held tightly by wicked bindings, forcing their forms into extreme curvatures and postures. Each drawing progressed the captured female towards a greater reduction of identity and autonomy. I'd stare at the page, stimulated by both the bold and shocking portrayal and the parade of ladies galloping by the windows of the cafe where i sat. I compared the two contrasting exhibitions: One had the girl restrained and manipulated, while the other was a free form of lithe limbs and flowing fabrics. Sitting there, i realized there was only one way i could find satisfaction.

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She came into my study to ask a general question about my plans for the day. I smiled because it just so happened that i was about to embark on my plans for the day.

"I'm going to mummify you."

She looked at me with a precious desire to be interested in my agenda but with the body language that lacked the resolve. An embarkation of this sort was the furthest notion in her mind of what to do with her rainy weekend day. Acknowledging her reticence, i proceeded.

I arranged her on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her naked body faced me, legs hanging over the side. I told her to bend her arms closed, laying her palms against her shoulders, which held her elbows aloft and pointed out. I grabbed the readied roll of shrinkwrap and began to encase her folded limbs in tight layers of plastic. Her hands sandwiched against her sternum, giving her the appearance of wings. I rolled the shrinkwrap over her chest, making sure to carve out exposure to her tits. Soon, her upper torso, rising up to her neck was completely cocooned in plastic. I then began to apply strips of black duct tape, which immediately erased the human quality of her features seen through the sheer layers of shrinkwrap. Each strip got meticulous application, to ensure the tightest seal, but to also allow the easiest escape should an emergency arise. Her armless, winged figure sat before me, taunting me with the voluptuous white droplets of her tits, a significant counterpoint to her now, blackened flesh. On to her head.

Her head. I always tend to leave this part for last. At this point, her confinement could resemble that of one locked in a nautical life vest - incapacitating, mildly inconvenient. The step of coating her head in thick anonymizing layers always ramps up the objectification. I put between her lips a piece of one inch PVC pipe, cut two inches in length, which had a long leather chord knotted around it, when anchored to the back of her head, holds the piece of pipe in place. I methodically spread constricting layers of plastic over her cranium, which covered up every millimeter of skin. The only access to her upper body remained her mouth held open by the round plastic tube and, of course, her exposed tits.

The first strip of black duct tape went over her shrink wrap-coated eyes, which symbolically put my girl away. I made quick work of the rest of her head, smoothing the foot long segments of tape to the skin-tight plastic skullcap. I coated her entire head and her neck, joining this cocoon with the one on her upper torso. I left the final encapsulating touches to the area where her mouth lay beneath, and the breathing pipe gag jutted out. By the time that i am satisfied with the entombment, there is no visual evidence of a human girl lying beneath these multiple layers. No, what remains is my transformed fucktoy.

I left the fucktoy lie for a period of time, returning to the work that had my attention when my girl had initially interrupted. I checked on the stationary object every ten minutes, to monitor all vital signs. A half hour into this session, i carried a digital camera with me on my rounds. I took a dozen photos of the inanimate toy lying completely still, breathing a heavy gust through the black tube of a mouth. The thing i enjoyed the most about taking these photos was due to her complete sensory deprivation, my girl had no clue i was clicking away with a camera until i showed her a few hours after her release. I put the camera within a few inches of the toy's face, and it gave no indication of sensing the flash exploding all over its black duct tape epidermal. I left the toy lying there a bit longer.

No longer able nor willing to withhold myself, i re-entered the room where my toy lay, surveying the state of its immobilization. I pulled back the covers that had served to keep the toy warm, exposing its naked, glistening cunt into the open air. I ratcheted up a vibrating g-spot stimulator, touching it to the exposed flesh of my toy's tits. I moved it quickly to the folds of the moist vulva pointing up at me. Parting the thick fleshy lips, i moved the vibrating penetration deep inside, pushing it up against the thick, spongy g-spot. My fucktoy reacted, lifting its hips in the air, its winged limbs fluttering a momentary desperation. I reached for a bullet-sized vibrator, applying this to my fucktoy's blushing and engorged clitoris. I palmed the large intruder, stroking it against the hungry internal humpspot, while tracing circles around the flaming pink mound of skin with the vibrating bullet. Locating a rhythm, i rode my toy with this onslaught until it erupted into hip-thrusting convulsions. I spoke to the thing jerking in my hands, asking it if it was my hole, my fuckslut, my cunt. Gasps of exasperated accord and exclamation burst out of the plastic tube jutting out of my toy's mouth.

I withdrew all mechanical forms of stimulation off of the throbbing sex organ, watching the tape-encased form shudder beneath me with erotic confinement. I pulled out my own erect and throbbing member, and extrapolated punctuation on what was the cap of an entirely fulfilling afternoon.

I leave the reader with the following two photos that document a little of what i enjoyed this afternoon (touched up for aesthetic reasons).

Talon-ted

For those of you who have been along for the ride, you've come to learn that my girl goes through her winsome day while maintaining a manicure of one-inch acrylic extensions from each of her dainty fingers. Very early on in our relationship, i asked her to submit to this demand, making it one of the first dress code modifications i instituted. The initial forays into artificial nails with her were haphazard. She found them incredibly limiting and the craftsmanship of the nail tech she visited was shoddy. She'd lost 2 nails in the first eight days. She protested this demand of mine, finding it incredibly impractical to her academic pursuits (which consisted of frequent use and reliance on the very tip of her finger). In a manner that established a tenor for our relationship, i calmly listened, letting her air her grievances, then pointedly asserted the way her hands were to be presented - and made an appointment for her with a manicurist i trusted.

Flash forward 3 years: Having developed a trusted and satisfying relationship with her nail tech, my girl now gets pampered every two weeks with a complete spa visit that finetunes the perfection of her long french-manicured nails. She has adapted to the impact these artificial extensions have impeded on her life, dialing a phone, advancing a song on her iPod, or even opening up a can of soda differently than she had before. She looks at these appliances as natural, part of her regular routine, and would prefer not to see her hand without them.















I have encountered few people in my life and on this cyber circuit who openly hold the same affection i have to this feminine accoutrement. The limited number of self-identified followers led me to examine my own attachment to this cosmetic alteration. As is the custom for most eccentricities of mine i try to examine, i find i have plenty of examples of their existence in my past, but few explanations why. However, i remember the first instance of my attraction to long fingernails.

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Her name was Stacy. I was sitting in the library at high school, thumbing through three separate Jack London novels (i believe one of them was Sea Wolf), when i heard a rather loud, frilly commotion at the front desk. Three girls had wandered into a world they certainly did not fit, one where the literary contents outnumbered the visitors. Each of them had platinum blond hair, tussled in a rage-inducing way. Each of them snapped gum in a code only the three of them could understand. Their entire wardrobes jangled and clattered with the numerous necklaces and bracelets they wore stacked against eachother. They'd been sent to this cavern of literacy to research a report that their civics teacher had commissioned of them about the economies of South America. Clearly, the subject (pre-Wikipedia, for those youngins who question how hard such a report would be - this would involve them looking in a card catalog...oh, just look it up on Wikipedia) proved a daunting matter for these three phillies and the poor desk clerk who happened to be servicing the counter when they arrived.

Stacy was the quiet one, in that, she spent most of her time leaning her back away from the desk clerk, examining both the inhabitants of the library and the neon orange color of her 2" long nails. I'd never seen anything like this. They screamed femininity in such a gaudy and putrefied way - i was hooked. I gathered up my belongings, and sauntered up to the counter, offering my services in their quest to get in and out as quick as possible. I spent the next 30 minutes superficially fishing out the information they needed, while secretly feeling such squeamish delight watching Stacy manipulate pens, her hair, a leaf of paper with her long nails. I found the sound of them clicking against eachother more mesmerizing than a windchime on a quiet, breezy summer afternoon.



















This same stop-whatever-i'm-doing-and-gawk reaction has not dampened, even nearly twenty years later. In the intervening years, i've convinced a good 70% of the girls i've dated to give a trial with nails this long. And i should stress, it's always fake nails. Something about long, natural nails really grosses me out. The way they aren't uniform in shape and curvature, the yellowish, grimy color they have - i've never cared for them (i especially get weirded out when i see men with long, natural fingernails). They must be fake. They must be square-tipped, and they must be curved like talons.

I can easily identify a few things about nails like this that i find attractive. They extend a female's hand, making them long, fragile and feminine. They act as a protuberance, making daily tasks difficult, negotiable. I'm a complete connoisseur for the way a girl moves her appendage with nails like this. There is a delicacy in her strokes, as if she were transferring a Ming vase from one case to another.

I'm so attuned to this that i sometimes catch myself feeling mildly on edge when we socialize with friends and family members who knew my girl before her modifications. These nails are the clearest indication of the transformation she has undergone over the past few years. This audience has made remarks to her about them:

"How do you not poke your eye out with those?"
"Aren't you afraid of scaring little kids with your claws?"
"I don't see how you can function."

I'd rather not spend time defending our relationship, and because of this, i anticipate comments like these. I even watch how someone like her father looks at her hands as she uses them to articulate a point in a story of hers, and inwardly disdains his daughter's aesthetic choices. In the end, i appreciate the opportunity to indulge in this fetish of mine, and dismiss any outside criticism that we may encounter.

I may never fully understand what it is about these prosthetics that rock me to my erotic core, the answer, if there needs to be one remains elusive. It is for that reason, i leave the reader with, instead of a sound conclusion, a small quartet of images from the fingernail fetish ingenue Foxy Anya.

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.

Ouvert le genou

It is a beautiful autumn Sunday morning. The outside atmosphere rings with the church bells and the crisp fall air. I let her sleep in a little longer than usual. These are the sort of days where sleeping-in deserves special consideration.

At breakfast, i tell her that at some point in the day she will be put over my knee. I mention this to her at all because i want to glean her general attitude and emotional station, knowing that we have just broken our slumber-induced fast. I inquire as to when she thinks she would be most receptive. She gives it some thought, then states after her shower.

Later on, i'm working on the computer. Off in the distance, i hear the cascade of water cease in the bathroom. The sound of a door opening splits into the air from down the hallway, and i sit, waiting for her to soon come into my bureau. For whatever reason, i do not anticipate that she will crawl into my den. On all fours she scampers in along the floor, pulling her completely naked body, dripping with fresh, clean wetness right up to my chair.

I ask her why she came crawling.

"Because i knew i was to be spanked."

"And why are you to be spanked?"

"Because that is what you have decided."

"Is there any reason you deserve to be spanked?"

She doesn't respond.

"You have been especially bratty this week."

"When?" she asks.

"The other morning, you showed a great deal of irritation for no good reason, and were awfully short in your answers. You were being quite the little brat."

"Yes. Yes i was."

"Now do you think a spanking will do you good?"

"Yes. It will do me good for awhile, and then, i'll eventually need another."

I guide her nude frame to lie across my lap as i sit in my chaise lounge. I stroke my hand the full length of her backside. From the base of her thin neck, to the ample curvature of her round feminine hips, i explore the corpuscle terrain glowing up at me. i kiss the convex indentations of her spine, then move my embrace to her newly cleaned ass cheeks. My hand interrupts this fleshy love affair with a thwap into her right buttocks. Her muscles leap in a tense tour jeté, quickly consuming the altered rhythm of our exchange. Suddenly, i view her epidermal frontier of delicate peach and pink tones and decide they are in need of an acceleration to bright red inflammation. I slap three strokes hard into her skin.

She yelps.

I brush my hand across the newly irritated flesh, and move to the other cheek.

Three more strokes. Her body has come alive with stimulation. Her muscles pulse with fresh blood pumped through them. Small droplets of sweat pool in the concavity of her lower back. The rounded mounds of her ass cheeks throb a gravitating heat that feels so comforting to my flattened palm. I patter her butt with a quick resonance of slaps, finding a pattern that satisfies my inner hunger but does not yet push her to the limit of seeking mercy. I alternate between her right and left cheeks. Right, then left, then right, then left. I bring her pain receptors just to the edge, teasing them, hording my command over this physical domain, never quite pushing her beyond the edge. This continues for another seven minutes.

At a certain point, i work out the kink in my shoulder, arm, psyche that dictated to me that i would need this sort of expression. My girl has extracted herself from the corporal impact slapped into her body, and hovering above it, has found a clear, explicit euphoria. I can feel the visceral, ectoplasmic possession of it glistening the folds of her yet unattended cunt. I pull her up into my lap, and hold her close to my body.

I visit her silent, now suddenly-smaller-than-normal frame with tender kisses and continued strokes with my hand, perched upon my reclined legs. I give us a few tender moments in the silent stasis of this pose before i move on to the completion of our intimate moment.

Armed and dangerous

When i discovered the art form of bondage (as opposed to merely the functional process i first identified it as), i realized i could achieve transformation with my subject in a shorter but also quicker fashion than say the permanence that body or mental modification achieved. A simple hogtie presents the female in a prone position where she can be used, transported or displayed in a dehumanizing fashion. However, a clumsily constructed tie, with haphazard knots, mismatched, unattractive rope types and sloppy joint wraps eradicated much of any interest i would have in images of bound females. Further expounding on the aesthetic craft found in shibari and Western ropework, as well as resounding with my frenetic attention to details, i resolved to pay as much attention to the precision of the bondage as i did to its rigidity. As a result, whenever i found extraneous leisure time, i drew out precise pose after pose in a notebook i perpetually carried with me. Though each pose differed, there did exist a commonality amongst most of them that demonstrated my tendency to obsess on one theme, riff, riff, repeat, and riff again. The girl's arms were bound behind her back, elbows touching in nearly every graphite sketch.

I've loved the armless look from the day i first saw it portrayed in a strappado on one of the damsels caught in the Marquis de Sade diorama of "Waxworks". The female forced on her tiptoes, lurched over, with the bulk of her weight relying on the fragile shoulders looked like a girl who had refused to show reverence, but now had no choice. I encountered "tamer" versions, and i was struck by how proud this position made the female form appear. With her arms pinned behind her back, her posture had to respond with tall erection, while her tits lifted in the air as if to say "please, take these from me". From behind, the elbows twisted in towards the spine, and the forearms neatly laid against eachother, making the optical illusion that they were designed to do exactly this. I experienced a further debaucherous epiphany upon first seeing the glorious innovation known as the armbinder achieving this same look.

The Armbinder.

I give that wonderful garment its own line just to show my admiration. Also called the mono-glove or single sleeve, i thought this was as attractive as some would think of the 1967 Mustang's front grill or the Star of India sapphire's rutile. Every photo i saw of a girl in an armbinder instantly ignited the sadistic furnaces within which meant i immediately thought only of my pleasure, and dismissed any of the model's discomfort. I soon discovered Ashley Renee, the queen of the armbinder. Photo after photo captured her venus-de-miloed in the most sumptuous way. I especially responded to those images where her eyebrows arched in high consternation at her unseen perpetrator. You could almost make out the liquid "myew" that leaked out of her tightly ball-gagged mouth. The armbinder launched to the top of my must-have list of torture devices.

I encountered a problem when i began searching for one to purchase. Those offered from both online and brick and mortar boutiques failed to pass the muster i'd demanded. They were designed primarily for the gay leather crowd, which meant big forearms, industrial buckles and almost exclusively unappealing black cowhide. These models served merely the functional side to dis-arming a submissive. What was so appealing about the version Ms. Renee wore was the delicacy it treated an incredibly strenuous feat. It accentuated the feminine tinyness of her wrists, her hands, her appendages. It extended the optical illusion that a girl's arms were meant to fold back like that, rather than appear just sloppily lumped behind her. I knew i was going to have to commission one, if i was to find satisfaction.

The search to find an outlet for my request lasted several years. When i finally took my idea to my girl's corsetiere, i didn't know if he made such a thing. You couldn't destroy the grin from my face with a battering ram once he agreed to design one for me. The following weeks, i waited impatiently for his sketch to land in my inbox.

He far exceeded my expectations. In addition to the femininity of the sheath for her arms, he incorporated a cupless bustier that would also be stringently boned, which could be removed and worn separately. I added additional straps from the bustier to her glove, another one that circumvented where her elbows would fall, and another that could be pulled around her torso, anchoring the latex device rigidly to her entire body. Through various fittings, we perfected the fit and look, and i was soon the proud father of a wickedly didactic contraption.

She has since worn it numerous times, for my sole pleasure, or for when we have company and she plays the silent barmaid. I however have to remind myself, as i buzz with supreme delight at my victory, that her arms do need to come out at some point.

Addendum 10/12/08
I had the good/mis fortune of catching the movie "Waxworks" that i refer to above.

Good fortune because it was nice to see the scene that captured me at such a young age (Although, i was mistaken in my remembrance. The girl was not placed in a strappado, but merely two steel cuffs dangling from the ceiling - i might add, she placed her hands in the cuffs a little too easily for my modern-day tastes).

Misfortune because i was reminded of the crappy cinema i had to watch all the time just to get glimpses of the way i felt and thought inside. My buddies never could understand why i had to leave the room at the end of this scene (below), even though we'd seen this movie well over 20 times.

For your perusal, i present the Marquis de Sade scene from "Waxworks"