Sound

I'd had it. Truly in a week of worsts, this was the last thing i needed. Instead of languishing in my office, parsing the events of the argument again and again in my head, i knew i needed to leave the air of that room. I had to place distance between me and that space, that chamber where maddening discord had exploded all over the walls.

The elevator didn't come quickly enough. I looked at the steel double doors with such disappointment.

"How could you let me down?"

Pressing "1", i stepped to the back of the car, and looked down at my interlocking hands. The sudden jolt signaling a stop on a lower floor jerked a grief-heavy sigh from my lungs. I steadied my stare downward as the intruding passenger broke my solitude. The impotent elevator continued on its descent, passing each floor with a whisper to hush away any other potential step-ons.

"You look like someone who needs this weekend."

I heard her words, but i didn't listen to them. What lifted my head into a greeting smile was the song of her voice that carried the verbiage. I squinted my eyes in delight, forgetting for a moment the dystopia i'd just escaped.

"Yes...uh, yes. I'd say so."

She smiled back, tilting her shoulder towards me in a statement of openness and conviviality. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, which made the tortoise-shell frames of her glasses a stereotypical requisite. We shared a few more thoughts between us before the passive elevator delivered us to the lobby. My ears feasted not on the content of her speech, but the note her voice struck. I let her exit before me, and watched as she sauntered towards the revolving doors and then out onto the busy sidewalk.

I stopped short of following her, and turned into the coffee shop in the building's street-level south wing. I queued up behind a magnificent redhead, whose cheek pinned her sleek cellphone to her shoulder.

"I had no idea that dinner would cost that much..."

I eavesdropped a little into her phone conversation. I couldn't help it. The length of the line encouraged me to find distractions, and despite my mood, i didn't mind waiting. She spoke quickly, but with a strawberry tinge to her tone, making every exasperated sentence a pleasure to hear. I loved watching her mouth form the sounds that eventually filled the small air around us with feminine wonderment.

Behind me, another well-dressed girl started chatting with her companion. Suddenly, i was surrounded by a symphony of female wind instruments, holding their discourse in sultry alto registers. When i finally reached the front of the line, the girl behind the counter recognized me and my 3 o'clock coffee sanctuary.

"Hiiiii, want the usual?"

I thought quickly - what could i say to get her to speak some more?

"Hey, what's this new coffee you guys are trying to push on us uninformed customers?"

Bingo. With her customary sing-songiness, she delivered a beautiful monologue on the virtues of the latest South American shade-grown, free-trade roast they'd managed to finagle enough quantities of - the people behind me be damned. The tension in my shoulders began to release its grip. I was very happy, just hearing her voice excitedly spill over words like "aroma", "piquant" and "chocolate". I exited the cafe, onto the street, with a steaming cup of exuberantly poured java. Turning my direction uptown, i ventured on a little constitutional.

I peeled along the concrete, catching excerpts of dialogue from those intersecting my path.

"...needed to finish the course after all..."
"...why'd you leave like that?"
"...can't believe she tried to..."

Every time i came upon a female voice, my ears couldn't help but perk up; so completely satisfying was it to hear the softer, higher timbre. It erased for the moment the strain of the recent episode of job-oriented stress. All i could think of were those instances in my youth when i'd nervously call up one of my pigtailed crushes, and her vocal, butter cream enthusiasm and jubiliance made everything feel like a dream.

But, feasting on sugary treats has a tendency to not fill one's appetite. The wreckage i'd left behind imparted an indelible strain on my body. My psyche needed grosser compensation than just cotton candy and taffy. Without me realizing it, my mental focus took the audio of all of these girls i'd encountered, and remastered each in a very stirring way.

There on the streets of this hustle and bustle metropolis, in my head i heard broadcast these angelic female chants obstructed and cajoled. Sounds of struggle, of a ballgag plugging a girl's mouth, her unsuccessful pleading as i tightened her bounds, a shrill outburst that followed the administration of swats. These aural remedies soothed my fiery temper. I could now, with a calm feeling of tranquility, return to my office.

I re-entered my building. Walking through the lobby, i couldn't help wondering who i might encounter in the elevator ride up.

*this continues on here

Since when was naughty the opposite of nice?

'Tis the season where well-meaning girls are faced with spending a little time tied up beneath the christmas tree.

I'm leaving on an extended tour of the jolliest yuletide venues, and won't be back for awhile. But don't you worry, my devoted and slobbering readers, i will not leave you unattended.



I have asked a dear and beloved friend of mine to watch over the workshop for me in my absence. Those of you who drop by during the holidays are in for a treat for not only is she a devilish mind, but also an incredibly gifted writer.



When i first approached my friend 'stormy' with the idea of babysitting the site over Christmas, she balked at the idea, not sure her take on things would fit these hallowed pages. Au contraire, i told her. My first introduction to her was through her written word, and immediately, i was addicted. Her take on and passion for this realm continues to stun me, and i am honored that she would care to offer it to my audience.

To my readers and those just casually passing by, Happy Holidays. I look forward to a brand new year through which i can further explore my debauchery.

With that thought in mind, i leave the beautiful Kay O'Hara and a Vargas pin-up as my presents to all of you.

Self restraint

In the spring of 1994, i was diagnosed by my psychologist at the time with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Actually, she was testing me for Attention Deficit Disorder, but she had something up her sleeve i didn't know. I had anticipated that she was testing me for ADD, which she anticipated, confirming what her expert mind had long theorized. My first response when she told me that i had OCD was, "Well, duh, Doc." Not the hardest thing to notice about me.

I OBSESS. I obsess about obsessing. I do not have a severe form of the disorder where i need to have absolute, manic control of my environment - locking doors multiple times, scrubbing my hands arduously, following the exact same routine precisely to the letter - i have no impulse for any of that. But where OCD manifests itself in my sexuality is my unabashedly pinpoint and frighteningly precise attention to detail. I regularly notice when one of the girls in the office alters her hair color, her hair style, her makeup, even her perfume. I even notice when a girl who i encounter infrequently on the train platform waiting for the next one to arrive has changed something with her style. I'll usually offer this to them, to which they almost all bewilderedly confirm my hunch.

What is my point, you the reader, might be asking? I find something that entrances me, station myself in front of it, and then digest as much of the subject as possible.

My latest surfeit: self bondage

***I must preface the following, do NOT attempt this without the proper safety precautions installed. Safety and common sense is of the utmost importance when attempting any of what i'm about to discuss. I cannot stress this enough***

My recent splurge in the consumption of self bondage media happened innocently enough. I was browsing through YouTube looking for various mummification videos (there are some tremendous offerings and others that are just sadly disenchanting), when i came across an Italian girl who was interested in filming herself bagging for her boyfriend. This is an incredibly risky habit - INCREDIBLY - and if it appeared even remotely like she was at risk of putting herself in danger, the video would lose all of its appeal. It is not the danger or the risk that excites me. What got me aroused was that she was doing this for someone else.

I've controlled girls long distance before. The physical separation requires some creativity when trying to restrain the bottom. Obviously, i will not be able to bind her like i would if i were there, my shadow cast over her naked form. I quickly realized in these telephonic relationships that i would need to devise a way to imprison the girls in a thorough but safe way. I made the impediment simple, unobtrusive for safe activity like a chain collar, leather cuffs or - my favorite - a chastity belt. The situation called for real ingenuity when it came to the locking of these confinements. I devised on the low-tech end - freezing the keys for the lock in a jar of water - on the high end - a time safe. The stimulation for me came in the exact moment when the girl agreed to this arrangement, took my instructions and locked herself away.

A few days after i found the italian autorista, now in full slash and burn obsession mode, i came across some old Devonshire Productions videos that featured the beautiful Simone Devon herself. I couldn't control myself. My appetite had peaked for scenarios of auto-confinement, and Mme Devon had the goods.

One particular video had her starting on a bed, taking rope and binding her thighs, then her ankles, and anchoring this to a crotch rope. Next, she took a pair of handcuffs, thread these through the loops that she had made on the ass-side of the crotch rope. She produced throughout the restriction, the most adorable groans and whines. These reached a peak when she pulled out from her bag of toys a ball gag. She was about to pull off one of the most arousing gestures i've encountered in this genre: self-gagging. I turned up the volume. I wanted to hear every squeak, ever frustrated yet inflamed vocal struggle. She completed her bondage by laying on her stomach and locking her hands behind her back in a respectable but not completely orthodox hogtie.

That her struggles indicated an inability to free herself from this predicament was not what tickled my mental erogenous zones. It was the fact that the camera was clearly there indicating that someone was nearby, and that this girl had, for the audience, bound herself up. She would increase the bondage in the two subsequent segments, with the last one dousing me in erotic fever when she actually pulled a full leather hood over her head, entombing her entire crown in tight restrictive darkness.

I can understand why it exacts such a strong response from me. In my pursuit to transform the girl into a creature overflowing with my appetites and desires, to be able to witness her go step by step, putting herself in these shackles signifies the purest acceptance of my lessons. She's not only saying that she wants to be there, but she's actively stepping in front of a camera in order to document and declare her need to be there.

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.

-----------------------------

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.

Objets d'obsession: neck corsets

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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.

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.