A commenter on this post made an excellent suggestion that someone tackle the lazies of the male persuasion. Honestly, i just love getting suggestions for posts, and couldn't pass this one up.
Without further ado:
I feel for the most part that this entire site, despite its nomenclature of "transformher", has been dedicated to the ways a man can become a better man. I speak frequently about the need for restraint. I celebrate the virtue and necessity of patience. I subscribe to the notion that what is done here, what i speak of is more than just about sex, but about finding an inner peace and connection with my partner.
But ultimately, the matter that sits at the core of my entire psyche is the unceasing creation of beauty. I know this word automatically has feminine inferences woven into it. Rare is it that someone would say "that man is beautiful" and even if they do, it is something that causes you to take express notice. Additionally, for my sake, beauty is not just physical attractiveness. In fact, we limit the power and prevalence of beauty if we only use physical characteristics as its ingredients.
How does one contribute beauty to the world? With the list of things i chose to highlight in my other post, you'd think offering something beautiful was arduous (you mean i have to wear high heels in order to contribute positively to the world?). Actually, it's quite simple. Just care. That's all you need to do. Care about other people, care about your loved ones, but most importantly, care about yourself.
I'm surrounded by men who have no problem oggling some cute thing fluttering by in her little mini skirt and wedges, all the while their potbellies pour onto the table from where they stuff their mouths with the worst, nutrient-deficient, fat-laden food on the planet. They demand that their women look a specific way - tiny, thin, attractive - yet they give no thought to how they themselves look. They dress like the clothes they own were as inconvenient a formality as the wrapper on their greasy cheeseburger. They take no pride in their appearance, whether it is how little attention they pay to their grooming habits (i have seen some collosally awful haircuts that men seem to care very little about) or how homogenized they've made their outfits (can anyone tell the difference between what a guy wore on Monday to what he wore on a Thursday?).
Let me provide a little background information to round out the context to where i'm coming from. I was raised on a ranch. My father did not wear bespoke clothing. His regular outfit was a plaid button down and some heavily-worn jeans. And that suited his vocation. However, whenever he found himself attending some public function, he made a point to be dressed as nicely and handsomely as possible. He never once was found at a social event not dressing or looking his best. Doing so spoke about the welfare of his family, but also provided other folks with a charming, dashing gentleman to occupy their visual sampling. He knew that there was a bigger purpose than all of us. And i remember giving him a great deal of grief as a boy on Sundays, when i couldn't understand his insistence that i wear my navy suit to "dumb ole church". His simple answer was stolen straight out of a J.D. Salinger story (a fact i didn't learn until years later, on my own, reading "Franny and Zooey").
"Do it for the Fat Lady."
As men, we ask a lot of our women. We ask them to be seductive co-eds. We ask them to be blushing brides. We ask them to be strong, pregnant ladies. We ask them to be diligent partners, and impeccable mothers to our children. All of this is fine and warranted, only if we ask of ourselves on magnitudes much, much higher. We are not under the same pressure that women are to look, act and dress a certain way.
But if i could slow things down, for just a moment, let me speak solely to my very, small male audience.
Do better.
Do and be better. Don't let fatigue allow you to let things slide. Don't let laziness be your calling card. Don't let busyness interrupt your ability to offer more.
If you need encouragement from a bigger force, know for certain that the world benefits when you take the time to care and acknowledge that your contribution on this day is to a much larger and spiritually fulfilling effort.
Showing posts with label behavior modification. Show all posts
Showing posts with label behavior modification. Show all posts
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Girl training
There are things that i should not know better how to do than women. Simply put, there is a deficit of femininity on display in this world, and i find it to be a travesty.
- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.
- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".
- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.
- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW
- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.
The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.
I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?
- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.
- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".
- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.
- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW
- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.
The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.
I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
In the city where i live, it is law that all citizens sort their garbage so that items that can be recycled are placed in separate (and color-coordinated) bags than regular refuse. In order to help educate the populace on which objects can be recycled and which cannot, the Sanitation Department has produced diagrams with smiling cartoony recycling containers and trash bins, illustrating the most common detritus that can be recycled and that which can be tossed. To me, it's pretty easy to decipher that which can be saved from that which should be junked. However, that is not apparently the case for others who reside in the city, because the Sanitation Department is frequently sending out these illustrations as well as issuing citations to those who fall in violation. People just can't seem to glean the fundamental guidelines. Unfortunately, my girl is among the guilty ones.
I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.
One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.
"What's this for?"
"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."
She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.
"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."
"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."
She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.
"17"
"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Proceed."
She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.
"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.
"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.
Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.
I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.
One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.
"What's this for?"
"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."
She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.
"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."
"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."
She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.
"17"
"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Proceed."
She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.
"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.
"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.
Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Price: fed
(This is part of a series. The previous episode can be found here)
A knock on his bureau door, tore him away from the file in his hand he'd been aimlessly studying.
"Yes?"
"Uhm, everything is as you asked," said the male voice on the other side of the closed door.
"Ahhh, yes. Good. Excellent."
The unseen person's footsteps sounded off their departure down the hallway that extended from his private den. Almost with a sense of gratitude for the interruption, he closed the manila folder, sliding it onto his desk. He stared intensely at a spot on the wall just beyond the oak appointment, while his fingers drummed out the patter of calculation. He'd nearly forgotten about these arrangements as their reminder came as a pleasant surprise.
He lifted himself from his chaise and stepped into the corridor. As he strode down the long, empty lane, with each step, he ran his fingers along the textured surface of the wall. Turning into the downward stairwell, he placed his weight on the top step, then flicked the switch just to the right of his shoulder. The quiet cellar beneath him illuminated with a dim, yellow glow. Cool air accompanied the silence as his escort for his descent.
A thin, dripping sound greeted his arrival to the cellar. As he gathered his bearings, his eyes fell upon the door marked "Arrivals", just opposite the landing of the stairs. He approached the door, and slid open the eye-level wooden hatch. Peering inside, he saw her.
Naked.
Curled up in a ball, squinting up at the intrusion of sudden light.
She'd turned, at the sound from the hatch opening, toward the thick wooden entrance, but as he had designed it, the imposing, luminating fixture aloft kept her from seeing anything of real recognition through the momentary slot in the door. He quickly sliced the panel shut.
Just to the right of the entrance to the cell, on top of a flimsy metal stand sat the interned inhabitant's nighttime meal. As instructed, he noticed a complete lack of utensils accompanying the tray of warm morsels. Lifting the coiled leather whip hanging from the wall, he grabbed a hold of the modest meal, and undid the latch to the door.
Pulling the loaded portal open, he stepped foot into the small prison. His presense - his warmth, his commotion, his smell - caused the collapsed girl to shrivel even more into her epidermal ball.
"Hello."
He didn't wait for nor expect a response.
He paced about the room, tray in one hand, leather flogger in the other, looking for a suitable place to rest her food. He settled for putting it right in front of her, on the cold concrete floor. The figure before him moved not a single inch.
"I'm not sure you understand what is to happen to you. As it has been told to me, you gave your full consent. However, i've come to learn, that isn't ever something the gift-giver completely grasps."
He crouched down to one knee, lowering himself so that his face hung just above her arm-covered head.
"Look at me." He spoke with a complete absence of urgency or contempt. She pulled her head out of the nest of her arms, and gave him a first-time view of her stunning, chestnut brown eyes.
"I've heard you are refusing to eat. That can't continue," on this command, she looked down at the aluminum tray of food at her feet. "I must apologize for the lack of proper utensils."
He took the butt of the whip's handle, and dug it into the scoop of beans occupying the upper right quadrant. Lifting this upward to her mouth, he held it in front of her face. Gradually, she opened it, allowing him to slowly place the thick, leather stave inside. With the smallest of movements, she cleaned the sweet, briny beans from the handle.
"Good girl."
He laid the whip over the tray, and stood back up. He brushed his hand over her head, feeling the warmth exuding from her crown, then stepped towards the open door.
"I expect to hear that you've finished all of that."
A knock on his bureau door, tore him away from the file in his hand he'd been aimlessly studying.
"Yes?"
"Uhm, everything is as you asked," said the male voice on the other side of the closed door.
"Ahhh, yes. Good. Excellent."
The unseen person's footsteps sounded off their departure down the hallway that extended from his private den. Almost with a sense of gratitude for the interruption, he closed the manila folder, sliding it onto his desk. He stared intensely at a spot on the wall just beyond the oak appointment, while his fingers drummed out the patter of calculation. He'd nearly forgotten about these arrangements as their reminder came as a pleasant surprise.
He lifted himself from his chaise and stepped into the corridor. As he strode down the long, empty lane, with each step, he ran his fingers along the textured surface of the wall. Turning into the downward stairwell, he placed his weight on the top step, then flicked the switch just to the right of his shoulder. The quiet cellar beneath him illuminated with a dim, yellow glow. Cool air accompanied the silence as his escort for his descent.
A thin, dripping sound greeted his arrival to the cellar. As he gathered his bearings, his eyes fell upon the door marked "Arrivals", just opposite the landing of the stairs. He approached the door, and slid open the eye-level wooden hatch. Peering inside, he saw her.
Naked.
Curled up in a ball, squinting up at the intrusion of sudden light.
She'd turned, at the sound from the hatch opening, toward the thick wooden entrance, but as he had designed it, the imposing, luminating fixture aloft kept her from seeing anything of real recognition through the momentary slot in the door. He quickly sliced the panel shut.
Just to the right of the entrance to the cell, on top of a flimsy metal stand sat the interned inhabitant's nighttime meal. As instructed, he noticed a complete lack of utensils accompanying the tray of warm morsels. Lifting the coiled leather whip hanging from the wall, he grabbed a hold of the modest meal, and undid the latch to the door.
Pulling the loaded portal open, he stepped foot into the small prison. His presense - his warmth, his commotion, his smell - caused the collapsed girl to shrivel even more into her epidermal ball.
"Hello."
He didn't wait for nor expect a response.
He paced about the room, tray in one hand, leather flogger in the other, looking for a suitable place to rest her food. He settled for putting it right in front of her, on the cold concrete floor. The figure before him moved not a single inch.
"I'm not sure you understand what is to happen to you. As it has been told to me, you gave your full consent. However, i've come to learn, that isn't ever something the gift-giver completely grasps."
He crouched down to one knee, lowering himself so that his face hung just above her arm-covered head.
"Look at me." He spoke with a complete absence of urgency or contempt. She pulled her head out of the nest of her arms, and gave him a first-time view of her stunning, chestnut brown eyes.
"I've heard you are refusing to eat. That can't continue," on this command, she looked down at the aluminum tray of food at her feet. "I must apologize for the lack of proper utensils."
He took the butt of the whip's handle, and dug it into the scoop of beans occupying the upper right quadrant. Lifting this upward to her mouth, he held it in front of her face. Gradually, she opened it, allowing him to slowly place the thick, leather stave inside. With the smallest of movements, she cleaned the sweet, briny beans from the handle.
"Good girl."
He laid the whip over the tray, and stood back up. He brushed his hand over her head, feeling the warmth exuding from her crown, then stepped towards the open door.
"I expect to hear that you've finished all of that."
Friday, August 29, 2008
ces choses
these things you need weren't there before.
these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.
these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.
what happened to you?
you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.
you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?
you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.
still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.
you've changed. what happened to you?
what happened to me? i've changed too.
my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.
i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.
i've become attached to these things. Quite so.
these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.
these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.
what happened to you?
you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.
you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?
you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.
still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.
you've changed. what happened to you?
what happened to me? i've changed too.
my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.
i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.
i've become attached to these things. Quite so.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sugasm #135
Sugasm #135
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #136? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
The Angel and the Devil
“Upon looking at my creamy white and feeling my soft lips you would think I am an angel.”
How To Approach A Dominant Woman
“Wrong way: Perhaps you know me from my blog….”
Intimate
“Lying back so the full aura from the lamp lights the area in question, I spread my legs and let him see.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
How does one trust?
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Muffles
Monday, June 2, 2008
Muffles
You never thought to ask, which you knew would yield you no answers if you had. You just stood there patiently still as i meticulously stretched a measuring tape over your body's different bends and angles. Initially, i stuck to the rudimentary lengths. Your waist, your bust, your trunk, the extent of your long, beautiful legs. Shortly after, you noticed that i started coming to you with a pencil in my mouth, and one of my small, leather-bound black notebooks in hand where i jotted down the measurements of such things as the width from your thumb to your pinkie, the span of your inner elbow, and yes, even the diameter of the entrance to your ears. All the while i'd smile, sometimes raise my eyes in surprise, and occasionally, my findings would elicit an exasperated "couldn't be!" from under my breath.
By now, i think i've grown accustomed to your lack of inquiry of my doings. I came and went with full knowledge of what i wanted, and later realized how easily you complied. This led me to contemplate how far you've progressed in your overall training. It amazes me what you are now capable of enduring and accepting as normal. Quite frankly, it titillates and arouses me. It fills me with such pride and elation, that i have been able to go with you on this journey. And it is precisely the reason why i feel with confidence your ability to handle what i had planned for you next.
When we sat at the table this morning for breakfast, you had no idea what i had as the centerpiece in my head. You were unaware that the dinner party we had scheduled for tonight would take a detour away from the social evening you expected. You couldn't know what i'd done with those well over 40 different measurements of your body. You couldn't expect the 4'X3'X4' shiny ivory-white sarcophagus that will be delivered later this afternoon. You cannot imagine the near-perfect negative relief the rigid foam insides of the box make of your gorgeous naked, packaged body. You won't anticipate the three inserts strategically positioned to hold open your mouth, your cunt and your asshole, dilating them to levels you have not yet experienced.
And once inside, once the darkness of the lid snapped tightly shut ensconces your mind, you will have no idea how to the outside observer, these three "orifices" appear as only smooth, featureless holes available for whatever use they may wish upon them. They do not reveal the nude creature muffling in near silence, deep within.
By now, i think i've grown accustomed to your lack of inquiry of my doings. I came and went with full knowledge of what i wanted, and later realized how easily you complied. This led me to contemplate how far you've progressed in your overall training. It amazes me what you are now capable of enduring and accepting as normal. Quite frankly, it titillates and arouses me. It fills me with such pride and elation, that i have been able to go with you on this journey. And it is precisely the reason why i feel with confidence your ability to handle what i had planned for you next.
When we sat at the table this morning for breakfast, you had no idea what i had as the centerpiece in my head. You were unaware that the dinner party we had scheduled for tonight would take a detour away from the social evening you expected. You couldn't know what i'd done with those well over 40 different measurements of your body. You couldn't expect the 4'X3'X4' shiny ivory-white sarcophagus that will be delivered later this afternoon. You cannot imagine the near-perfect negative relief the rigid foam insides of the box make of your gorgeous naked, packaged body. You won't anticipate the three inserts strategically positioned to hold open your mouth, your cunt and your asshole, dilating them to levels you have not yet experienced.
And once inside, once the darkness of the lid snapped tightly shut ensconces your mind, you will have no idea how to the outside observer, these three "orifices" appear as only smooth, featureless holes available for whatever use they may wish upon them. They do not reveal the nude creature muffling in near silence, deep within.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Coffee with Deity
Hi. I'm Stormy, here only in Deity's temporary absence. You'll have him back soon, I promise.
---------
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
---------
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
Indeed, I was.
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
When i feel that you are ready, i lead you through a slow discussion of what you'd confessed to me online. I force you to talk explicitly about the things you want done to you. I demand that you speak at the same conversational level that we were previously. You are made to describe why you believe you deserve to be treated this way, why you have come to meet me at the cafe, and why you know this has to happen.
As each minute passes with you not taking your eyes from mine, i strip you of your vices. I remove you of your hangups. I peel away your vulnerabilities. At a certain point, you'll disappear.
At a certain point, you'll be gone.
Indeed, I was.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A year older
"I don't think i can handle 27 of them this year."
This astounds me to hear. An offering of doubt, of her abilities. I'm simply struck by it.
You see, every year, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth, my girl receives a swat for every year she's been on this planet. But, the fun doesn't stop there. She also, when my birthday comes around, receives the appropriate number of commemorative strokes on her naked behind. So, to be completely forthcoming regarding her above statement of doubt, she is really speaking about the cumulative spankings.
Frankly, i have no doubts whether or not she can endure this number. When the overall total of spankings she receives in a calendar year are accounted for, those that fall on our birthdays really only make up a small percentage. What i believe her reticence stems from is less the corporal administration and more the other grandiose gestures she's been asked to endure lately.
I think i do far too little acknowledgment of the total growth that she and i have made both individually and collectively. I do not always honor the commitment she makes to regular physical correction, nor do i give myself the credit i should to allow myself the enjoyment of such a remarkable outlet in my life that i'm able to exercise.
She made it through 27 lashes quite beautifully. I can't state with any sufficient amount of affection how proud of her i am for enduring this physical duress. I can only look forward to the time when my own birthday arrives, and once again, i can apply a fine-tuned amount of force on her naked backside.
This astounds me to hear. An offering of doubt, of her abilities. I'm simply struck by it.
You see, every year, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth, my girl receives a swat for every year she's been on this planet. But, the fun doesn't stop there. She also, when my birthday comes around, receives the appropriate number of commemorative strokes on her naked behind. So, to be completely forthcoming regarding her above statement of doubt, she is really speaking about the cumulative spankings.
Frankly, i have no doubts whether or not she can endure this number. When the overall total of spankings she receives in a calendar year are accounted for, those that fall on our birthdays really only make up a small percentage. What i believe her reticence stems from is less the corporal administration and more the other grandiose gestures she's been asked to endure lately.
I think i do far too little acknowledgment of the total growth that she and i have made both individually and collectively. I do not always honor the commitment she makes to regular physical correction, nor do i give myself the credit i should to allow myself the enjoyment of such a remarkable outlet in my life that i'm able to exercise.
She made it through 27 lashes quite beautifully. I can't state with any sufficient amount of affection how proud of her i am for enduring this physical duress. I can only look forward to the time when my own birthday arrives, and once again, i can apply a fine-tuned amount of force on her naked backside.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Go to sleep
Every night, i have my girl ask me if she can go to bed. That wasn't always the rule. It grew more out of an impulse that i developed.
Once we moved in together, we noticed that our bedtimes did not coincide with each other. She's one that really requires a good amount of sleep, and i'm one who can do with very little. I've always been this way, never enjoying the act of sleeping. In fact "sleeping in" for me usually has me crawling out of bed at the late hour of 7:30 AM. My girl, on the other hand, really enjoys, but more importantly, values sleep. This is not to say that she is one of those marathon slumberers who can doze until 3 in the afternoon. But, compared to me, she might as well be Nip Van Winkle.
Very often, i would escort her to bed, and naturally felt an urge to tuck her in. I loved wiping the hair out of her eyes, speaking a few soothing words to her and giving her a kiss on her forehead. This urge came and went, until one evening she was lumbering off to the bedroom and i demanded where she was going.
"I'm going to bed."
"Don't you think you should ask first?"
"Is that something i need to do now?"
I'm not one of those dominants who demands a strict, micro-managed regiment of minute-by-minute approvals for everything that she does. In fact, i have nearly enough of that at work, i couldn't fathom trying to manage it in my relationship. However, something about putting a lien on the slumber ritual really stimulated me. It both calmed and excited me to tuck my girl in at the end of the day. At its essence, i wanted to put her away.
We do not use terms like "daddy" or "little girl". In fact, i believe we'd tried them, and they just felt false. But the sentiment behind those terms are very much at play here. I enjoy the idea that she looks to me for correction, guidance, and wisdom but that she also exposes herself to me so that i can soil her, debase her and suspend her idolatrous innocence long enough for me to use her, and then, send her off to bed.
Once we moved in together, we noticed that our bedtimes did not coincide with each other. She's one that really requires a good amount of sleep, and i'm one who can do with very little. I've always been this way, never enjoying the act of sleeping. In fact "sleeping in" for me usually has me crawling out of bed at the late hour of 7:30 AM. My girl, on the other hand, really enjoys, but more importantly, values sleep. This is not to say that she is one of those marathon slumberers who can doze until 3 in the afternoon. But, compared to me, she might as well be Nip Van Winkle.
Very often, i would escort her to bed, and naturally felt an urge to tuck her in. I loved wiping the hair out of her eyes, speaking a few soothing words to her and giving her a kiss on her forehead. This urge came and went, until one evening she was lumbering off to the bedroom and i demanded where she was going.
"I'm going to bed."
"Don't you think you should ask first?"
"Is that something i need to do now?"
I'm not one of those dominants who demands a strict, micro-managed regiment of minute-by-minute approvals for everything that she does. In fact, i have nearly enough of that at work, i couldn't fathom trying to manage it in my relationship. However, something about putting a lien on the slumber ritual really stimulated me. It both calmed and excited me to tuck my girl in at the end of the day. At its essence, i wanted to put her away.
We do not use terms like "daddy" or "little girl". In fact, i believe we'd tried them, and they just felt false. But the sentiment behind those terms are very much at play here. I enjoy the idea that she looks to me for correction, guidance, and wisdom but that she also exposes herself to me so that i can soil her, debase her and suspend her idolatrous innocence long enough for me to use her, and then, send her off to bed.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Do-(min)ate yourself
There is not one way to fulfill the role of a dominant in a relationship, nor do i treat these pages as my way of telling those of you interested how to take control of your submissive partner. For many reasons, that labor holds no interest for me.
Firstly, if one could imagine my site as a graphical and lyrical expression of my dominant facet, when placed, in comparison, next to sites put up by other Alpha males, a vivid difference appears. Better put, one stern hand does not fit all bottoms.
Secondly, as much as anyone who visits here feels they have grown to know me through my words and my subject matter (alas, it is not possible to know me only through this portal), i know even less about the hands that click their way here and move my site counter gradually forward. I would not make prescriptions for folks i have no intelligence on regarding their backgrounds and circumstances because that lends itself to potentially unsafe situations. As much as i often let the gush of sexual arousal overcome me, safety, above all else, is the predominant rule in the House of Deity.
Having dispensed of those necessary disclaimers, i believe i can get on with the main course of this post. I've studied both academically and carnally the art of sadistic administration, and practiced my findings over many years. Through this long, concerted campaign of torturing beautiful girls, i've learned insider secrets, shortcuts, things-best-to-avoid and simple methods that, when employed devilishly, have achieved some fantastic results. I would like to offer some of this (sometimes clumsily attained) wisdom to the readers of "Her Erotic Demise" in the form of pointers.
I have in mind several topical areas i'd like to address, but as this is an online journal whose chief strength is its capacity for interactivity, i invite the fine folks who come by to submit their own requests. Either drop me a comment or an e-mail indicating a specific area of interest you'd like to hear a few pearls on (assuming i even have them on that particular subject).
Firstly, if one could imagine my site as a graphical and lyrical expression of my dominant facet, when placed, in comparison, next to sites put up by other Alpha males, a vivid difference appears. Better put, one stern hand does not fit all bottoms.
Secondly, as much as anyone who visits here feels they have grown to know me through my words and my subject matter (alas, it is not possible to know me only through this portal), i know even less about the hands that click their way here and move my site counter gradually forward. I would not make prescriptions for folks i have no intelligence on regarding their backgrounds and circumstances because that lends itself to potentially unsafe situations. As much as i often let the gush of sexual arousal overcome me, safety, above all else, is the predominant rule in the House of Deity.
Having dispensed of those necessary disclaimers, i believe i can get on with the main course of this post. I've studied both academically and carnally the art of sadistic administration, and practiced my findings over many years. Through this long, concerted campaign of torturing beautiful girls, i've learned insider secrets, shortcuts, things-best-to-avoid and simple methods that, when employed devilishly, have achieved some fantastic results. I would like to offer some of this (sometimes clumsily attained) wisdom to the readers of "Her Erotic Demise" in the form of pointers.
I have in mind several topical areas i'd like to address, but as this is an online journal whose chief strength is its capacity for interactivity, i invite the fine folks who come by to submit their own requests. Either drop me a comment or an e-mail indicating a specific area of interest you'd like to hear a few pearls on (assuming i even have them on that particular subject).
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Heavy machinery
I'm not sure where i developed a desire to physically modify the female form, but i know i have a serious hankering for it. To the point where i have a well fortified bimbo fetish. The aspect that informs my fascination in bimbos doesn't come from their cookie-cutter quality of platinum blond sexpots with 44D busoms. What attracts me to the notion of a "girl-next-door" submitting to the process of transformation into the next Pam Anderson is the idea that she's making permanent changes to her body in order to fulfill a sexual desire.
Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.
I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".
She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.
Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.
Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.
I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.
In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.
All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.
In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.
Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.
I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".
She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.
Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.
Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.
I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.
In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.
All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.
In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sugasm #93
Sugasm #93
Mon 20th Aug, 07
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Mon 20th Aug, 07
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Monday, July 30, 2007
Playing with my Barbie
I had the worst hobby as a young boy. The kind that no "lettered in Football", Special Forces in Vietnam, self-made rags-to-riches father would ever want his son to have.
I played with dolls.
I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.
Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.
As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.
Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.
I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.
The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.
And then, i go further.
I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.
"barbie likes"
At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.
My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.
I played with dolls.
I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.
Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.
As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.
Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.
I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.
The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.
And then, i go further.
I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.
"barbie likes"
At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.
My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.
Sugasm #90
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
I honestly hadn't given the subject too much thought before i decided to write about it. Of course, as is my way, i sought to cram it into the "transformation" mold which is the baseline for all my thinking, leading me to break the process of swatting my girl down into metamorphic stages.
Surprising her:
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.
"OH!"
Swatting her:
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.
Do i want her standing or over my knee?
If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.
If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.
This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.
Marking her:
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.
"36"
Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.
In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.
Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.
Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.
All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.
Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.
Surprising her:
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.
"OH!"
Swatting her:
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.
Do i want her standing or over my knee?
If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.
If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.
This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.
Marking her:
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.
"36"
Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.
In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.
Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.
Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.
All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.
Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Worshipping post-erior
She says she needs it. This is not her parroting a phrase I have commanded her to repeat. She offers this out of her own demented, hungry volition.
“I really need a spanking.”
There’s that tone again. She asks where I want her: At the end of the bed, standing, legs spread, holding onto the frame. Skirt raised over her hips.
I examine her delicate ass, each geodetic cheek tensely held at attention. I do not forget the voyage it took to get her here. How three years ago, she’d never once been swatted, even by her own parents. How she blushed from her southern to her northern pole when I first positioned myself behind her, slowly pulling her frilly underthings down around her knees. How numerous stern corrections were uttered, directing her to “stick it out”, “point it at me”, “bend it upward”, until she knew exactly how I wanted it displayed. How on those days where she could not maintain position, I would have to pause to bind her hands to the frame and lock a spreader bar on her ankles. I don’t forget any of this. I merely proceed to act as one who’s made careful modifications on the proper behavior of his toy, and worship her ass.
I rub my hand over her satiny skin, noting to occasionally scrape across her flesh with my blunt thumbnail. I pull apart the two backside mounds, and look at her hidden, violet bud. Coming to one knee, I kiss her right cheek, taking in the perfume of her freshly cleaned body as if it were the original purpose of my sense of smell.
Sweat, the kind found behind skin that lays against skin.
Warmth, epidermis heated by her response to this attention.
Sweetness, her unique offering that titillates the taste buds on the tip of my tongue.
I linger here. Instead of following the protocol that one does at a busy art museum, I stand right in front of the object and stare, hogging the best view for myself. I suddenly notice her breath. It comes in stutters. I touch her right cheek with my palm, then swiftly pull it off, throwing it back into the air behind me. She winces. Her ass clenches, revealing the dimples on the inner, lower half of each side. I slap my hand hard against her backside, splashing heat across her skin. I wait, making no noise, in order to hear her groaning surrender.
I then continue with fulfilling her need.
*this continues on here
“I really need a spanking.”
There’s that tone again. She asks where I want her: At the end of the bed, standing, legs spread, holding onto the frame. Skirt raised over her hips.
I examine her delicate ass, each geodetic cheek tensely held at attention. I do not forget the voyage it took to get her here. How three years ago, she’d never once been swatted, even by her own parents. How she blushed from her southern to her northern pole when I first positioned myself behind her, slowly pulling her frilly underthings down around her knees. How numerous stern corrections were uttered, directing her to “stick it out”, “point it at me”, “bend it upward”, until she knew exactly how I wanted it displayed. How on those days where she could not maintain position, I would have to pause to bind her hands to the frame and lock a spreader bar on her ankles. I don’t forget any of this. I merely proceed to act as one who’s made careful modifications on the proper behavior of his toy, and worship her ass.
I rub my hand over her satiny skin, noting to occasionally scrape across her flesh with my blunt thumbnail. I pull apart the two backside mounds, and look at her hidden, violet bud. Coming to one knee, I kiss her right cheek, taking in the perfume of her freshly cleaned body as if it were the original purpose of my sense of smell.
Sweat, the kind found behind skin that lays against skin.
Warmth, epidermis heated by her response to this attention.
Sweetness, her unique offering that titillates the taste buds on the tip of my tongue.
I linger here. Instead of following the protocol that one does at a busy art museum, I stand right in front of the object and stare, hogging the best view for myself. I suddenly notice her breath. It comes in stutters. I touch her right cheek with my palm, then swiftly pull it off, throwing it back into the air behind me. She winces. Her ass clenches, revealing the dimples on the inner, lower half of each side. I slap my hand hard against her backside, splashing heat across her skin. I wait, making no noise, in order to hear her groaning surrender.
I then continue with fulfilling her need.
*this continues on here
Monday, June 18, 2007
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