Context

This goes without saying seeing as where it is being said, however, this whole game of SM goes nowhere without context.

It's not that you want someone to pull your hair, just out of the blue. That would be rather painful, and incredibly infuriating. You do not walk the streets hoping some complete stranger would yank on your submissive/masochistic chain (already!). Nor do you wish that random strangers would call you slut as you passed by. There must exist a framework through which you are open to these activities, otherwise, these scary, edgy activities we partake in would really be scary. This is my concern with all of the SM-laced torture porn you see in movies like Saw and Hostel. It has the potential to normalize acting without that context, taking steps to treat someone in these brutal ways without establishing that critical framework. And that is the really scary thing.

With the advent of free or pirated porn on the Internet significantly increasing the amount of sexual material consumed, there are many folks who are concerned with how the female porn star look seems to creep ever more and more into normal society. This is certainly supported by the media outlets that do nothing but cover the myopic obsession female "celebrities" have with going under the knife. I have equal concerns as i browse through tumblr and i encounter captions that seem to indicate every girl in every situation should be viewed as a "slut" "whore" or "slave". I might be a bit too alarming in this paragraph, but do believe it is worth mentioning. It takes a very specific, carefully crafted environment for those sort of terms to have an erotic effect on me, and most photos i see in tumblr do not achieve it.

But just as i have concerns about what these materials might say about any girl who would be interested in assuming the role of a submissive bottom, i'm equally concerned about what it seems to say about the dominant Top. If we took our cue from the torture porn movies, sadistic Tops are mentally unstable. We have some serious bone to pick with young women, and our lust for revenge is greater than our lust for our "victim".

I do not seek to spank every bottom that i encounter. I do not hanker to wrap my hands in every girl's hair and pull them to their knees. I do not wish to impose my dress code and manner of behavior on the entirety of femalehood. That would be psychopathic.

The summarizing point of all this is to say both me and my girl worked our asses off to design, establish and construct this context that allows us to operate the way we do. I don't want that diminished by someone who minimizes its importance because they don't understand, but more aptly, i don't want to see it made extinct.

Burlessque and less

I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).

As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.

Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.

That's it. That's the story.





Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.

A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.

Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"

***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***

Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.

But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.

All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.

Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.

There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).

For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.

A year of a little less lustful quality

As i trained myself to no longer append "09" to the end of the date and instead use "10", it occurred to me that it was time to summarize the year that has passed on this site. I suppose the title i've chosen for this post is a bit misleading. It might imply that there has been an overall deficit in erotic thrills in my life, but that is definitely not what i mean to imply. As i scanned the rolls of posts that i penned last year, when comparing their amount to years before, i noticed that the number was considerably less. I went from an inaugural output in 2007 of 98 posts, to an unimaginable 125 the next year, then plummeted in 2009 to a measly 68. There are several factors that led to this.

The initial factor comes through very clearly when i look at the posts in the first quarter of 2009. While i'm quite found of the post i wrote about where i turned my girl into a stool, something feels off when you notice i followed it not long after with another favorite of mine involving my gambling with her ability to control her jaw. Even i can see that these are not that different from eachother. Inwardly, i was sensing a bit of redundancy on my part, but i didn't want to mention it. I was hoping i could overcome it. I made it through February, whose highlight was a piece about how the body's reactions can betray the mind, but then i hit my first road bump. I turned to my readers for inspiration, and the posts that followed, while worthy enough to read, don't sound particularly inspired. Another month followed, and the only post in that time that continues to excite me was one in which i compelled you, the reader, to give into temptation. Otherwise, it was as if i was a visitor at my own site. I spoke with nostalgia about those in my past in a clinical tone, one that sounded as if i hoped to squelch any of my emotional connection to the site. I've been in enough failed romances to know what that signals.

The end.

And it came.

I stepped away. I gave myself space. I took the time i devoted to writing on The Lustful Quality and spent it not writing at all (which is something that was COMPLETELY new for me. I've always written). Instead, i took many a walk and spent as little time as i could in front of a computer screen.

A week passed (this may not seem like a long time, but you see, i had been regularly posting, on average - when not on vacation - every three days). Then another. And soon it was a month. I didn't think about the site all that much, which i think was very good for me. But after a point, i started to miss authoring my thoughts as Deity. I still lived my "life" as Deity, but i didn't so much document it as him. And i started to miss that. The thing that i missed the most was writing without pause, without any concern for who was reading my output. That's how i wrote when i first began TransformHer. I just wrote. I didn't know if three people would read it let alone thirty. It was in fact how i'd been writing for the decades prior to me starting this site.

Finally after almost two months away, i came back. Two things immediately changed about my output. I posted more infrequently, which was such a relief to not feel like i had to stuff anything i could throw together into these digital tubes once three days had passed. More importantly, i posted with much more reckless abandon.

You can hear that in this post. It's not the "hottest" or "sexiest" post, but it's exactly what i wanted to write about. I also posted more poems. I haven't the foggiest idea if those are the reasons why you come to read my blathering, but i had to think if it wasn't, you'd move on. Now mind you, this reckless abandon did have its drawbacks.

I got in some serious hot water when i attempted to take a shortcut with a post by piling three disjointed ideas into one, and not really taking heed of the sensitive ground i was treading in that assemblage. Asserting that i was merely addressing the difficult topic of the marks of femininity with a non-chalant, carefree manner in the comments to this post only continued to make the situation worse. Thankfully, my girl came to my aid, to provide deference on my behalf, which i rarely seem to possess.

It was, in the end, a real-life lesson of the principle that if you decide to say whatever you want without regards for your audience, they can take either issue with you or take their eyes elsewhere. It was an important lesson to absorb. For here as well as elsewhere in my life.

My favorite post in the last three months, and the one that really symbolized to me my "return" was my contribution to lg's orgasm project. I felt challenged by the task. It took a great deal of thought about what i wanted to say and how i should construct it, and all of this mental acuity stripped away any target other than myself. In the end, what i posted was for me. I wrote on a subject that i'd always wanted to explore in a manner i'd always wanted to hear.

At the beginning of 2010 (Two-thousand ten or Twenty ten - i'm still undecided), i'm not sure where i'll take Her Erotic Demise. I've really enjoyed my expansion to Tumblr, my audience is very different (read: more males) than it is here because most of what i post is images rather than words, so that difference is an interesting experience. Also, I've been pondering adding a vocal component to this site in the form of a podcast.

Whatever i decide here at The Lustful Quality, i assure you that there will be a lot more, with a particular emphasis on quality. Thank you all for your patience and your visits.

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

Many years ago, i created a profile on one of the more prominent personal sites for those seeking an SM relationship. I was very curious, as online dating was just starting to really pick up steam, and thought it would be fun to venture into the kinky partition. I spent a little time filling out my profile, not much, but enough to get across the message that i wasn't seeking a "slave or a sub" nor was i needing the girl to refer to me as "Master" or "Lord" or "Sir" anything. I remember ploughing through the checklist of interests with rapid concentration. You had to indicate whether you'd be interested in receiving or giving of the particular activity (i.e. spanking) as well as indicating your experience level (never tried but curious; very experienced; or completely avoid). Without knowing what this said about me (because i didn't spend a great deal looking at other folks profiles), the manner in which i answered these questions gave my profile a specific expertise level. Apparently, i was advanced in my deviancy.

I enjoyed sampling the number of local girls (i was only looking for any interaction with someone who lived in my city) who largely expressed their (mostly) reluctant interest in being dominated by a man. This made sense to me. If you were reluctant to pursue a kinky connection, it was pragmatic to test the waters in a relatively safe online environment. But, i didn't completely understand what these girls meant by "being dominated by a man" and still don't understand what this means when i encounter this in the naughty blogosphere. I consider myself a dominant male, but i've never seen my behavior as dominating. When it has felt right, i've seen my behavior as guiding, mesmerizing and arousing. I didn't know if these girls were just looking for a much more pushy version of the typical spineless, insecure male they were used to being with, or if indeed they sought the deep connection i've found when reducing a girl to an object.

I found a good number of girls to be outright enticing as presented through their profile, but chose not to contact any of them. Content for now to just act as a voyeur, i logged in every few days to monitor the activity. I'd been on the site for about a week before i received my first message. It was adorable in its frenetic brevity. She was very timid and unsure, but she expressed a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out to find out more about the man i described myself as. We had a few conversations, and it became clear that my desires were much more extreme than perhaps she wanted at the moment. We parted ways in a pleasant manner - her wishing me luck in my search, me wishing her to be safe and to guard herself diligently. Most of the exchanges (all initiated by the girl) i had on this site proceeded like this, with me at the end wishing to secure each of these novices against what i observed as unexperienced and misguided trolls posing as "Dominants".

I'd nearly given up hope on ever finding a reasonably entertaining and challenging plaything, when out of nowhere Pamela [not her real name] dropped me a very reticent and cautious line. I'll never forget the exact wording of her note:

I'm not even sure why i'm on this site or even why i'm writing to you, but you sound unlike any other man i've found here, and even if you weren't that refreshing, and despite the fact you don't post a pic of yourself, i can't help but get the sense that you are an incredibly attractive person.

I sat on her message for a few days. I liked that it was just mine. I hadn't responded yet, so, to her there was no real existence of me. Just a profile. Whereas i got to sit and read those words and couldn't help but feel their genuineness and their utter flattery. She showed intelligence, confidence, but also a deep vein of curiosity in just her words. I contemplated not even replying, ditching the site completely, but then i abdicated and wrote her back.

I wish now that i hadn't.

Tapped

I can feel it. It's like a slightly bad taste in the back of my mouth. Almost sourness.

I've been authoring the Lustful Quality for nearly two years, and my interest in continuing to do so waxes and wanes. I currently happen to be in a trough. A rather deep one, which can be seen in the delay between my posts (and perhaps even sensed in the words).

Well, one of the ways i know that rejuvenates my passion to share on these pages is to present myself with challenges. For a new challenge, i'd like to tap my audience.

I invite all of you to ask me the question you've always wanted to ask me, but were afraid to ask. The naughtier, seedier and riskier the better. I can't promise i'll offer an answer publicly (due to privacy issues) to all of them, but those i can, i will take the opportunity to spill my beans upon these cavernous walls.

Either leave your question in my comments, or if you prefer, you can e-mail them to me: dominantdeity (at) gmail (dot) com.

Now, don't be shy, let'em fly.

Change

I occasionally gather the loose pieces of metallic monies that float around in my pockets and deposit them into a bowl in my cupboards. Over time, this will then be hauled to a bank to get counted and turned into hard cash which i store in an undisclosed container found in my storage closet. I first started doing this on September 14th, 2001. Three days after a massive attack of proportions still unfathomed upon the city that i reside, it became clear to me that i needed an immediate fund of cash that i could access in just such an emergency - when cellphones didn't make outgoing calls; when lines extended 3 blocks long just to pull out a $20 dollar bill from an ATM; when you weren't certain if you'd need, let alone be able to get, fresh, clean water. I compiled my coinage, and since then have accumulated a nice, comfortable amount of greenbacks to help me in a dire situation. All of this, came from change. Simply that - change.

Two days ago i witnessed firsthand the peaceful transition of US governmental power from one man to another. I stood amongst a crowd of millions, surrounded by those whose hearts were designed to beat for this moment, the time when this country decided that "Liberty and Justice for All" could now be taken literally. I cried, i sobbed, and i reflected on all of what i was witnessing. Change. Simple, uninterrupted change. Our country will never be the same. All of this seems so small, so minuscule. How much can one man accomplish? Why is this the question that dominates the airwaves? Why do we ponder what he has yet to do for this nation rather than to simply contemplate what his ascension to this office has already allowed? There has most certainly been a shift, an alteration, an offering of options that lay ahead.

I can say with great confidence that as i have pondered, from time to time, the bundle of bills that sit in wait in my utility closet for that moment i may call upon them to help me out of a jam, the right man at the right time has taken the helm and will steer this ship with as much wind to his aft that we can possibly lend it.

What lies behind door number three?

She'd been complaining earlier that day that her breath was labored. Sometimes, she felt a sudden need to take a very big gulp of air, and when she inhaled, her lungs never felt satisfied. At one point, she stopped in mid-sentence, just to breathe in. Seeing this, i decided to alter the designs i had on the evening, tossing out revisiting the new hood or dipping into our rope supply. Instead, i decided to play a game with my girl.

I'd been out with a friend, going for a 4-mile run, then celebrating our well-winded constitutions with hot wings and a pint. I returned home to a checked-off list of completed chores, finding her seated on our couch, knitting. When i sat next to her, i noticed she'd slid on the thigh-high striped socks i'd purchased for her from American Apparel. This sent a very distinct signal that i happily received.

"What motivated you to wear those?"

"These? Oh, i was cold, and i knew you wouldn't like me wearing pants."

Grrr. Correct answer. She must've known what this was doing to me. She'd gone to the hair salon earlier where she re-dyed her hair a deep, oily black and got it fashionably styled. After such pampering, she always felt frisky. Without much internal discussion, as she purred against my chest, i decided to take the bait.

"Do you like games?"

"Absolutely."

"Would you like to play a game right now?"

"Yes. I would."

"Sit tight, i'll be right back."

I hopped up from my seat and moved to the rear of the apartment where i gathered the necessary game pieces, strewing them about strategically. Memorizing the location of all implements, i returned to the living room and my patiently purring girl.

"Congratulations! You've advanced to the final round. Come with me."

I grabbed her hand and led her into my study. I extended a finger in the direction of my closet door.

"This is Door #1."

I then pointed at the built-in drawer beneath my semi-closet.

"This is Door #2."

I shuffled us into the hallway and pointed at our closed bathroom door.

"And this is Door #3."

Walking her back to my study, i continued:

"Behind each door, there are three separate* implements with which i will use to swat your behind. Now, which door will you choose!"

She gave it some thought, pausing, letting the moment effervesce into the air.

"Well, for posterity sakes, i think i'll choose...i'll choose door number 3."

Now, before i showed my girl her fate, i knew as i was setting up this stratagem that she would choose "Door #3", so that she had fulfilled my expectations made me incredibly giddy. With great excitement, i anticipated the reaction she would provide once i swung open her chosen portal. I knew imbued with her choice was a sense of victory, but because i'd rigged the game, victory was not hers. Victory was mine.

"Are you ready to see your selection?"

"uh-huh."

I grasped the brass door knob and twisted it open to reveal the device that would be slashed across her naked flesh. The expected gasp came shortly after.

"Ahhhh! I hate that thing."

I of course knew this. Despite the fact that i'd called it a game, it really was a con, and she was the mark. I grabbed the three meter dowel rod, and moved the game's finale to the bedroom.

*I emphasize "separate". Because my girl reads this site and because i intend on engaging in this game again, i will not divulge the exact weaponry i had laid out. Just know that the deck was stacked heavily in my favor, and that she was certainly not going to 'win' no matter which door she chose. I know...at least i gave her a "choice".

Cradled

I waited until she'd started her shower, rummaging through my collection for the necessary equipment. In the background, i could hear the sound of water pouring forth from the shower nozzle onto her body, cleansing her. In a few minutes, i would provide my own form of cleansing.

I stood at the end of the bed, looking at each post, then studying the steel scrollwork that formed the footboard. I spread my legs as far as i could, until each foot rested against the bed's supporting trestle. I gathered my bearings, feeling how much balance i'd lost from when i was just standing straight up. I examined the thick, black railing that travelled between the two posts. I rested my wrists on it, spreading them as far out as i could.

More. I'd need more.

I leaned my torso forward so that my arms could lie against the railing. I noticed the arch in my back in this position.

More. I'd want more.

I folded my top half fully over the bar, pressing the center of my chest into it. This brought my entirety of both arms in contact with the rail, even my armpit rested on it, but more importantly, it caused an extreme, even taxing arch of the back. My butt peaked into the air like a mountain ridge - impassable, unavoidable, intense.

I'd found my posture.

She emerged from the shower, glistening with freshness. Truthfully, i adore every inch of my girl, but my favorite moments to put my hands and mouth on and in every crevice and cavity is right after she's bathed.

"Darling, are you gon-"

I interrupted her by grabbing her by the wrist and directed her to the bathroom. She followed silently, accepting of the transaction about to take place. I pressed her body into the bed's end and asked her to let me know if she should grow cold. I then set to work.

Feverishly, i grabbed a coil of jute, positioned her right ankle to the same spot my own was in modeling this posture. I quickly anchored her foot to the bed, traveling up her leg, attaching every twelve inches or so the rest of her thigh to the bed's frame. I switched to her other leg, and mirrored my rigging. I specifically pulled the rope that ran just under her ass cheeks on both sides particularly tight for three reasons:

-this cradle would provide an inordinate amount of support and security to her, allowing her to lean back in the bondage
-it pinched the meat of her ass, causing it to bubble out and protrude in a cartoon-like fashion
-it would trap more blood in the sub-cutaneous levels, resulting in dramatically-enhanced markings from the cane

I fashioned her arms to the railing with as much greediness as i had enjoyed on her legs. In fact, several times, i had to pause and re-adjust the sizable erection straining upward in the crotch of my pants. When i was finished, she sat there completely immobilized. Her naked flesh angrily conversed with the rope that bound it to the steel bedframe. It was an inviting picture, her body hung like captured prey in my trap, juxtaposed by the very furniture she and i sought for re-energizing and slumber. It reminded me of the a rhyme from my childhood days:

Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Once i'd sufficiently fastened her to the bed, i stepped away, examining my handiwork. I thought of the wind, and its blows, its strength, and its damage. I exited the bedroom and walked down the hallway, knowing i'd leave her hanging there for a few minutes before i returned, cradle and all.

Concealer

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

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

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

"Hi, Deity."

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

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

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

more Demands

It is very evident that you require a strict, regimented structure to keep you organized, otherwise you have a tendency to forget important tasks, let requests slip, or do things incorrectly.

I want you to begin keeping lists. I want you to keep track of objects i say you need to have on hand that are easily obtainable at your grocer, hardware store or art supplies dealer. You will put this on a 3'x5', unlined notecard. You are to make the list as neat as possible, using your best penmanship, each letter finely crafted, each line perfectly straight and evened out. You are not to make any spelling errors or miscues - even a single errant pen mark or drop of ink will require you to start all over from scratch.

When this list reaches 25 items, i want you to set aside a day where you will go and fetch every single one of them.

When that day arrives, before you dress, i want you to place the following items on your bed:

- one pair of foam ear plugs
- large black butt plug
- ankle cuffs, with 1' chain
- full length, black leather, over-the-mouth neck corset
- locking steel elbow cuffs, with 1' chain
- two miniature brass bells with clasp

You are to wear (and only) the following:


- thigh-high, back-seamed stockings
- white 12-suspender lace garter belt
- 4" black leather oxford heels
- floor-length blue worsted wool skirt
- powder blue turtle neck sweater
- elbow-length black cotton gloves
- long forest-green knitted poncho
- long creme-colored scarf
- tan wool beret

Before a stitch of clothing touches your skin, i want you to place the earplugs into each ear. I want you to notice the silence you are entering. It will not cut off all sounds, but you will be removed from normal interactions. Then liberally lube your asshole, the butt plug, and slide it inside. You should apply enough lube to ensure that, while snug, the plug can squeeze out of your anal passage. This will force you to clench your cheeks the entirety of your task. Pull the stockings on, one foot at a time, making sure that the seam is straight and orderly on the back of each leg. Next, lace up your heels, tightening the laces more than you usually would.

I want you to lock the ankle cuffs on, securing the 1' chain between them. Pull on your skirt, and then your turtleneck sweater. Slide your hands inside the elbow-length gloves. Position the neck corset so that it sits just beneath your nose, covering your mouth completely, then lace it shut. Pull the neck of the sweater as high as you can.

At this point, you are to lock the elbow cuffs on, again making sure to secure their 1' chain. Over your head, pull on your poncho. I want you to then attach a bell in the midpoint of each chain. Wrap your scarf around your neck, fully concealing the neck corset. Place the beret on your head, making sure it covers your ears.

You are required to keep all chains, bells, cuffs, corsets, earplugs completely concealed.

It is obvious, you are not to speak to anyone. If anyone asks you a question, politely wave them off.

I want each item purchased, precisely as i have described them. If there is any failure to comply with this task exactly as detailed here, there will be an appropriate correction upon your return.

*this continues on here

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 2

When we last visited this subject, me and my dominant friend had established a date, location and agenda for an evening of four-headed playtime. The week leading up to the impending evening, i asked my girl every morning if she was excited, and every morning i heard the same response:

"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."

You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:

"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."

I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.

I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.

K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.

He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:

"No, i have no idea. None."

I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.

Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.

I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.

With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.

*this continues on here

Always on

Recently, my girl had fallen ill two separate but closely spaced times. For a young lady whose immune system usually outperforms most customs officials, this was a rarity. Both incidents, she needed considerable amounts of recovery time, which resulted in her unable to attend to the duties she normally fulfills. Personally, i love these infrequent moments where i get to take care of her. She is at her most vulnerable when the nasties are riddling her insides with discomfort.

One might expect that my dominant side gets turned off when my girl is sick, in order to go easy on her and allow her ample energy to recover rather than submit. Unfortunately, i do not have the capacity to turn the urge to dominate off. That would be tantamount to mentally turning off the drive to respire fresh oxygen into my lungs. Domination is not a need, per se, but a component of my life. The same goes for my girl. Her submission is not a cosmetic that gets applied, but the foundation to who she is.

Now this is not to say that i demand, in between hacking coughs, that my girl drop to her knees and perform fellatio. I may be a sadist, but i'm also a gentleman. However, i am stern with her. I give her strict guidelines to the amounts of fluids and medication she needs to ingest, and when these are not followed (which invariably, they never are - her mental faculties are suspect during these bouts) i chide and reprimand her. Just like regular spankings can help guide a submissive - reminding her of her place, helping her feel that comfortable boxed sensation - insisting on discipline to a strict remedy to her ailments also guides her to a recovery.

All of this works quite well when put into application. There are a only a few disturbances that can short circuit it. Recently, one such snafu occurred in the form of a malady hitting both of us at the exact same time.

She awoke feeling crappy on a Sunday morning. I felt a little nauseous, but assumed it was residual effects of the previous evening's social activity. Whatever pathogen she had almost immediately took over her body. The poor girl was in great discomfort, barely able to stand upright, made worse by her having to vomit (which is even more rare than her catching the occasional cold). With as much as she was discharging from her insides, i knew she would need to recapture her fluids, or her symptoms would be exacerbated. As the queasiness in my stomach continued to gurgle on, i bundled up and went outside to go round up some supplies at the corner store. I hadn't walked more than 20 steps on the sidewalk before i felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I knew instantly, having battled with it a few times before, that what she had and now i was food poisoning. By the time i shuffled myself to the store and back, i could barely hold in all that was fighting to come out.

For the next 14 hours, our bodies went through torment. Aches that made every position we lay in uncomfortable. I knew i needed to continue to consume as many liquids as possible, even though i was shortly sending it back into the city's sewer system. Unfortunately, because i felt like one of Mike Tyson's sparring partners, i could not remain as diligent as i normally would about my girl's own hydration. Her struggle with the food-borne affliction bookended mine, where i was back to normal the following morning, it took her several days to feel her pretty little self again.

At one point during the residual days of her health restoration, i felt an immense desire to take her over my knee. I'd been fighting it for the past two days, and just suddenly gleaned that the moment was right. When i called her into my bureau, she saw me sitting in my big, comfortable chaise, and knew instantly why i summoned her. She sighed vocally, and her shoulders collapsed inward, signalling her resistance to the idea. I held my stare on her face, giving her a clear indication that i had no intention to bend. She offered her compliance in the form of lowering her pajama bottoms and panties, then positioned herself over my legs.

Once i began, i knew this was the exact thing i needed. A sensation of organic creation grew inside of me. I rubbed her flesh, and my somewhat cloudy vision from the days before sharpened as i caught the detail from each ripple of the meat of her buttocks. The weight of her on my lap awakened instincts that had to be supplanted while my body fought the food poisoning, as did the familiar scents that arose from her naked flesh. When i began to swat her ass, i listened to her response, smiling as each shriek slowly produced notes of growing pleasure. When it came time to give her hard smacks to which she counted each out loud, the amount i settled on just materialized in my head. Once administered, she and i both knew it was the proper dosage required.

It gave the sickbed aura a sense of normalcy, indicating that we'd moved past the infirmity. In fact, the next day, my girl declared how much better she felt. And, when i reflected on it, so did i.

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 1

I couldn't tell who was more enthusiastic about the potential: him or i. Our encounters, whether in person, over e-mail or instant message almost always landed on the planning of the evening of our quartet. I mentioned earlier here how K and i had been brainstorming on the possibility of taking our casual (if not very passionately pedestrian) conversations between the two of us (and sometimes those that included our partners) to a more interactive level. Me being the greedy, often horizon-before-the-foreground sort of person proposed an outrageous scenario wherein my girl would be the central focus of a great deal of erotic energy. K initially went along with it, but as time went on, he articulated reservations about it that i myself had not had the stomach (aka humility) to confess.

I still remember his course-changing offer. It seemed so simple yet so outlandishly exciting. In fact, the very subject of the evening was something i could never have hoped for him to present. I had aspirations that perhaps a dozen or more foursomes down the line he might present this activity as a possibility. The reasons for my reticence was because K is known not on a community-wide level for his expertise in this field of bondage, nor on a national level, but on an international scale. He has taught classes on the subject to audiences around the country. He has contributed his services to both breathtaking, commissioned works of arts and spiritual, holistic healing sessions. His talents in this avocation have exposed him to the elite of the elites within the fetish world. I literally held no water to him in comparison.

Nonetheless, i leapt at the opportunity. In doing so, i unknowingly left behind a great deal of issues i would eventually need to address. When the time came, i realized that i had uncertainty surrounding whether the chemistry of my power dynamic would mingle with that of another's, despite the levels to which i prided my ability to control myself and my girl. This is analogous to being confident in one's ability's to sing in the shower and not knowing if that confidence would travel to the "Gong Show" once you made your appearance there.

Another thorn i discovered in my jumpsuit once i landed from the thrill of the impending evening emerged in a rather provocative form. I do not like to share my girl, nor does she like to be shared. Granted, we have played on a large(r) stage, in front of multiple others (read: complete strangers) and amassed great thrills at these displays. But couple-a-couple, we had not yet attempted.

I wrestled with these existential questions in an atypical fashion. In large part, when faced with issues of great emotional contention, i come to my girl. However, in this case, i couldn't do so. It had been my decision from the very beginning of the negotiations with K:

my girl would be kept completely in the dark

It didn't make logical sense to go to her with the meat of my vulnerability but withhold the "bone" to which it clung. Anytime she asked (which was seldom because she knew she would not get satisfaction to her inquiries) about the logistics of the upcoming evening, her questions were met by a firm but playful "you aren't serious..." stare.

With enough to occupy my mental faculties, i satiated my need to organize the approaching scene. Relying heavily on K's guidance, i set myself to acquiring the necessary equipment. His expertise served as a (most likely too often-indulged) shopping spree of knowledge. Frequently, he would ask me questions about my specific wishes for each stage of the evening, and habitually, i would lean on his expertise for the answer. Quite frankly, it was like wandering into a rock concert without an instrument case and the drummer asking you how much tom-tom you felt the ampitheatre needed. "Are you serious? Oh, wait...you are. WOW."

The small but not insignificant details worked themselves out. Soon we had a date (is it really possible to coordinate four incredibly busy metropolitan schedules?) and a location (my place or somewhere else? does anyone have an animal allergy or an aversion to keeping their noise to a civil volume?). All that remained was to let years of fantasy and serious mental focus to take control of the evening, and all would be fine.

...right?

*this continues on here

Entrapment

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

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

i always root for the bad guy

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

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

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

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

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

Worshipping post-erior - weathering the storm

I had a horrible week last week. Just horrible. I could very easily look back on it with the kind of urgency as if i were fleeing the scene of a frightening accident. I was battered, wounded, torn from the inside out. I'd accumulated so much negative energy, i walked around with a somber cumulonimbus thunderhead hanging over my head, the storm front waiting to burst, just edging along my forehead. I needed a release.

I came home and found the darkest corner, and just sat. I didn't turn on any lights. I wanted to see if the total shadow would relieve me, help me disappear a little, distance myself from the events of the week. My girl came home, and the sound of her heels clicking on the tile shattered the silence surrounding me, but even this lovely song couldn't rouse me from my sullenness. She sensed my composition immediately and came into my bureau. She knew a little about how horribly my week had been, and embraced me, stroked my cheek and just held onto me. She asked me if there was anything she could do. I looked into her eyes, and she knew immediately. Without any words, she got up from my lap, walked to our bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed and arranged herself as expected.

I needed this.

I collected one of my wooden canes, a small pelt of white rabbit fur from my shelf, and walked myself to our boudoir. There she was standing. She'd pulled her skirt up and taken her panties off. Her magnificent buttocks hung in the air supported by her angled back like the truss wires of a bridge. I walked behind her, gliding my hand over the flesh of her backside. Not a single muscle in her moved. She could sense how much enmity i had inside, and i could tell that she was a bit apprehensive about what lay ahead for her. But i never turned it on her, she wasn't the cause, nor the victim, but the outlet. I held up the cane in the air in front of her face, she opened her mouth, and clamped down on it, putting her lips between the wood and her teeth. She has learned that i do not want indentations in my equipment.

I swatted her right ass cheek with my hand, snapping a loud pop into the air. I peppered her other cheek with short quick slaps, moving down her thigh, over the round shape of her butt, in between her legs. I started building a cadence that i could slowly begin to channel some of this energy through, finding the pulse in my head and pushing it out with each impact. I listened to her breathing. I watched the muscles beneath her flesh tense, and knew when to stop, take a step back, let her exhale.

I enjoy paying attention to her breathing, reminding her to in fact breathe (because she has the tendency to not remember). I'll put a hand on her back and simply say:

"Breathe."

And she'll resume the function that helps deliver her to a very small, safe place. I grabbed the rabbit pelt, and ran the soft milky fur over her thighs, circling around the back of her knees. This helps as well. It soothes her, pulls her out of her real world self of bumping into strangers, loud city noises, navigating sidewalks, and sitting at a desk. By now, her skin on her ass was glowing pink, but also radiating a nice heat from the friction of my spanking.

I put the pelt down, and resumed swatting her. Harder, closer together. I sped up my rhythm, bringing heavier blow after heavier blow down onto her cheeks. Without realizing it, i've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction. I felt a connection to her, one i'd needed all week long. Each time i told her to stick her ass out, this connection grew stronger. Every time i pulled back my hand and she winced, this action reinforced the connection.

I alternated between swats and caresses with the fur. These are not mechanical, clinical reactions. I wasn't suddenly counting the minutes i spent on each. Everything was fluid. My mind divined that an ebb must arrive, i turned to the fur. Then, i felt a flood, i slapped my flesh against her flesh. Her backside screamed with a fiery redness that emanated.

I brought myself close to her, kissing her neck, breathing softly into her ear. I held out my hand beneath her chin, and she dropped the cane from her mouth into it. I tapped it on her left cheek. She yelped. She doesn't like the cane. But this was the particular instrument i needed to draft out a response to the week's events. I patiently held the cane horizontally stretching across both cheeks.

"Ass out."

I pulled the cane back and stung her with a slice that gave her right buttock the worst of the blow. I paused. She pulled a groan that emanated from the point of impact, all the way up through her insides and out of her mouth. She shivered, and stomped a few times on her feet. I reviewed the mark, comparing the result to the force behind it. I gave her three more trial marks, finding my touch once again. I asked her for a number. She does not know how hard each stroke will be, she can only give me a number that i will then use to allocate stripes across her ass.

"10"

"Let's make it 12."

By the end of it all, my last actions will find me carefully rubbing her skin with the supple rabbit fur, holding her, praising her for several minutes. I thank her for the release, the ability to express what i held inside. I look at this scenario as one unique from the typical regimental spankings that i use as correction and reinforcement of her place. In this one, i've taken this malicious battering i received in the week, transformed the energy and from it forged a stronger fellowship with my girl. Something beautiful has emerged.

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.

Motivations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

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

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

The Gain, pt. 3

As macho as i think i am, which if needed measure puts me somewhere between King Kong and Superman, i still could not prepare myself for her.

First of all, our interaction was purely online. This placed a numbness between me and my reaction to the situation which, eventually, dictated the duration of our dynamic. I met her in my chatroom that i hosted (does anyone remember the one i mentioned here?). She dawdled, but only a little. Once she saw that i had a certain amount of untenable arrogance, she proceeded to lay out the full narrative of her submission and how she saw me fitting into it. We were easily 500 miles apart. We would never see eachother in person, unless one of us made a considerable trek to the other's locale, which just wasn't going to happen. What i liked and equally feared about her was her ability to succinctly describe the ways in which she would submit to me, even though these scenarios that i designed would be carried out by her cuckolded husband whose only role in their romance was to ensure his wife was summarily tormented, via proxy.

"c" would break the ice when she came online by telling me about the Shopping Network extravaganzas she had just watched that would efficiently plop her into a "ready to submit" mode. Trust me, i didn't believe it myself. I would cajole her, saying things like,"Cubic zirconias make you cream?!?" As "c" described it, watching the beautiful feminine hands delicately handle the costume jewelry (which, with her, would allow me to patter around with my own jewelry fascination) took her to a place where she could face her "demons". I came to learn that these "demons" were some of the most extreme degradations i'd ever participated in.

"I need to be in complete discomfort."
"I need to be suspended by my hair."
"I need to be treated like a mindless rag doll."

She repeated these statements in various iterations, but all of them would find a place in each of the predicaments i designed. On her consent, her husband e-mailed me, initiating a correspondence between him and i. I would send him my diagrams and my instructions. "c" would see none of this, not knowing her fate or its duration once her hubby began. His e-mails always came with just one phrase: "How am i supposed to position "c"?" The first time i received this question, i took several steps back from my computer. I paced back and forth. Something disturbed me about the spouse of one of the girls i'd met in my chatroom allowing his mate to face whatever torture a stranger could conjure from a distance. I would not be there when it began. I would not be there to set the mood and to establish the tone, telling her that i knew what i was doing. I would also not be there after she was released. I would not be there to hold her, embrace her, or wash her of the grime that collects after long hours of constriction. Yet, despite this, i could not contain my arousal and found myself creating intricate mechanisms for "c's" debasement.

The first scenario i designed involved shrink wrap (one of my favorite things). I'd been exploring this myself in my real life, and wanted to try something with "c". She had established that her torments needed to take place over a period of 24 hours or more - non-stop. First, she would be strapped to the support pole in their basement with leather bindings at her forehead, clavicle, hips, knees, and ankles, totally immobilizing her. Then, her husband would carefully apply a flawless mask of overly feminine makeup: Exceptionally rouged cheeks; Heavily lined eyelids, overhung by dark, rich eye shadows; Lips accentuated by crimson shades. He would then insert into her cunt an inflatable dildo, and a matching inflatable butt plug into her ass, as well as a PVC triple-headed gasket gag in her mouth. This would be followed by several layers of tight shrink wrap stretched across her naked body. The only thing protruding from the plastic would be the air hole of her PVC gag and the plunger bulbs of her dildo and butt plug. Her husband painted her shrink wrap-encased body with the heat of a hair dryer, effectively sealing her inside of this prison. Later that evening, via my instructions, the husband invited over several of "c's" friends to examine her, given encouragement to touch her through the plastic and squeeze the plungers of her impalers. 36 hours after this began - 36 hours - she was released.

She consistently challenged me, prodding me to go further with my sadism. One of the most extreme scenarios i ever designed had her bound with her arms behind her back, gagged, blinded and stuffed inside a burlap sack which was then placed inside a cedar chest, lid closed, and then pushed inside of a walk-in closet. The only light of day she "saw" during her internment were the hourly visits where her hubby was instructed to lift the lid off the chest and urinate onto the form lying prone inside. She withstood this for 41 hours. At the end of this episode, i could not, despite all attempts, find the thrill i'd first experienced when "c" approached me with her initial proposition.

Over time, i looked on my experience with her as a growth period. I learned more about my need to debase the female form, and its limits. That arrived after many hours of reflection. When i came to the realization that i could no longer perform this duty for "c", i was devastated. For the first time in my life, i was unable to accommodate the gift of someone's complete submission. Before this experience, i'd glibly thought that i could meet any level of masochism tossed at me. "c" showed me the limits to my own sadistic traits. I still remember the stark jolt of pain as i told "c" that i was no longer going to be able to act as her "top". Letting go of her submission was almost as extreme as it was to first acquire it. Except, this time i didn't feel any pleasure.

*this continues on here