Porn: the scapegoat

I have battled a great deal of my life with the idea that my sexuality and how i express it has negative social implications - both for myself and my partners, but also, since i started authoring The Lustful Quality, for anyone who might stumble upon the myriad subjects tackled here. These walls that i have occupied for several years have acted as my refuge from the forces who insist my very appetites are damaging to both myself and their targets. Yet, i mislead those who have chosen to read my words if i do not permit the occasional counter point to my own perspective. I have achieved sanctuary under this pseudonym. The numerous entries penned as 'Deity' have allowed me to wrestle with my internal demons, and to put that struggle on display for you, the reader. All of it would lead one to believe that i have achieved immunity from any claims that i cause more harm than good. Unfortunately, such is not the case.

I have not recently received any direct rebuke for my expressions, but instead, i continue to encounter articles, well-intended of course, whose sole aim is to arouse alarm and fear. Recently, i came across an article written by a college professor that strikes at the very heart of what i feel i'd intelligently (if not a little arrogantly) defended. The author chooses to re-frame an old argument about porn media and the unruly decay it sows, but instead of focusing on the patriarchal subjugation of the female gender portrayed in it, she rushes to the aid of its target: our young men. Many of her points, on face value, resemble the pedestrian no-brainers of soliciting sympathy for our young men as victims (in addition to our young women). However, much of what she seeks to strike down as repugnant pornographic practices superimposes victimhood on our boys rather than actually succeeding in proving her thesis. Instead, as i read her scholarly argument, i found myself brewing with anger over how yet another 'adult' just doesn't understand what it is they are observing in porn's media dominance.

I think the best way i can illustrate my argument is to quote entire paragraphs of the article, followed by my counterpoint. I leave it to the reader to decide if i've done what i sought out to do.

When she says:

Defenders of porn say that it is just harmless fantasy and anyone who criticizes porn is an anti-sex prude. The reality is that porn, like all media images, has an effect on the way we think about the world, and while it won't turn the average boy or man into a rapist, it will help shape the way he thinks about women, sexuality and intimacy. Indeed, it will impact on how he thinks about his own sexuality. To think for a moment that boys can masturbate to these images and not be affected is to ignore how we, as social beings, learn what it means to be human from the cultural messages that surround us.

There isn't much immediately that i can take issue with here. I'm not sure what she means by "defenders of porn" because she doesn't offer any further explanation of that term. I can only assume she means the millions of viewers, both male and female, of the various porn outlets one can find on the Internet - but you and i both know that is not what she means. She means the MALE defenders of porn. I am a voracious consumer of pornography. I have been from a very early age, yet i can honestly say the material i have ingested no more shapes the way i think about women than it does the way i think about men. And if porn is the barometer by which both genders must be measured, i would say neither gender fairs well. Pornography as i experienced it wasn't rampantly available in my youth, like it is now, and yet, amongst my peers, i would say that the dark, twisted fantasies that i possess goes further than most men i know. What i mean to say is that the sexuality i developed and that has written every single one of these debaucherous posts arose without the benefit of an endless, at-my-fingertip source of illicit material. Put another way, getting rid of Internet-based porn (which is the main point the author is advocating for) will not make fewer monsters like myself.

From an early age boys are bombarded with messages about what it means to be a "real man," and any deviation from this leaves a boy open to humiliation and ridicule. As boys get older, there is tremendous peer pressure to look at porn since this is seen as a rite of passage into manhood. Just take a quick look at the enormously popular adolescent boy movies of Judd Apatow, or listen to Howard Stern, or play any bestselling video games, to see how porn use is seamlessly packaged as an integral part of being a man. The end result is that rather than developing a sexual identity that is authentic, affirming, and in keeping with their own developmental time clock, boys are bullied into a sexuality that is created by a bunch of predatory businessmen whose goal is to maximize profits, not nurture the wellbeing of our sons.

The first thought i have when i ponder this paragraph is that this author has chosen not to address the myriad options that exist in pornography directed at homosexual males. "...any deviation from this leaves a boy open to humiliation and ridicule." While i do not deny that boys are bombarded with messages that are meant to adhere ones actions to a specific form of masculinity, this author has chosen to imply that the only pornographic path one can take is that of a straight male's interest. Yet, much of what she criticizes as the portrayal of women in porn can be found in a similar role in gay porn: the bottom. You cannot chastise the way women are portrayed in pornography as justification for why an endless supply is harmful if you completely ignore the fact that men play both roles in homosexual theater.

After twenty years of traveling the country giving lectures on porn, I have spoken to thousands of men and while it is clear that not all are affected in the same way, affected they are. Remember, this is the generation that grew up with Internet porn, and unlike previous generations these boys and men have an unlimited supply to hardcore porn 24 hours a day.

Twenty years of traveling, and it hasn't occurred to her that our men are being affected by something other than an unlimited supply of hardcore porn? She sounds an awful lot like a reactionary, as someone who idealizes a time that once was. When was this ideal period where men valued women as equals and not as sexual objects to redeem their sexual conquests? In the modern era, women are being given thousands more opportunities to take active, producing roles in the porn that flows into this endless stream. Where is the outrage for the exploitation of women when there were no female producers, directors and owners of pornographic products?

These young men have become so accustomed to porn sex that some are disappointed by their own sexual performance. When they compare themselves to the male porn actors, who can sustain Viagra-fortified erections for long periods of time, the guys I talk to often admit to feeling like sexual losers, and worry that something is wrong with them. Adam grew up watching his father's porn and felt that "porn taught me all I know about sex. My parents never mentioned the word sex at home, and sex ed in school was a ... joke. I had this image of how great sex would be, both of us going at it for hours. So it was kind of a shock the way the real thing turned out..."

Trust me, even without millions of hours of racy footage displaying the sexual prowess of professional pornstars, boys feel like sexual losers. I do not mean to overlook the disappointment boys must experience when their own exploits do not match up to the virile beasts streaming to them in their bedrooms on their laptops, but this is a very weak argument. How many boys stand at the plate in Little League, having hundreds of hours of videotape of their favorite Major League slugger running through their head, only to strike out and be forced to chew on their own disappointment as they trudge back to the dugout? For all those young men who will never garner a multi-million dollar sports contract, should we protect them by limiting how many games are broadcast?

What troubles many of these young men most is that they need to pull up the porn images in their head in order to have an orgasm with their partner. They replay porn scenes in their minds, or think about having sex with their favorite porn star when they are with their partners. Dan was concerned about his sexual performance with women. He told me that "I can't get the pictures ... out of my head when having sex, and I am not really focusing on the girl but on the last scene I watched." I asked him if he thought porn had in any way affected his sexuality. He said, "I don't know. I started looking at porn before I had sex, so porn is pretty much how I learned about sex. It can be a kind of problem to think about porn as much as I do, especially when I'm with my girlfriend. It means I'm not really present with her. My head is somewhere else."

What troubles me is that this author has no attachment to what is really going on in a young man's head as he conjures up images in order to have an orgasm. We do not force ourselves to be aroused by what we see in pornography. It either touches our buttons or it doesn't. Just because i've seen thousands of scenes of two girls making out, doesn't mean that one day i give into this bombardment and suddenly find myself with a raging erection the next time Britney Spears makes out with Madonna. You either find that erotic or not.

She mentions concern for Dan who cites porn as the first and foremost way he learned about sex, but how is that fault of the creators of porn? Where are the parents in this young man's development? Why isn't she thrashing against the poor parenting that has allowed this young man to turn to a polished, for-profit media package for his "education"?

Lastly, what really irritates me is the notion that women are treated horribly in all of these hardcore scenarios, and that this only serves to reinforce the endless humiliation and degradation of women. Here's where she really misses the mark. For every scene where a girl is portrayed performing humiliating sexual acts that a boy gets aroused by, the girl is not the only one who is humiliated. There is also a degradation happening with the young man observing this.

If there is anything that has served as a single denominator in my sexual experiences, it is that the demons i force upon my willing, female partner are ones i must also grapple with. My bottom wrinkled her brow in consternation as to how anyone could gain pleasure out of divining bruises upon her fleshy buttocks, and i struggled from the opposite side of the same coin. How could i possibly enjoy such culturally-maligned practices? What kind of person does that make me? She was disturbed when my sexual fires got stoked after she pathetically whimpers for leniency. Later, when i paused, i was also troubled by this, and there needed to be a tremendous amount of soul-searching before i found peace.

Porn isn't the enemy. Just like any form of mass media, it is a tool that can be used as productively as one wishes. The enemy is an inability to critically question what you encounter. I would hope anyone who reads the posts on this site and takes issue with anything i've said would speak up. Otherwise, nothing i written is worth a single one of its words.

Halcyon

Awhile back, i opened the forum up for readers to ask questions either through my comments or privately through e-mail. Frankly, i was quite touched and overwhelmed by the number of questions that landed in my deviant inbox. Because they took the route of personally reaching out, i personally replied to their inquiries through private e-mail conversations. Some of the questions made me smile over the bashfulness in the questioner. Others stunned me for their sheer bluntness. And still a select few touched me for the amount of thought and reflection they caused me to undergo in order to properly address the inquiry. I present the following as the initial entry into a series of posts i hope to author that exhibit the stimulation i experienced from those of you who were curious enough to send me a list of questions (and if there are those of you who still would like to ask me something, please don't be shy, the window is still open).

"When did you realize that you had a desire to both adore and reduce a female?"

Oh boy, that was an early one. I remember having the biggest infatuation with this daughter of a family friend, and we would often play privately together. Off on our own, she would try to direct the narrative of our play, and i would firmly take it back in my hand. Many times, she would pout, and i would scold her for pouting, and even withhold my attention until she did what i wanted her to do. Lord, that seems so long ago. I think i'll expand on this in a post.

I've written about Muffy before. But i don't think i've ever thought about my attraction to her in such a duality as the gal who asked me this question phrased it. To both adore AND reduce. Is that what i was doing with her? I most certainly adored her. I remember when i first developed a crush on her, i was all of the age of seven, and after we'd returned from one of our visits to Muffy's family cabin in the mountains, i just sat for hours on the edge of my bed thinking of her. I couldn't bring myself to do anything else (including eating - i famously went three days without a single visit from my appetite after one of those visits), i absolutely had to consume every inch of her visage in my head. From the way she looked up at me through her arsenal of fluttery eyelashes, to the statement her bouncy pigtails made - everything about her was greater than the biggest bowl of ice cream or newest toy.

But, with all of my evident infatuation, it would be expected that when we found ourselves in eachother's company again, that i would spend all of my time pawing over her gentle flavor. As i dipped deeper into my memory cache to satisfy this reader's commission, i realized that was not the case. In fact, the currency i chose to demonstrate my attachment was cruelty, persecution and sadism. I pulled on her glorious pigtails, to the point of her wailing that summoned each of our parents. I would thoughtlessly knock over her tea set that she had so delicately prepared for us, snickering as she scattered to gather the fallen decolletage. Many a times, i held her favorite stuffed, yellow kitten hostage promising to do untold tortures to it only to watch her beg and plead that i release her plush friend. I was a terror. And yet, what made me so much more infatuated with her is that she took everything i dealt. We greeted eachother with equal amounts of glee and excitement, even though she knew what was to happen during our playtime.

It didn't occur to me what magical being i'd found until one day, after once again tossing her baby blue plastic china set to the floor, i had grown bored with her immediately responding by picking up the cups and saucers, and instead of watching, i lept to the floor and pressed my body onto her. I didn't want her to pick up my detritus. We struggled for a few minutes, her writhing under me as i reached for each of her arms in order to hold them still. After a moment or so, we looked at eachother - me on top, her beneath me - breathing heavily from the skirmish, and for whatever reason, we remained in that position. It felt so perfectly wonderful, yet odd and foreign as well, as if we'd glimpsed for a moment our mutual destinies. Excited that we might've seen where we'd end up, but also awkward in the moment of its newness.

Subsequent visits found us expanding on what we discovered that afternoon. She assumed the role of my puppet, i the puppeteer. And we flourished in this dynamic. Ask anyone outside of our relationship, and Muffy was the bossy, pushy girl who told others what to do and had wildly boundless ambitions. But in our little space that we safely discovered together, she relished the idea of me manipulating her limbs, restricting her speech and even withholding my attention only to give it back in tiny, delicious morsels.

As we grew up, that clumsy bigot known as puberty interrupted our fun. She became quite self-conscious of her reaction to our interaction, and i began to recognize the uncomfortable lower erotic undertone that it alluded to. Sadly, in order to preserve ourselves, we turned our once harmonic energy into an unhealthy competition where our scholastic and athletic achievements supplanted the acreage that our secretive choreography once occupied. What once existed between us would disappear by our teens, fluttering away like the last smoldering fumes of an extinguished campfire in the morning following.

Stripsleaze

It is a frequent past time of mine to take in an evening of burlesque - a task made much easier with the increased number of venues providing this risque showcase. However, it can be a costly outing as most places charge a door fee as well as require a two drink minimum. In these lean times, it is important to conserve, but it is also critical to not constantly surround yourself with gloomy news and warnings of disaster. We all need an escape, what better way then to shuffle on down to the clambering cabaret to watch the glittery gallivanting gams of gorgeous gals?

It's always a joy to watch my girl get ready for an evening out. I'd gotten her a pair of Natacha Marro shoes for Christmas, and she had yet found the opportunity to show them off. Seeing as they are a full 8" (with the 2" platform) i suggested she get in a little home practice with them before fully trotting them out. She settled for a more modest 5" pair of black leather heels, matching it with her white swing dress with red polka dots from DaddyO's.

When we arrived at the venue, even though we arrived early, there was still a line out the door. It never ceases to amaze me how popular this form of entertainment has become over the years, and at the time i remember feeling happy that such a showcase was drawing folks out on a cold Saturday night. I told my girl to go find seats and i would check our coats and get us some cocktails.

When i finally snagged two Manhattans (neat), i looked for my doll. I was pleasantly surprised to find her saving a chair for me right at the foot of the stage, despite the fact that it was standing room only at this point. I squeezed my way forward to find her engaged in several conversations with strangers on one subject alone: her look. She has a very striking, beautiful appearance without all the dolling up. However with a bonnet of tight ebony curls atop her head, white alabaster powder dusting her delicate features, bright brown eyes framed by long sinewy lashes, and her signature cherry red lipstick, she is one of the most stunning sights in any room. She gathers many stares and many inquiries as to where she gets her apparel. Always a modest and polite young lady, she deflects their compliments to the various vendors she patronizes and almost ALWAYS tells people that her waist is only as a result of her corset tightlacing (but for some reason neglects to inform them of her dedicated dietary discipline).

With all of this attention helping to pass the time, the show's start happened upon us much quicker than expected. So far, the night had been very enjoyable, and i looked forward to the evening's card of dancers as the stage's curtain pulled a part for the opening.

The famous Julie Atlaz Muz pranced onto the stage, performing a dazzling routine with feathers and dollar bills tossed into the air like confetti. Following her, a very pretty girl who called herself 'Queen Laqueefa'. Her act was a little more gruff, and eventually surprised me when she showed both her off-limits naked tits and cunt by the end of her appearance. A few more dancers went by, and then we were treated to one of my favorite girls in the circuit. Melody Sweets is a rare talent in the field of burlesque dancers as she not only teases the audience with the peeling off of her clothes, she also tantalizes our ears with her melodic voice singing along with her musical accompaniment. Her act finished the first set, leaving a 30-minute break of go-go dancing from Ms. Muz and Her Royal Highness Laqueefa.

I wish i could say with what had transpired so far, that the evening ended on a high note. However, that was not the case. Once the burlesque festivities re-took the stage, the theme of the routines took on a much grittier, even manic tone to them. A few of the girls performed garish acts of drunken clumsiness, and the glamor and grace of the first half was trampled by raunchy hip gyrations. Even the energy in the audience seemed to shift. Whereas before, the crowd hooted and hollered with supporting aplomb, they now roared with a vitriolic, gutty hunger that seemed to demand chunks of flesh tossed to them. All of this was a perfect setting for the next explosive performer.

Rosewood.

Out stumbled this metallic blue, mohawk haired trollop, a bottle of champagne wagging from her flimsy grip. She'd take a mouthful of the swill and then spray it outward into the audience. Nothing about this act struck me as funny, entertaining or endearing. She continued with this pageantry as if she thought it unique enough that no one on stage in the history of live performance had done the same. But, then, even the projection of her salivatized precipitate wasn't enough. She whipped off her tiny G-string, revealing her even tinier tranny member, and proceeded to piss all over the first row (including myself) of spectators. I couldn't believe what i'd just seen. People scattered, trying to avoid her trail of fountainous urea, and all i could do was sit there in absolute shock and disgust.

Nothing about this was entertaining or engaging. I'm a big believer in taking risks and challenging the established set of ideals and values (if anyone doubts this, please feel free to scan my archives), but this act was just plain trash. Burlesque, when it's good, presents the female form in a frollicky, fun and seductive manner. The tease is in fact its greatest asset. Skimming the bottom of the bucket by taking it all off and putting it on display like a cheap, down on her luck hooker is found in strip clubs across this country already. I find that extremely depressing, demeaning and idiotic. By the time i gathered my thoughts enough to realize what i'd just seen, i put on my jacket and escorted my girl towards the exit, sad that the evening had dipped so low.

I remember them all

The appetite is a peculiar and most unforgiving fuel. Many things we long for, few are necessary. Some might even say that our tastes are largely artifice, creations of our environment and our history. The small list of necessities - food, water, sleep - makes for a rather simplified diagnosis of how life should be lived. All of our behaviors should be molded so that they can deliver us these bare essentials, and yet the essence of life is very imbalanced and stacked not in our favor. Not only will we never find satisfaction, we will also be faced with this punishment for the entire time we stand on this rock.

But it can be easily said (as evident by those of you who are performing an act that falls outside of "necessity" in order to read these words) that life carries with it much more complexity than just the need for caloric sustenance of our bodies. If the entries i have posted to this site are worth their measure, it can be said that feeding the body is only accomplished in order for us to then feed the soul. I eat life so that i can feast on life.

With that in mind, if we were to examine the banquets i attend or create, there exists a certain number of prerequisites. Among these treasure trove of trinkets and pleasures i pursue, nothing exceeds my desire for beauty and my fascination for decay. When brought together, you get the very spinal chord that houses the central nervous system of The Lustful Quality.

Shelved amongst the inane bits of information and trivia i have gathered over the years, one would find a dozen or so stories of girls who suffered, endured and survived my chemical experiments where i mixed the holistic gift of beauty with the wrenching qualities of decay. Some of those tales would be rather tame, where i fiddled with an adorable chestnut-haired novice for a few days, only to release her back into the wild - unscathed and only mildly marked. And yet, others would turn the most open-minded person's stomach as i retell how i made the innocent (and sometimes not so innocent - but always consenting) girl grovel, prostate, plea and suffer just because i was obsessed with the process of denigrating the gorgeous female form.

I'm not entirely pleased with myself when i think back on these episodes, but i accept them as the collateral damage that i needed to rack up in order for me to understand who i am and what my appetites are. However, let there be no mistake of the cherished place that each of those girls holds in the catalog of my mind. They've made achieving these twisted appetites an honor and a thrill.

Correction vs. Condescension

"How was your dinner last night?"

"Well, it was okay, but i think there was something wrong with the hummus i bought."

"So, what did you do?"

"I ate the rest, unhappily."

I'd left her alone to tend to herself one evening, while i was out with a friend. This already sounds like my girl is incapable of autonomy, and quite frankly, that is categorically untrue. For many years, she managed her own life, finances, her wardrobe more successfully than most young ladies her age. The level of responsibility she demonstrated shames most folks 20 years her senior.

"You did what?!?"

Her posture drooped. Her face turned from me.

"Go get it out of the fridge." Fetching the leftovers of the pasty garbanzo dip, she handed the container to me. I could tell just by the bulge of the lid that the internal contents were rotten. An acrid hiss sprayed into the air as i lifted the lid, mirroring her diminishing confidence in her decision to soldier through with the slop the night before.

Rather than bore the reader with the seven bars of conversation wherein i demand in demonic perplexities why she would allow herself to eat spoiled food instead of lifting herself off of her keister and marching to the befouling store, i'll fast forward to the lesson learned.

*ahem*

The lesson, that is, that i learned.

She is my girl. My responsibility. Her safety, comfort, behavior, appearance are my responsibility. As mentioned earlier, this is not because she is incapable of handling these responsibilities, but because we have both found that we want this arrangement. I think of my girl as one of the most intelligent individuals i know, and for her to willingly grant me the gift of marshaling over her speaks not only of her trust in me, but her intellectual acuity. However, what i said, and more importantly, how i said it, made her feel stupid.

Instead of feeling corrected, informed, she felt incapable, inept and imbecilic. I did not practice any restraint on my tone or my irritation. I let it fall freely into the air and obtusely onto her chest. It is never my intention to make her feel stupid. That is errantly irresponsible, and not worthy of the very responsibility she delicately places into my hand, everyday, as we walk together to our respective day jobs.

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.

May i damage you?

May i take your perfect visage and slam against it, forcefully?

May i hold the alabaster of your soft cheek, only long enough to shatter it?

May i address you in curt ways, that humiliate you, reduce you to an insult?

May i seek pandemonium in your crevices, stabbing them thoughtlessly with my member?

May i cause you to shriek in fear, to mimic the pain i feel on a daily basis?

Will you do that for me? Will you suffer, truly suffer, not cosmetically suffer, but endure so much that it leaves a scar, a permanent welt that i can return to, when i need the solace that tells me i'm not alone with this torment?

May i look you straight in the eyes, and without remorse, collapse my entire spirit upon you, spilling my bloody insides all over your beautiful, untouched canvass?

May i maim you? Transform you? Turn you into something else that you do not recognize?

May i rob you of your persona, re-route your natural instincts and feed you my disease, my slanted way of life?

May i drag you along the rough, cragged surface of my abilities, my clumsiness and ignorance scraping across your flesh?

May i pounce on you, without any warning? May i shove my hunger onto you, taking what i need to feed, leaving you with just scraps?

May i reconstruct you? May i tear you apart and put you back as i prefer?

May i damage you? May i damage you? May i inflict?

Ask yourself if you trust me. Ask yourself if you can survive this.

Milk made

It's quite clear that i'm very enamored with the female creation. I should think it is just as clear that those things that emanate from the female are also very alluring to me (i.e. moans, urine, etc.) Lately, i've been quite quite obsessed with female lactation. I can feel a great deal of energy pooling in the phenomenon's direction.

I don't drink milk myself, so i'm not drawn to consuming the mammary output. In fact, the idea of putting my lips over a girl's heaving, milk-addled tits and drawing liquid from them doesn't offer me all that much stimulation. I have three very distinct, ever-increasingly degrading levels of interest surrounding a female's milk. I will refer to them, in ever more intense gradients, as the Skim, 2% and Whole milk tiers.

Skim milk

What i yearn to see, what is evident throughout the cloud of tangerine terms to the right, comes in the form of erotic auto-operation. I want to see the swollen-boobed maiden wrapping her hands around her tit and squeezing it, milking it, until a fine stream of alabaster liquid shoots from her erect nipple. As she gets into a rhythm, her palms mashing down on the meat of her breast, i find myself mentally directing her to aim the nozzle up into her mouth, struggling to catch every drop, in the hopes of not wasting a single savory morsel. To me, this is a purely feminine form of ejaculation. Yes, there are girls who "come" or squirt, but that is similar in geography and method to the boy version. However, the propulsion of lactose from an already highly-regarded, and female-specific area serves as an exclamation point to a feverishly aroused state.



In this stunning Shirow Masamune illustration, we see our highly sexualized cow girl literally orgasmic from the outpouring of calcified fluid. Those "guns" are at attention, and shooting endless rounds at will.

2% milk

What the previous tier presupposes is that the girl at the center of the pornography currently produces her own milk product. What if you have a girl who has not recently been or is not currently pregnant, and yet you feel the urge to recreate this sprinkler display? All one needs is a natural amount of sadism and a healthy dose of either domperidone or fenugreek. Coupled with a regular schedule of mechanical breast-pump application, and you can induce lactation in any mature female.

Immediately, even i have to take a pause at this idea. This is some very intense body modification, altering a female's frame to serve a completely different, albeit natural, profane purpose. The idea of a girl submitting to this is at the peak of erotic ideas for me. The reasons for why this is so incredibly impressive to me may not be immediately clear. That is most likely because i know what this leads to. As an intense sadist, i've already played out in my head the applications of this discovery, and in some offset ways experienced them. But because i have an unquenchable hunger, i push the possibilities further, to the next tier.

Whole milk

Which comes first:

the need to pump your tits to drain them of your milk or the need to pump your tits to encourage the production of milk?

There is no doubt in my mind that the Creator has a sadistic sensibility, i otherwise cannot explain the devilish convenience that comes with induced lactation. The process one must follow to trick the female body into creating milk (hormones/herbal supplements + regular mechanical pumping) is the very method one must employ once the first gush of creamy ejection occurs to maintain this state. A girl whose tits have been turned into milk factories must regularly pump in order to drain her milk bags - otherwise they fill with liquid and become swollen and quite painful. She has no choice but to give into the signals her body gives, sucking the milk out of her bosom, which only in turn sends a message to the dairy factories that more formula is needed. It's a vicious and gloriously evil cycle. What it amounts to is the transformation of a girl into a human cow. I have given many thoughts and even commands regarding what should be done with this cow juice, and yet the darkness of this fantasy never ceases to shock or excite.

When i first saw a clip of a bound girl attached to an industrial-grade milking machine, the horror and fascination tilted my cognition immediately towards the highly aroused level. I have since, after collecting well over 40 different such scenes, made it an immediate "drop what i'm doing" ultimatum whenever i've encountered another depiction of a poor submissive hooked up to a mindless vacuum machine sucking with a vengeance onto her dangling udders, slowly turning her into a helpless and writhing bovine.

The savage's tongue

Soap and my mouth are well acquainted with eachother. My childrearing happened in a household where even an utterance of a curse (or cuss) word's replica resulted in immediate parental correction. Should i have the unfortunate druthers to let slither past my lips one of the dreaded thoroughbreds of foul language, i could expect that my oral perpetrator would get a total sanitization. Whenever i think about the handful of times i spoke a dirty word in my parents' presence, i still get the salty, medicinal taste of the amber bar my parents used to make me suck on in the back of my throat.

As is the case for most things my parents forbade me to indulge in, i developed quite the obsession with expletives. I began to experiment with them in my everyday conversation, viewing the reactions i extracted from people when i colored my polemic with a strategically placed 'f'-word or 'G*d***ed' (truth be told, i was such a devout Catholic, that i replaced the word "god" with "gald" just so i didn't expedite my transport to Purgatory. I still do this to this day). Flash forward to modern times where this obsession has stamped itself all over my tongue, and my normal way of conversing would make the most disgruntled of sailors blush. I have a foul mouth, which unfortunately has no external censor, running its course even in front of the virginal and innocent ears of pipsqueaks. I try to curb it out of respect and decency for the company i'm in, but sometimes, the profanity overrules this attempt.

In the early stages of my romantic career, i joyed in whispering encouragements to my lover as we rolled around on the bed or sofa, telling her how soft her skin felt, how her perfume gave me tingles, etc. But i stopped at the edge of the profane, holding in what was a natural urge to emit a primal spray. I'd been warned my entire life to avoid the cruel act of calling a girl a name. Yet, here i was in the heat of the moment, and i could feel an arsenal of lewd artillery building at the bridge of my mouth. For the longest time, i held in this impulse. I feared it for two reasons. First, i was concerned what pain it might cause the girl upon whom i unleashed it and how this characterized my opinions of the fairer sex. Secondly, i feared the beast it would unleash in myself should her reaction be an unexpected positive and encouraging one.

This savage desire lay in slumber for many years, not to escape the tight shackles i chained to it. In college, i had a lengthy tryst with my French T.A. She was older than me, and in many ways, a woman in comparison to all the girls i'd dated. Because of her maturity and seniority over me, what she uttered one evening while we engaged in some very heavy petting took me by complete surprise.

Her lips were sucking on my earlobe, intermittently interrupted by the nibble of her teeth on the soft flesh when she uttered:

"Call me a slut."

I pulled back, taking my neck away from her mouth, "What?" I looked at her with disbelief.

"Call me a slut, call me a whore."

"Seriously?"

"Oh, yes..."

I couldn't believe that this dignified, educated woman would utter such things. I could've stalled longer, to contemplate her reasons for wanting this, but the ravenous fiend inside of me was busting to break free. I nearly blacked out from the frenzy the outpourings of filth caused me.

I engage in dirty talk quite liberally these days. I recognize the aspects of it that fit my passion for transformation. Many episodes of arousal have stemmed from me walking a girl through the evolution of nasty terms that define her wanton need for degradation. In fact, the impact of most erotica at this point is lost on me when so much of it describes just the physical actions between two characters. But should it turn to the edgier province of invectives, few things turn me on with greater speed. I revel in the initial offering to the girl in heat of what kind of needy vessel she resembles, to hear her hungry accordance, which only worsens the sex-crazed state she occupies. She responds quietly, letting the sounds coming from her own mouth shock her, then stimulate her, as she grabs a hold of the rush of electrocution this sizzling vocabulary ignites. The forceful call and response builds the lust to a higher and higher crescendo, morphing the boudoir into a bordello.

I've explored the great scandalous chasms of naughty expressions, compounding them with many of my favorite profanities which only serve to heighten the palaver as well as turn the recipient of my slurs away from the girl and more and more into a sexual object. In many ways, i've let the tongue have its way.

Terms of surrender

It has come to my attention that things have changed between us. The persona you have played exclusively in the bedroom for many months has spilled out onto the floors of the rest of your life. I can view this in the ways you are dressing yourself. It is clear in the images of women that draw your attention. Your posture even assumes a difference when i come into the room. Patterns of breathing i'd seen only in your throes of passion now appear as we walk together.

Because of this, i offer you the following terms:

You will no longer view yourself as an autonomous being. From this point on, you will see yourself as owned. You are an object, to be held and monitored and cared for. Your needs exist outside of you. On a regular basis, you will submit to exercises that test, confront, challenge and ultimately shatter the once strong sense of free individuality you came to me with. You will live as my doll.

You will wear the clothes i choose, arrange your appearance by my specifications, and no longer own your physical identity. When you look in the mirror, you will see the alterations i have made, and you will know that you are my toy. You will gradually experience physical modifications that will take on greater and greater permanence, further marking you as mine.

You will submit to regular corporal discipline sessions, to enforce your status as the directed. At any moment, you will be asked to offer yourself, and expected to wait with your body positioned in preparation for a thrashing. You will submit to the pain, letting it guide you in the process of letting go. You will submit to the humiliation of being regularly spanked, letting it loosen your grip on your former, artificial ego. You will submit to the degradation you will feel when you realize you need this correction, letting it remind you of your place as my hungry, needy, desperate fucktoy.

You will be my possession, my property.

These terms are unconditional and non-negotiable.

The greatest inconvenience i've ever encountered...

...is that of a woman and my reaction to her.

He was so politically saavy. He had to be, to have held office as long as he had. Over 40 years. I was young and brash when i decided to go up against him. I thought that i had more than those hundreds of others who'd tried to topple him but failed. He completely embarassed me. He not only embarassed me, he handicapped me for several years, undoing so much progress i'd made in my own political career, sending me back to the land of the bureaucrat.

One night, following my political defeat, i was attending a civic party just like any other. The Mayor would ask us to stand by him as he gave his remarks on whatever token issue he had chosen to highlight that evening in front of the press. Then, we would be dispersed to mingle among the crowd, spreading the good word about our faithful civil servants. I decided to bide my time as close to the East Wing open bar for as long as possible, camping there out of sight of any mayoral staffers. Out of the side of my eye, a delicious young sandy blonde caught my attention, saddling up to the bar. I noticed she asked for two drinks. I asked her if she needed help. She politely declined, adding,"My husband prefers my company solely." Point taken. I followed her disembarkment from the bar, as she slid along the floor full of the city's socialites. Her final destination stunned me into a near paralysis. I couldn't believe the fortune that my revenge had just leaned her elbows up against the polished mahogany next to me. She handed the second drink to the very man who'd gleefully wrecked my name in public.

Through various channels, i found my way to her. She knew who i was, and i knew, now, who she was. We dispensed very quickly of the need for proper protocol as recent political combatants. I set the terms of my engagement early. I wanted to use her to get at him. She indulged my desire for one, as-of-yet, unpublicized reason: the man was completely impotent. Due to a bout with cancer (also unpublicized), he had lost his ability to perform any sexual act, meaning he'd completely lost his libido. This would explain his rampant voracity for political slaughter in the later years. For her part, she was caught. She didn't want to leave him because she genuinely loved him, but she also needed satisfaction in addition to retribution for his failure to disclose his handicap before they were legally bound to eachother. The situation kept on getting sweeter and sweeter.

At first, i played with her in mildly sadistic fashions. I would call her up, insisting that she be in bed with him next to her, as she played with herself. In the early stages, i just wanted the spectre of her masturbation to hang in the air. I didn't want her to make any noises or motions to draw his attention. As time progressed, i instructed her to let out soft moans, just low enough for him to hear her. This filled me with such dastardly joy. I didn't know if it bothered him, but i had a sense that he was experiencing a level of humiliation that his young, sexpot of a bride was taking care of maintenance he was no longer equipped to manage. That sense went away pretty quickly. I came to learn that i didn't know if it was humiliating him like i'd hoped. Yet, more importantly, i didn't stop escalating the degredation with his sexy, unfulfilled wife.

If pressed, i attribute it to her incredible snottiness. She was a bitch of the highest class. I loved toppling her. I would devise scenarios where she would be forced to engage in awfully humiliating public scenes. I'd instruct her, the very public wife of the very powerfully connected senior political figure, to go to a shoe store wearing a skirt and no panties, with the objective to flash the poor, unsuspecting salesman as many times as possible. My absolute favorite was when i commanded her to travel to my offices downtown in nothing but a trenchcoat and heels, well knowing that she would have to go through the metal detectors and security checkpoints just to get past the lobby. Once on my floor, she was to slowly walk to my office with her coat lowered onto her bare shoulders, only to come inside and spend the rest of the day posed underneath my desk, with her head between my legs.

As time moved on, i realized this wasn't about revenge against the Old Man. Our's was a battle on the field of politics, and he had performed more valiantly and won. I fought a different battle with her. It stemmed from my view that the greatest inconvenience i've ever experienced is that of a woman and my reaction to her.

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.

The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exhibition

Our first date, June insisted that we meet in a very public place. The entire date was to happen as we eyed eachother while sitting on facing benches, right in the middle of the heavy rush hour traffic of the train station. When she had suggested we meet there, after asking her where she would feel safest, i grinned to myself as i held onto the phone. The obvious security she'd feel in such a venue didn't make me feel defensive or creepy. I liked that she felt the need to put up safety measures, but i wasn't certain from who she was protecting herself.

As one of my favorite pastimes, I had spent many hours in peaceful solitude anchored to a seat in the veranda of the depot, just watching people. I'd watch them walk, the way they stepped their feet down, how they shifted their bodies to avoid oncoming pedestrians. The pageantry of flowing bodies fascinated me, and i found myself thrilled to be a pebble in the midst of it as a static witness. I knew that June felt the same way, but as shy as she tried to pretend she was, she also wanted the attention and eyes of those who walked by. June was an exhibitionist.

When she finally arrived, she was wearing many more layers than the hot weather demanded. She rushed in, late, flustered and incredibly apologetic, offering both vocal and postural penance. I knew all of this was on purpose. She'd spend the next 30 minutes of our rendez-vous sweating, fidgeting, fanning her face with her hands, then eventually peeling an article or two of clothing off. She wasn't attempting a civic and pathetically clumsy striptease. She sought the endurance of being humiliated, degraded and put in severe discomfort while the hundreds of eyes that hurried by looked at her in pity. Recognizing this desire of hers, a very familiar hunger rose up inside of me. I became quite merciless.

I didn't say anything for the next ten minutes, staring at her quietly behind tersely held eyes. I watched her body give over to the abuse she was putting it through, changing right in front of me. Not one to carry a conversation on her own, June fumbled through her explanation for why she'd arrived late. Ignoring her pleas for polite forgiveness, i eyed her appearance with disgust.

I leaned forward, putting my head right at her shoulder and sniffed heavily through my nose. I let her scent take root in my nostrils for a few seconds, then whispered into her ear.

"You smell...dirty. Couldn't you even stay clean enough to last through our date? You reek like a filthy, desperate slut."

She sucked in a pocket of air through her mouth. Her face reddened as her shoulders rolled into her lap, shrinking her already minute frame. Clearly, she'd given her appearance some effort, but was it the effort of someone who only had so much to offer or that of someone who hoped to be called on her shortcomings.

I got up from the bench and left her sitting alone in the train station.

Sugasm #81

Sugasm #81

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #82? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Do / Do Not (lafillemariee.blogspot.com…)“Do – stop in the hallway to kiss and fondle me before even getting to the room.”

The Red Cross of Fucking (perverselypoly.blogspot.com…)“They can pay her a “finder’s fee,” and everybody will be happier.”

Review: The Amputee’s Guide to Sex (www.radicalvixen.com…)“When he first mentioned it he turned his disability into a fetish.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Meet Lin Chong, Dong Assistant (sugarbank.com…)

Editor’s Choice
Mothers day 3 (joeheather.blogspot.com…)

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday (Fleshbot.com)

BDSM & Fetish
Art, human condition and spanking (www.spankingwriters.com…)
Darkness (transformher.blogspot.com…)

Darkness

The Dark Lord.

He occupied a deep cavern in my mind from a very early age. I was raised Roman Catholic. The concept of the Devil played a large part in my grasp of right and wrong. Whenever i would commit a foul of some sort, as a way to rein me in, my mother used to tell me that the floor was going to open up and Satan's red, clawed hand would come through it and pull me to Hell. Seeing that this discipline method was not appropriate for discussion when we had company over, my mother developed a hand gesture that she would shyly employ to halt my straying to the netherland of misbehaving. Her hand would curl into a claw, and she would slowly raise it in the air mimicking the clutch of Satan onto my legs, making sure to keep this out of sight of anyone except me. I would immediately clam up.

The deity of my nightmares was Satan. Almost every one i can remember ended with me falling down into His fiery dominion. I couldn't even escape the rattle of this scenario while watching my afternoon cartoons. By the end of the Tom and Jerry episode "Heavenly Puss", i was cowering behind my father's lounger, afraid to even peek at the television as it transitioned to a benign commercial. I, like Tom, was fearful that neverending escalator to Heaven would suddenly turn off, sending me plummeting through the hatch in the floor, delivering me straight to the Devil.

Flash forward a few years to my early teens. I remember sitting on the floor of my parent's bedroom, with my hand on the channel dial (yes, you kids, we used to have to manually switch between channels by turning a dial on the set) ready, at the first sound of footsteps, to flip it back to the hockey game i told them that i was going to watch. I'd seen a promo for the broadcast premiere of the movie "Legend" earlier that day, and, in it they showed a glimpse of the Dark Lord, swishing across the screen. Just enough for my mind to immediately identify the spector that for most of my childhood had haunted me, but, instead of trying to avoid an encounter, i wanted to see His celluloid form. This intense desire to watch this movie resided in this newfound appetite that i had not been able to satisfy through my stomach. What i glimpsed as i covertly watched this movie (my parents would absolutely not approve me seeing a film laced with violence and "satanic" allusions) formulated the anatomy of my entire sexual identity.


Princess Lily (played by the heavenly Mia Sara).

Her eyes drew you to look at her as if they themselves would deliver you to Paradise. Her nose curled up at the tip in an elfish way that made her appear make-believe. From the moment she appeared on the screen, i was captivated. It didn't hurt that she happened to sport the look that i had assembled in my head as the ideal beauty. Dark hair. Big, bright eyes. Lips that blossomed in a plump but confined way. In fact, i think her look actually contributed to the deep impact this film had on my sexuality. Had she been blonde, i'm not sure i would've been so drawn to her outcome. As the story progressed, and she revealed a flawed character that led her to sully the virginity of the unicorn, i found myself even more attracted to her. She'd shown the compensity for bad. I didn't know it at the time, but i was allured by her potential for evil, the very same flaw that had seen me as a child regularly receive the threat of a schism in the ground opening up.

I was not prepared for the appearance of Darkness. When He finally arrived on the screen, my hand jerked, quickly switching the channels. I flipped back to see His sinister smile, and instead of recoil in fear, i eyed Him with awe. In fact, any scene without Him seemed dull. When they would flash to the fairy-esque Tom Cruise trying to arrange some way to save the Princess, i wished they'd return to the crescent-colored creature. The shine of His wicked horns that shot out of His forehead, curling into menacingly sharp tips. His yellow eyes with animalistic-slitted irises. His long, grotesque chin, jutting out and lengthening His grin. Why did i not fear this, i wondered? Why, instead, was i coveting this?

I sat riveted by the scenes where he converses with the Princess. She acts disgusted by His appearance, by His lair, by His supposition that she would become His. Despite her protests, He is unwavered in His pursuit. This too excited me. His confidence that He would have her, and have her how He wanted, rang a tone of accordance inside of me.

Eventually, a female dervish comes out, dancing and twirling around the chamber. She is wearing a long black dress, with her face completely cloaked in a skin tight black silk hood. A high collar that extends well above her crown frames this faceless feminine head. The dancing nymph picks up the Princess' hand and pulls her from her chair. The Princess reluctantly follows, trying to resist, but she is tumbling into a trance. The dancing draws the Princess deeper, evident by her movements as they begin to sway to the macabre tune all on their own. Her body accepts the urges, breathlessly responding to the desire it wells up. A montage of images alternates between the faceless demoness and the princess, both twirling around and around, until finally, a metamorphosis occurs.


The Princess has become the Dark Lord's bride.

The next image you see of the Princess is the one at right. Her lips are now darkened. Her flesh pale and uniform, showing the communion to the creatures of the deep. Her eyes are heavily lined, reducing the brightness they boasted with above ground. She slithers in her movements, moving her body in the new sensual way it has been taught. She wears the dress of the faceless demoness. She has become the demoness. Even her voice is deeper, rich with lust and lasciviousness. She comes to the Dark Lord transformed, and He welcomes her with open arms.

If anyone had come up the stairs, my ruse would've been discovered. I couldn't move. I hadn't seen the female form tarnished in such an appetizing way. I watched the Princess slip from her primrose beauty to this sinful creature happy to do her new Master's bidding. My mind had been opened to the possibility that such a dynamic could exist. Over and over, this conversion would be redrawn in my head when i needed to satisfy my erotic appetites.

I had grown up fearing the temptation that the Devil had wielded on my every behavior, only to come to find that this was misplaced. I was made to fear Darkness as a child, but when i was left to uncover the truth of my nature on my own, i realized i didn't need to be afraid of being delivered to Him.

I was exactly like Him.

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

The Gain, pt. 1

Despite what many men, either online or at clubs, would have you believe, you do not secure a female's submission simply by demanding it (the oft heard slogan of "Kneel, bitch/slave/slut."). And despite my early blind insistence to the contrary, not all females are submissive. Those girls that are submissive require a patient and concerted process that demonstrates to them that the top is worthy of their gift. To me and my small circle of dominant friends, we refer to this moment of reception as "The Gain".

I've been blessed to receive this gift from 6 incredible girls, of course i went about "The Gain" the only way i knew how, and that was to transform them on some level. When i met each of them, i was at a more advanced level in sexual deviance than they were, which was an incredibly enticing prospect all its own. I relished the role of debaucherer, introducing them to scenarios via stories, photos or videos, greeting their vehemenent protests at such filth with immense sadistic delight. Each of them responded differently to my tactics, and each required a specific, custom-made approach to drawing them to a place where the mere sound of my voice or look in my eyes brought them to a deep, safe, and indisputable submission. Something about interacting with these girls, all of whom were/are strong spirits and otherwise vivacious personalities in the outside world, felt incredibly natural and right. I acted precisely as i knew i had to and wanted to, which to an outside observer (and in the initial stages with most of these girls) would appear stubbornly arrogant. I made assertions and demands that they were not accustomed to that insulted their liberated sentiments. In fact, this issue contributed to the biggest challenge i faced. I learned an incredible amount about myself as i made mistakes and miscues. However, the most important thing i learned was simply because i desired to dominate females did not necessarily mean i was fully aware of the responsibility i'd be dealt once i gained an intensely strong and assertive creature's submission.

As i said, each one of these girls gave me their submission in different ways, but there was one thing that united all of them, which told me the exact moment i had it. We simultaneously experienced the same physical sensation of an intense field of energy throbbing in our chests that can only be described as a current running between our two bodies. It expanded out into our arms and hands, up our necks, and the more we breathed within the same space, it flooded over us. We became intertwined. The first time i felt this, i was hooked. It was the greatest high i'd ever experienced, and i would do what i could over the years to get back to the moment. That it came as a result of intense degradation and objectification of the girl struck me both as cruel and beautiful.

Incidentally, in my journey to continually re-experience this sensation, i found, as a result of my greed, a very appealing and efficient method that delivered "The Gain" more succinctly than anything else in my bag of tricks. I'll consider sharing it later.

*this continues on here

Xmas dinner with the Stevensons

I drove up to the house in Faircrest Hills, arriving at the estate in my dilapidated pickup truck. The valet looked at me as i handed him my keys with what i expected would be the first of many "you don't belong here" looks. I felt the same about him. Who has a valet at their house? I walked up the path to the front door, which seemed to magically open on its own upon my approach. As i stepped through it, i saw the proud butler holding the door in such a way that most of his body was hidden by it so that arriving guests wouldn't need to be distracted by his bodily presence.

Curving upwards, as if taking off in flight from the landing i stood on were two long marble staircases, with a golden strip of carpeting flowing right down the middle of each. These staircases served to frame perfectly the first of eight Christmas trees that i would encounter in the Stevenson's mansion. It was easily the biggest Christmas tree i'd ever seen in someone's house. 18 or 19 feet high, yet it came nowhere near approaching the lofty ceiling hanging above. However, this wasn't the most spectacular thing about this ornamentation. Looking at the base of this gigantic blue spruce, i saw what i suspected had to be true. Thinking no tree holder could be large enough to support this tannenbaum on its own, without trying to register my surprise, i looked at the trunk sinking right into the oval of earth cut out in the floor. I wondered as i was escorted to the north wing where the guests were milling if the Stevensons had planted the tree or if they'd built this enormous house around it.

I'd been invited to this festive banquet by the youngest of the Stevenson girls who i'd been seeing off and on at College. I knew and she knew i didn't belong, but i accepted her invitation nonetheless. I really wanted to see the environment in which she'd been incubated that contributed to her incredibly sexy bitchiness. I don't want to give the impression that i was outwardly some rebellious looking wolf who the youngest girl of this upper crust family hoped would cause shivers in the stiff vertebrae of her parents. On the exteriors, i was and still am very clean and dapperly dressed (which has always caught off any girl i have revealed this tilted side to), it's just that the Stevensons were that wealthy. They were among four families in the area whose names crested institutions, government pavilions and of course industries.

Dear old Papa did his best to reinforce, during the glamorous seven course meal, the esteem and prestige that made up the Stevenson pedigree. I realized he didn't usually regale his banquet guests with accounts of the precedents and pioneering achievements struck into the roots of our entire community by the hands of his lineage. He was doing that for my benefit. I listened to every word, impressed at the fluidity of his speech and pride in his heritage.

I smiled at him while i listened, while in my head i contemplated the contrast of the image of this founding clan parading across the terrain and the image from just the night before of his youngest daughter (whose leg had been running up and down my thigh ever since the second salad course) crawling on all fours, completely naked, across the floor of my dorm room, carrying my homework in her mouth that i'd had her fetch for me.