Under my wing

I've had several positions of employment in my life that cover various industries and vocations (i've been fired from a handful of those, all for the same reason - an inability to take orders from my supervisor). The jobs that i struggled in the most were those that had no social component to it, and instead left me isolated on my own either operating some tool or machine while performing some mundane, repetitive task. I require interaction. I thrive off the energy that occurs when you dance with someone conversationally. I need to be able to toss in a self-deprecating remark or be a complete smart ass while tackling a project, or i feel cold and inactive. I do best in a situation where i can serve as a mentor, a counselor and an expert of some kind.

I received my yearly appraisal for my performance at my job the other day. As i was sitting in my boss's office, listening to him laud my contributions and my dependability to always overachieve (his words exactly), i thought over the parade of stints i have undertaken. I've mostly enjoyed my periods of employment, some more than others, but one position stood out to me as the finest job i've ever held.

I put myself through college via a creatively assembled cocktail of student loans and work-study assignments. While my fellow students were busy pickling their livers with the trust funds dear ole Dad set up for them, i was shelving books, cleaning headphones and cataloguing rare copies of hand-written Sibelius compositions. I longed for a more fulfilling and fitting way for me to matriculate through my higher education. When i first learned of the position of Resident Advisor (or R.A. as it is commonly known in the States), it seemed like a glorified camp counselor which didn't at all ring any bells in me. But once i read past the job description and came upon the compensation details (free room and board), i was sold.

I was convinced that i needed to become an R.A. I finetuned every electrical impulse in my body to affectively adjust their frequency so that i would acquire a position as an R.A. Despite it being the job most competed for on campus, i was able to secure a role at the University's oldest and most prestigious dormitory. However, i learned that there was some flub in my paperwork, which delayed my hiring and in turn affected my floor assignment. Apparently, the least desired floor was the very bottom, also known as "The Pit", and since i was Johnny-come-lately, this was the one i got bumped to.

Me being me, i accepted my commission without question, but was intent on changing the historic image of the cellar dwellers. Before i even took residence, i instituted an immediate revocation of any nominal reference to "The Pit", and instead insisted people refer to the lowest floor as the "Garden Level". To my surprise, on the first day i moved my belongings into my spacious apartment, i discovered the single aspect about my duty that would dominate all else. Because of the potentially dicey security matter of the rooms being on the lowest floor, the administrators saw fit to make it exclusively male (this despite the fact that the rest of the residence hall was explictly co-ed) with the thought that no pervert would break through a window that had two guys nestled behind it. To provide the R.A. assigned to this detail with a well-rounded experience, the administrators jerry-rigged a portion of the building just above the 'garden level' (ten dorm rooms in all), making it the only female-only wing in the entire University housing system.

Now, i won't make false assertions that my time as an R.A. wasn't rift with diverse experiences that made the job completely fulfilling and worth it, because that would be false and misleading. However, having my own, secluded floor of young, freshmen girls where i could act as den leader, grand vizier and overall father figure is precisely the reason i held that post for two and a half years. I confess that every social program i designed, every media campaign i instituted, and every outreach i established was targeted at those ten girl-only dorm rooms, and only then did it sadly filter down to the 24 rooms below. Each of my girls received their own unique nicknames (I have a thing for giving people nicknames - the name you were given somehow isn't enough), whereas the same gesture was not extended to my Garden Level inhabitants. In fact, in two and a half years, i had well over 60 male residents, but i can't remember a single name of any of them. However, i can easily recall each and every nickname ever lent out to my female residents.

I won't say that hanky panky didn't occur between me and any of my girls (perhaps, unethically, far too much took place) but that's not what made that experience such a sweet spot in my library of experiences. I adored the young, uncertain, in need of trust, young lady who would knock on my always unlocked door to come chat with me about this homework assignment or that dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. What made this experience worthwhile wasn't that i screwed as many young women as conceivably possible, but that i was able to get closer - if just a few inches, and a over just a few minutes - to a bundle of feminine energy. Easily, my very favorite energy of all.

Edition #7

Posted on September 15, 2007
Filed Under Edition | 1 Comment

Welcome to Exchange Edition #7, highlighting the most interesting, most controversial and smartest posts from the BDSM blogosphere - as nominated by the bloggers who wrote them. Not chosen by a committee, or pre-judged, these posts reflect each bloggers ‘pick’ of their own best work in the previous 2 weeks. It’s an easy way to try a new blog, written by someone who shares your interests.

This Week’s Picks

Due to the small number of posts, there are no picks this week.

Submit your best BDSM related post to be considered!

Editor’s Choice

The Ties that Bind (No Limits: A Slave’s Journey of Total Submission)

More of the edition

How to join Exchange

Dominance

Restraining Order (The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise)

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.

Restraining order

I've heard of dominants who approach their power exchange with the same flow and energy as a river rushing over the rocks in its riverbed. Their hunger or gravity pulls them forward and they encounter obstacles, but do not bear them any mind, just roll over them, continuing with the downward force that will empty them into the sea. They act on impulse, and consequences, should any arise, they ignore for they are already miles downstream. This to me is quite chaotic.

I prefer order. I prefer the pace of the tortoise who steadily triumphs over a hastened rodent. I am too obsessed with detail to not take my time. I have often stated to many a female who was curious as to why i didn't scream at their shortcomings at meeting my demands:

I am a very patient man.

I believe patience is not a virtue. It is a requirement. A man seeking to engage in a power exchange with a modern-day female must practice absolute zen-like mindfullness on the kind of journey and spasm her psyche will undergo as she slowly relinquishes control and transforms into the kind of submissive he desires. There will be thrashing, stuttering, doubting, and even contemplation of quitting. Having the ability to calmly slow the knee-jerk reaction to these responses will exponentially benefit both.

Insisting that patience serve prominently in this exchange most likely comes off as intuitive and not something all that surprising. There is, however, something about this patience that most times does not get mention from the dominant perspective.

It must involve restraint.

Restraint is not always just applied to submissives. In fact, the responsible dominant will put several restraints upon himself. I am not offering that the dominant bind himself with straps or rope, gag himself or even lace in a corset. Those are physical restraints. I speak of those that are applied mentally.

I love rewarding my girl. I love giving her compliments, praise, trinkets, preference. I love her reaction to these things, but, i have a responsibility to not offer them without reflection. Just because i love doing it, and because i'm the one in charge, doesn't mean i can abuse this. Rewards need spacing, interruption, in order for them to remain meaningful and important.

In the early stages of our relationship, i wanted to expose her to so many awful, lewd, twisted images and scenarios. I wanted to shove her in positions, situations, tortures. My lust to have her strewn in the most strict postures often overwhelmed me, and even in some situations, i became very greedy. I pushed her too far, before she was ready, which caused her to shut down. I took one liberty too many, not paying attention to her signs: her breathing, her skin tone, her perspiration, even her smell. This results in the exact opposite of what i'd wanted.

As a dominant, the submissive relies on you to know what is best - not universally, and not endlessly, but they expect you to have a better sense of the river's edge than they do. In fact, you engage in a power exchange because you want to be in charge of precisely that.

I've always liked the rain

I've been pleasantly surprised to find that the lovely Chelsea Girl has been kind enough to link me in her roundup on Fleshbot this week. I consider this a thrill for two reasons. The first being the many new eyes it has introduced to my journal. The second and more important reason being that i find her to be frankly one of the best writers out there in this erotic online realm.

I also wanted to take the opportunity with this post to mention that i'm overwhelmingly flattered by the many readers and bloggers who have commented on and linked to this page. Holding your attention has been a fulfilling and inspiring endeavor. Thank you. It is with great pleasure I share my take on "corrupting the feminine creature". It is with greater pleasure that I will continue to do so.