A very, very bad girl!

You come to these pages to be aroused, don’t you? I know! I’m one of you; an avid reader. But, now I return to you here (as opposed to here ), to fill in for Deity whilst he is away. It was all a bit short notice this time, and he doesn’t know what I am writing, so let’s have some fun over the next week. It may lead to a tongue lashing later, but I’ll worry about that later. (“My God, she is so brave!” I hear some of you say. Or, stupid.)

I see that some of you girls loved being scared in a recent post.

“I imagine you sitting there wondering if I am speaking directly to you...”

Alfred Hitchcock could not have done it better, don’t you think? We girls love to be scared half to death. It gets our hearts racing a little faster, and yes, it gets us very wet between the legs. What a f**king rush! That’s why we giggle, right? Maybe they are saying the things they say and it is all a lark. And, maybe it is not. Maybe, they really are going to do the things they say. We don’t know and we love that we don’t know.

“Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?”

Well, girls, do you? Of course you do...at least in your thoughts. So, now you are at his feet. What now? Do you have any regrets? Are you just a tiny bit worried? What the hell is he planning to do with you, anyway? Do you care? Or, do you lay there, breath shallow, heart racing, wishing that he would just get on with it?

Well, relax. He’s going to take his sweet time. He’s going to ensure that you are well and truly worried. Just a little worried is no use to him. He wants you vexed. Yes, my sweeties, vexed!

He wants you to pause, and reflect on the fact that only a bad girl would be here, waiting to have clever tricks and wicked deeds done to her.

Only a very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to order you to undress. If he orders you to undress, then it is out of your hands, right?

Only a very, very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to make you bend to his will; to make use of your body for his pleasure (and yours, too).You know all this. You know what he will do to you, and yet you stay.

That door that is ajar, allows you to go. You may go. You are dismissed. And, yet you stay. (You are still reading, right?)

I think he may be right. You are a very, very bad girl!

Don't answer

I imagine you sitting there, wondering if i'm speaking directly to you.
The room around you is dark, the only illumination coming from the monitor.
Your eyes peel over every curvature of these words, looking for a hint at my meaning.
When it first comes to you, that darkness, that lack of light that surrounds you suddenly grips you.
It holds you firmly, like the words on this page, knowing my intent.
You read the previous sentences, over and over again, in order to distract you from the thoughts that now creep into your head.
But they are there, gathering outside your door, outside the confines of your safe, secure mind.
Lurking.
In the shadows.
Summoned by me, to do my bidding. To tempt and haunt you.
Do you let them in? Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?

Did you hear it? That door...it just creaked, as if something were leaning on it.

Wandher off

I can't remember the precise thread of thoughts that led me to the designs for that evening's correction, but i do recall the instant the innovation popped into my head that a devilish smile painted itself across my mouth and the words "evil genius" captioned on my crown. Lately, i'd been craving predicament scenarios. In addition, i wanted to add some spice to our weekly routine. I intuited that a carrot needed to be inserted (into the scenario, you perverts).

"What do you have in store for me tonight?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"It's Friday. Time for my correction."

"Oh, are we still doing that?"

My girl rolled her eyes at me, apparently unfazed by my stonewalled face.

I escorted her back to our bedroom where she was met with the hairbrush and thin dowel cane i'd laid out onto the bedspread. I knew that the options were not equally evaluated by her.

"You get your choice between these two implements."

"That's simple, i'll choose the-"

"Before you choose, i'd like to add that only one of these will allow you to use the Magic Wand." Her eyes widened.

The Carrot.

Some of you may remember a while back, where i used my Flex Spending dollars on items that would bolster my kinky supplies. Even after my successful haul, i still had a considerable amount left over, and looked through the online drugstore once more to see if there was anything that caught my eye. I couldn't believe it when i came across the Hitachi Magic Wand at drugstore.com. I immediately purchased it, keeping it a surprise from my girl, and excitedly awaited it's arrival (talk about a stimulus package from the government).

My girl has long had issues regarding masturbation and achieving orgasm. It had always been a goal of mine to help her overcome these and allow her to experience the full pleasure of her body's erogenous reactions. When i first presented her with her brand new toy, she reacted with muted excitement, uncertain why i would "waste money on yet another vibrator". Dear readers, i've known the power of the Magic Wand for many years, and i knew my girl even better. EVERY girl should have one. It should be a right, we should have government-mandated grants or scholarships that provide every female in this country with their very own (kinda like using a pre-tax allocation of funds to purchase one). I knew precisely her reaction once she nestled it's magical head against the pink folds of her sex and flipped the switch.

Her wide eyes staring at me as i dangled the electronic incentive in front of her were those of a complete convert. She knew that if i was sweetening the deal with her Magic Wand, the cane strokes were not going to be light. Nontheless, a girl has got to have her candy.

"Well, obviously, i choose the cane."

I had her strip and then come to the side of the bed where the device was plugged into the wall. I told her to grasp the white shaft of the vibrator on both sides, with the business end pointing in towards her belly, ensuring that her fingers could not reach the switch that adjusted the speed. I then took pink, vinyl bondage tape and wrapped her hands, making her and the implement one. I then directed her to assume a position on all fours on the bed, leaning on her knees and her elbows.

"We're going to warm you up first. Place the wand against your cunt."

She touched the silent staff to her crotch. I began tapping her exposed buttocks with the long cane, repeatedly over and over, targeting small patches of her flesh. Normally, my girl would writhe in sheer pain at this form of attention, but because of what lingered at her pussy, she knew better than to make a peep.

"Would you like me to turn the wand on?"

"Yes. Yes, please."

Reaching between her legs, i clicked the switch that set the device to animation. She instantly moaned, moving her conjoined hands so that the vibrating head made the perfect contact. I continued biting her backside with short, quick swipes, gradually increasing the amount of surface area the cane flicked into her skin. Unabated, she ground her cunt into the white dome of the wand. By this point, her ass cheeks burned a cherry red.

"Would you like me to turn it on high?"

"uh...y-y-yes...yes please."

"Give me a number."

"16"

This offering raised my eyebrows. This was not my regular girl talking. Not when the cane is involved. This was not my demure, playful, frail little darling who feared the long justice of the thin wooden tail. This was a hungry, desirous creature tossing her safety away for more. More. This was a fire that burned the length of her suppined body. This was utterly incredible to see. This was climax.

And this was definitely going to hurt.

What's the French word for 'swagger'?*

Growing up, i had a rousing friendship with both the Disney family of cartoon players as well as the playful crew over at the Warner Bros. house. Every afternoon, i would carve out at least an hour of recreational television watching in great anticipation of seeing my favorite Donald Duck, Chip 'n Dale, Daffy Duck and Foghorn Leghorn slapstick (i didn't care much for Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny because they too closely resembled the good guys). All of these jesters were placed in the most aggravating, conflicting and trying situations with obstacle after obstacle tossed at them which i deeply related to. It now occurs to me the oddity of my young self relating more to these 2-dimensional celluloid illustrations than the flesh and blood that marauded around me, but nonetheless it was very true. I sought the animated teleplay of underdogs rather than interact with the real life bullies and unpredictably feral schoolmates.

Of all the regular set of characters i came to enjoy and even emulate in my own behavior, there was one that struck a nerve that these four chums somehow didn't. I related to this quartet by way of their unkempt state of always being on the wrong foot, singing a song slightly off-key, skipping to a beat that drew unneeded attention to them. However, this one fella struck a chord in me i couldn't identify at the time. His scrapes didn't involve dashed get-rich schemes and top-your-neighbor foibles. Instead, his purr-suits were exclusively that of the opposite sex.

Of course i speak of Pepe le Pew:



In this cartoon, as in most of his performances, the discovery of his existence immediately elicits distress calls from the poor discovering sap. They freak out when they identify him as "Le pew" or in the anglicized version of French, a skunk. His stench identifies himself as a monster. So many of my own stubborn views and ticks invited similar disparagement, as a result his alienation became an instant brotherhood for me to latch onto. There were many days of social solitude and isolation that caused me to wonder if i smelled awful, but even then, that didn't ignite my attachment to him and his cartoon saga.

Every episode where he starred that i remember involved him relentlessly pursuing a female (a pussy, at that). Such blatant sexual conquests had never been re-enacted in a way i could enjoy. Like most kids, i pinched my nose in utter dramatic contempt when the movie got to the kissing part. I did it because i didn't understand why the two characters wanted to do that, but also, because other kids around me were doing it, and at that age, i tried to minimize the amount of negative attention i attracted. Monsieur le Pew, however, made it acceptable to enjoy the hunt of the female species.

I loved the way he jaunted after them, with such persistence, such effrontery and patience, and such, such confidence. His "swagger" consisted of a calm, ballet-like bounce, whereas the targeted female was racing with haste and frenzy. He knew that once he set his sights on her, he would have her. I'm not certain whether i related to this so much because i naturally felt this way myself, or because i learned this from Pepe. Either way, caper after caper, i treated his cartoons less as entertainment, and more like visits from a kindred spirit. The only parts of his episodes i didn't care for were the ones where he'd get the girl only after he'd changed (i.e. dipped in paint, de-scented, shaved, etc.), and for that matter, she would too.

I've always approached an interaction with a female with a blind sense of faith that it will go favorably. I assume that they'll find something interesting about me, keeping them open long enough to chat. This isn't as brashly arrogant as it seems, but actually stems more from the fact that i get along with the opposite gender so well. Some aesthetes have the ability to walk up to an instrument they've never played and make angelic music with it. Some can advance on a wild horse, whisper in its ear, and lead it off the meadow to a new way of life.

*Answer: épate

Marking what is mine

"Absolutely not!"

I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.

The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.

I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.

One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.

Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.

Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.

I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.

As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.

I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.

Second skin

I credit the internet for many things.

It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.

It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).

Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.

When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.

I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.

The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.

Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:

Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll

The first transformation

Sadly, it doesn't involve another female. It focuses solely on me (yes, as if an entire journal dedicated to me wasn't enough). Well, on when i first discovered the indefensible tug the process of metamorphosis has over me.

I was 12 years old, plopped on my couch in front of the television on a Saturday morning (my how that device fed my development), watching one of my favorite programs which retold contemporary young adult books in a half hour cartoon format. The narrative of that day's featured story showcased a young boy who was constantly pushed around by a bully, and, losing his ability to tolerate it, sought a way to address it (i immediately could relate to this situation because i had long suffered at the hands of bullies throughout the years). It opens with him trying to escape yet another incident where he is chased and harassed. He stumbles upon a magic store that he hadn't seen before, down an alley he never knew existed. He wanders inside to be met by an eccentric shopkeeper who offers him a solution. Rushing home, he tries out the device that will eventually lead him to solve his bullying problem.

The Monster's Ring

This is an excerpt i found of the author, Bruce Coville narrating his tale. I invite you, the readers, to listen to the whole 15 minute clip. It is how i remember it when i first read it (i would subsequently, after seeing the cartoon, check out the book from the library well over 40 times). For those of you who'd just like to hear the important part, you can fast forward to the 10 minute and 10 second mark. This is my first attempt at a sort of multimedia journal entry, so you'll need realplayer to hear the excerpt in order to fully understand what i'm referring to.

I felt a strange sensation like young Russell as i watched this tale, but it wasn't in my forehead. As i watched his physical features morph into a beast, and then more incredibly his appetites and his instincts become ruled by the monster he was changing into, i felt an incredible surge of lust and arousal. His change filled him with the power to take control of the situation. As he gave over to the rising monster, he was able to use it to eradicate the bully in his life. Witnessing the ecstasy he experienced in letting out his most hideous, ravenously evil side obviously stirred an innate desire in me to harness the same force. For many years following, i was easily aroused when i dreamt up transformations that happened to me. Most of my energy in fact focused on this aspect: auto-metamorphoses.

Something, however, trumped this. It first appeared in literature and movies, where i came across instances of a woman undertaking a conversion at the hands of a male "master" (Lucy Wisterna in 'Dracula', Princess Lily in 'Legend'). It overpowered my interest in turning the transformation on myself when i then encountered females who would willingly hand over the future of their mental and physical state to someone else. I wanted to embrace the power of becoming the Creator in their world. I wanted to tackle the hunger that wells up inside of me whenever i encounter the feminine creature by making her completely mine.

Consent

Charting all of my sexual conquests creates a list that is severely lopsided in one direction. 'Conquests' perhaps is not the right word. That implies offense, battering rams, hordes of marauding mercenaries spilling over village walls. I don't seek and conquer women. I set sexual traps.

I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.

From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.

I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.

In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.

My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.