From time to time, i will experience a period of introspection wherein i evaluate my dominance in the domestic power exchange that informs my household's operation. Lately, i have felt that i had not taken as stern a position as i could in the correction and training of my girl (of course, if you ask her, she might completely disagree with this, and rather categorize this self-criticism as a symptom of my perfectionism). Hearing the poor marks i give myself, there are those of you who visit this site and must wonder:
"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"
"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"
"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."
And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.
Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.
Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.
Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.
As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.
I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.
I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.
I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.
Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.
"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."
With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.
"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."
I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.
Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.
"Fowh."
"What?!? Are you serious?"
She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.
Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.
Showing posts with label marks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marks. Show all posts
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Sugasm #138
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #139? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set. This Week’s Picks Champagne Orgasms Tie one on Mr. Sugasm Himself Editor’s Choice See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday. (Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.) BDSM & Fetish |
Friday, June 20, 2008
a jagged soft puzzle
the sound of her breath
clutching for rescue
moved me to force more
unto her as
her moans captured
her red skin voice for me
lips licking gasps
lingered torture of her
bosom's tight explosion
filling her body with
liquid swell
fingers fingering incomplete
no stop yes yes more
lips licking gasps
undulating bodies fit
hot pieces together in
a jagged soft puzzle
clutching for rescue
moved me to force more
unto her as
her moans captured
her red skin voice for me
lips licking gasps
lingered torture of her
bosom's tight explosion
filling her body with
liquid swell
fingers fingering incomplete
no stop yes yes more
lips licking gasps
undulating bodies fit
hot pieces together in
a jagged soft puzzle
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sugasm #120
Sugasm #120
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #121? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
The Ache of Desire Unsatisfied
“J groaned in my ear, and I nearly pulled down his zipper then and there.”
Unexpected
“Tingles of electricity were set coursing up and down that side of my body.”
Part(y)ing shots
“I placed both my hands on the tiled wall in front of me, clammy and cold, holding myself up.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The “Best way to make him felt hot”
Editor’s Choice
Who Is A Sex Worker?
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
The administration of pain
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The administration of pain
The short answer to the question "Does a dominant want to hurt his submissive?" is:
Yes
However, i feel this subject truly deserves a longer answer.
This is a question that has been posed to me by several of the girls i've placed at the receiving end of my sadistic cruelty. I understand why they ask it. The desire to "hurt" someone is unethical, brutal, mean, indicative of a lack of respect for the person you hurt. The submissive has always hoped when asking this question that i utilize pain to affect some other measures rather than just physical duress. After all, inflicting pain on someone else can be illegal, depending on the intent, and no girl wants to believe that after she's consented to this treatment she's ultimately become the victim of a crime.
I think the clarity in this discussion can be discovered by drawing the distinction between 'hurting someone' and 'causing them pain'. I have left my submissives' flesh bruised, scratched and bloodied. Were these signs of force purposeful or just convenient side effects from another leading agenda? No. I hit them as hard as i did to cause damage to the flesh. Did i want to injure the submissive, to maliciously send her to the hospital? Not at all. I didn't want to abuse her, but i most certainly wanted to cause pain.
Pain affords many possibilities. It is a medium that is rich and diverse, and insists upon a quick and immediate response. When you slap a leather strap across her thigh, you don't want to hear mechanized or artificial groans of suffering - lest a yelp that sounds rehearsed. You want to inflict something that genuinely shocks them, causes them to jerk their head towards you and offer you their curled, tortured brow. You want their look to connect the path of this burning sensation to your dominant position that allows you to dispense it. You want to hear a cry that is the result of your judicious sentence. You want to hear her pleading for release, you want to push her to a point of discomfort where her body fills her flesh with endorphines, exacting her from the regular droll routine of daily life.
I get off on the sounds of feminine struggle. The whimpers as they are formed through curved female lips. The grunts that express her acceptance of her irremovable bondage. The screams that roar out into the air a ballad of pure vivacity. Nothing arouses this concerto of noise like the all-immersive qualities of pain.
In the late 19th Century, when ether was discovered, the world erupted, jubiliantly declaring that humanity had conquered pain. I personally do not see this goal as ever being beneficial. Pain is as crucial to the human existence as love is. And i have found, because it has received such a poor social stigma, great feats of physical exploration can be accomplished when pain is used carefully, surgically and intelligently.
Yes
However, i feel this subject truly deserves a longer answer.
This is a question that has been posed to me by several of the girls i've placed at the receiving end of my sadistic cruelty. I understand why they ask it. The desire to "hurt" someone is unethical, brutal, mean, indicative of a lack of respect for the person you hurt. The submissive has always hoped when asking this question that i utilize pain to affect some other measures rather than just physical duress. After all, inflicting pain on someone else can be illegal, depending on the intent, and no girl wants to believe that after she's consented to this treatment she's ultimately become the victim of a crime.
I think the clarity in this discussion can be discovered by drawing the distinction between 'hurting someone' and 'causing them pain'. I have left my submissives' flesh bruised, scratched and bloodied. Were these signs of force purposeful or just convenient side effects from another leading agenda? No. I hit them as hard as i did to cause damage to the flesh. Did i want to injure the submissive, to maliciously send her to the hospital? Not at all. I didn't want to abuse her, but i most certainly wanted to cause pain.
Pain affords many possibilities. It is a medium that is rich and diverse, and insists upon a quick and immediate response. When you slap a leather strap across her thigh, you don't want to hear mechanized or artificial groans of suffering - lest a yelp that sounds rehearsed. You want to inflict something that genuinely shocks them, causes them to jerk their head towards you and offer you their curled, tortured brow. You want their look to connect the path of this burning sensation to your dominant position that allows you to dispense it. You want to hear a cry that is the result of your judicious sentence. You want to hear her pleading for release, you want to push her to a point of discomfort where her body fills her flesh with endorphines, exacting her from the regular droll routine of daily life.
I get off on the sounds of feminine struggle. The whimpers as they are formed through curved female lips. The grunts that express her acceptance of her irremovable bondage. The screams that roar out into the air a ballad of pure vivacity. Nothing arouses this concerto of noise like the all-immersive qualities of pain.
In the late 19th Century, when ether was discovered, the world erupted, jubiliantly declaring that humanity had conquered pain. I personally do not see this goal as ever being beneficial. Pain is as crucial to the human existence as love is. And i have found, because it has received such a poor social stigma, great feats of physical exploration can be accomplished when pain is used carefully, surgically and intelligently.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I'd like to issue a correction
I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
Friday, September 7, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sugasm #90
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
I honestly hadn't given the subject too much thought before i decided to write about it. Of course, as is my way, i sought to cram it into the "transformation" mold which is the baseline for all my thinking, leading me to break the process of swatting my girl down into metamorphic stages.
Surprising her:
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.
"OH!"
Swatting her:
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.
Do i want her standing or over my knee?
If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.
If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.
This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.
Marking her:
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.
"36"
Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.
In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.
Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.
Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.
All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.
Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.
Surprising her:
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.
"OH!"
Swatting her:
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.
Do i want her standing or over my knee?
If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.
If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.
This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.
Marking her:
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.
"36"
Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.
In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.
Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.
Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.
All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.
Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.
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