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She was just here

Awhile back, i took a few of you on a tour of the House of Deity in order to demonstrate the ease at which one can conceal the kinky potential of their furnishings. Do any of you remember the wooden stool that normally resides in the kitchen? Good. Keep that on precipice of your mind.

Recently, i had accumulated so much paid vacation that i needed to take random days off in order not to lose them. I reluctantly took the Friday before Christmas off, to give myself a three-day weekend, but to also give myself enough leisure time to contemplate the minutiae of that evening's correction. Vesta had recently shared with me a story she'd penned that detailed a schoolmaster faced with testing out his recently acquired spanking bench. A detail from it had stuck in the soft gray material of my brain like a spoon in a cup of ice cream. To fasten the young spankee to the wooden bench, the schoolmaster had the craftsmen install a leather band that would be draped over the girl's back - holding her in place, but also positioning her prone buttocks pointing skyward. From this image launched my evil stencils, drafting and designing ways to rivet, bind, ply and adhere my girl's frame to the aforementioned stool. I tested the stool to find its center of gravity, to see how the weight needed to be distributed. I calculated how much rope would be required to accomplish my vision, setting out the required number of coils. I layed out a yoga mat, and placed the stool over it in order to reduce the chance of the stool slipping out from under her. Everything was ready. All that waited was for my girl to arrive home from work.

I greeted her at the door, opening it when i heard her in the stairwell. She plunked her bags onto the floor of her room, and immediately grabbed her back, as if in pain.

"Baby, my back is killing me."

The sound of deflated excitement wheezed into the air as i felt all of the carefully crafted plans slip into the abyss. In my head, i tried to devise ways my design would not tax her sore dorsal region, but they all felt contrived.

"Well, you do know it's Friday."

"Yes, that's why i'm telling you about my back right now. I can't do anything too taxing."

"Define taxing."

"The cane...i can't do the cane."

The cane! THE CANE! She couldn't do the cane! I didn't even plan on using the cane. When she identified that it was this kind of trauma she must avoid - the kind of jolts to the lower rump that caused her muscles to jerk in violent spasms - i realized my plans were not for naught.

"Meet me in my study, having removed your clothes in 5 minutes."

I switched on the stereophone player against the long wall, and checked one last time that everything was prepared. She peeped her head in, seeing the stool immediately. I held out my hand and guided her to stand next to it. I took a position behind her, and before proceeding further, hugged her. I squeezed her, caressed her naked flesh, feeling the raised indent of her just-removed corset. I took in her scent, her natural and boutique perfumes. All of this brought me closer to her. I'd been away from this, her, all day. I guided her down, bending her over the stool, and placed each of her arms parallel to the two forelegs of the stool.

Kneeling, i grabbed a coil of hemp rope, and quickly lassoed her delicate wrists to the black wooden stantion of the stool, affixing it with authority. I traveled up her arm and attached her elbow with rope to the hard wood. With haste, i mimicked this configuration with her other arm, wrist and elbow. Her flippers had become legs of a stool. Moving behind her again, i spread her legs, butterflying them around the stool's aftlegs, making sure her feet were positioned wisely so as to support her entire weight should it shift even an inch during her internment. I wrapped her ankles to the legs of the stool, then her knees. Taking the extra slack i anticipated, running the rope up over her outer thigh, i slid a tight line of rope slicing down into her buttocks, and in through her legs. I grasped a hold of her outer right cunt lip in my fingers, and with the rope, pinned it against the inner part of her thigh, tying off the rest of this line to the rungs of the stool. Her left side soon sistered her right, holding her cunt open and spread. Where was my girl whose presence had filled the room, but now lay conjoined with this piece of kitchen furniture? Where had she gone?

Satisfied that she could not move with much liberty, i grabbed the last coil. Starting at the small of her back, at the precise point she had grabbed upon entering our home, i anchored this section to the top of the stool, coiling the rope around and around, each pass further compressing her back to a completely static state.

"How do you feel?"

I caressed her cheek with my hand. Her form clamped over the stool with such beauty. I wanted to grab the camera, but i also didn't want to interrupt the flow that this rigging had established between us.

"I feel good."

I produced the wooden hair brush with the wide head, and bent down to show it to her. She sighed, a sign of pure relief.

"I thought you might still use the cane."

I scraped the coarse bristles across her rope-packed flesh, back and forth, quickly inviting a beautiful scarlet wave to brush across her ass cheeks. I turned the business end of the brush around and thwacked her cheeks, playing with their tautness. I enjoyed the sensation of the impact upon my hand. The target never moved, and for the most part maintained the same rigid texture. After several strokes, i could see her backside was ready.

"Give me a number."

She struggled at first to provide me with one. Her speech seemed to stick in her windpipes, perhaps constrained by the aromatic hemp strewn across her body.

"Sixteen."

"Really? Sixteen."

In my hands, i held the leather cat-o-nine, allowing its mahogany tendrils to twist in the air. With precision as my guide, i suffered sixteen blows across her bound flesh, pausing only twice to allow her to catch her breath. At the conclusion, both of us could sense our mutual excitement, and knew the next logical step.

"Do i need to undo these crotch ropes to fuck you?"

"I think you might."

The third person

It all starts with words. To be more precise, it starts with the reduction of them. I slowly remove certain words from my manner of speech, she responds, following my cue. Her tongue takes to the incision, and suddenly those bits of her vocabulary are off-limits. I strip her of more verbiage, just like i strip her of her clothes, of her identity, of her freedom.

Soon, the language organically evolves into me referring to her in the third person. She is still there in front of me, but dramatically diminished. The notion of "i" or "me", the possibility of autonomy, free thought, disappears. What remains is less. Minimal. A casing.

And she responds.

Her body becomes flush with warmth, tingles spray across the surface of her skin, and her head fills with light effluvium. I see her breathing take on different labors. I see her eyes widen and yet sharpen at the same point. A crest builds between us, drawing from my chest an apparition, summoning another dimension.

That's when It takes over. I take a step back, and It controls the flow.

The presence, the existence, the pause, the stranger, the unknown, the shadow, the flame.

This third person, thing, beast rushes over the object in front of It, overwhelming the microscopic bundle that sits in wait. It will devour the tiny creature.

consume

engulf

and enjoy

Christmas came early...or late

Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Quite frankly like a kid on Christmas Eve night. I finally heard from him.

After months of no replies to my weekly e-mails inquiring about an update, finally, my girl's corsetier got back with me. The custom patent leather neck corset and hood was finally completed. To tantalize me, he sent me a photo of it, laced onto a mannequin to shoe its full viciousness. If i could, upon viewing this picture, i would've taken a cab up to his place immediately, but, as it was, i had a wedding to attend and was heading out of town. I'd have to wait another week longer (some may say "what's another week after all this time?" and i would reply simply "uhm, another week, that's what it is.").

For those of you who recall, this contraption was supposed to be a naughty christmas gift from me to my girl last year. Twelve visits, thirty one e-mails, and countless fittings later, he'd completed the piece. We arranged to visit the following weekend. I didn't care if a monsoon hit the city, i'd trudge my way to his studio. I was going to have my toy.

When we arrived, we quickly dispatched of the most rudimentary social niceties (largely because the corsetier is an awfully socially awkward fella), not to mention i was a little peeved that he hadn't responded for so long. I scanned his long workbench on the other side of his studio, in hopes of eyeing my treasure. No such luck. The scoundrel had hidden it away from me.

"Okay, let me see it."

He gave my girl big eyes that spoke his incredulity at my tactless cut-to-the-chase manner. Without much hesitation, he opened a closet, and wheeled out the headless dress form where laced around the stem that served as its neck lay the beautiful neck corset. If i didn't gasp, i could've very easily. He produced the hood, handing it to me. I immediately responded to the tactile quality of the slick surface of the black patent leather. This was real. This item i'd envisioned, designed in my head and commissioned was finally in my hands. The garment was thick, stiff, and had considerable rigidness to it, despite its undeniable feminine qualities.

With haste, i positioned myself behind my girl, pulling her hair into a ponytail. I then slid the hood over her head. Even without doing any of the laces, the fit was exquisite. It literally was like pulling a second skin over her face, as it clung tightly to her slender cheeks and dainty chin. The lacing was simple, much easier than a corset, but i had to remind myself not to close the gap as tight as possible. We were just here for a fitting. There would be other times where i can test its tensility.

Next came the corset. I had to solicit my girl's help with this, as positioning this device was critical to a good, constrictive fit. I asked her, once i placed the chin piece over her mouth, to hold it still with her hands. It took several tries at tweaking the way it lay over her sternum before i felt comfortable with lacing it shut. Immediately, i noticed that the patent leather of the hood would cause some difficulties with exact placement because it would stick to the patent leather of the neck corset. Even once it was fully laced, the corsetier showed me that i could pull the collar even further up her neck to achieve a higher degree of immobility. I let my girl take a peek at herself in the mirror fully sussed up, and then latched the matching black leather eye mask over her ocular cavities - locking her in darkness, robed by soft, supple layers of pink, lambskin leather.

The corsetier and i spent some time examining the fit, seeing if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. I tested my girl's ability to breathe with and without the three leather buckles hitched closed on the back. Because of the restriction, she was not able to speak, only squeeze my hand to indicate any difficulties she encountered in her respiration. I was completely satisfied. More than that, i was elated. I couldn't wait to go home and play with my toy.






Here is a view of the front of the neck corset that completely covers her mouth, ending right at the bottom of her nose. Notice the pink patent leather trim that runs along the bottom and beautiful satin brocade lining. And don't forget the attached D-ring mid-neck (there is a corresponding one not viewed in the photo)





















This is a view of the back of the neck corset and the aforementioned buckles. Are they necessary? 100%.























Here is a profile view of the hood itself. The small pink slit just beneath the buckled eye mask is the only hole for her mouth.
























This is a fantastic view of the interior lining of the hood. A sea of soft pink completely surrounding her.
























Backside of leather eye mask that renders my girl completely blind.

I waited a few days before i pulled the whole thing out to suit up my girl. However, i could not keep myself from pawing it constantly throughout the day. It had such allure and charisma. It drew me to it whenever i happened to be in my bureau. I spent easily an hour just trying to figure out how best to store/display it while it wasn't being used. I couldn't quite place what about it made it so mesmerizing. It was just a garment, albeit a completely unique garment meant only for my girl. It entered my mind frequently leading up to the night i unwielded it.

Forgive the poor quality of the following photos. To say the least, i was incredibly excited, which made holding my hand steady at the camera quite difficult. I've manipulated the image to obscure the background.







I gleaned almost instantly what captivated me about the device before as i handled it. It was instantly transformative. It contained supreme power to alter the way i viewed my girl, and the way my girl viewed herself in it. Once on, once the last strap buckled, my girl vanished. The hood and corset made her my toy. I'd had only a glimpse of the cravings this object would well up inside of me before. Once on, my tempestuous urges exploded. Toy had no voice. Had no language. The blind object was wholly dependent upon me. For its safety and its purpose.

used

blinded
head completely encased
breath coming from a small tube stationed in the mouth
appendages diminished to small, round, tape-covered nobs
the only exposed flesh are bulbous, succulent tits
and
a flushed, naked cunt

i make the toy sit up
i make it lie down
i make it crawl
i make it wait
then beg
i tell it to stick its bare gleaming sex in the air
and hold it there

i apply a vibrating rod to this speechless hole
driving the creature to lustful despair
i make it roll over
the thing inside taking command
rubbing its slit into the round, vibrating head
beastly nature consumes it

hips pound its crotch into the electrical wand
mechanical fucking, without thought
not even noticing the eruption
the liquid that sprays out
pooling beneath this writhing toy
if i didn't extract the stimulator
this would not end
the toy would continue to hump

but, instead, i decide its done
it stops
it crumbles into a pile
spent
and
completely used

Sugasm #149

October 3rd, 2008 by Vixen | Updated: October 3rd, 2008

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 #150? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Art of the Cunt
“The point of the abstraction was so that they, although anatomically correct, are hidden enough in colouring and some of the external shapes to hide the image for what it is.”

Come Get Your Knife
“”Do you trust me?” I asked.”

Tangle of Limbs There is Softness
“But I know myself, I know my desire.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Sugarbutch Star: Eileen

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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
Bang The Bum Harder
Fucking and Flogging
How To Train Your Slave
Ins and (Mostly) Outs of Public Displays of Kink
Like a $20 Whore
She disappears
Submission

She disappears

Half a Milk.. eeh... Million, originally uploaded by Allure+Desire.

It's just her hands, and her upper thighs.

The rest diminished, erased, leaving you wanting, drawing with your mental graphite the rest, how you want it to look, act, respond.

It's the absence of those other parts that starts to drive you mad. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your nostrils flare, until suddenly the civility you use as your mask has come off.

It lies there on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. You will return to it, eventually, but only once you've finished with her.

de ma femme

I've been milling the decision about on how i can get my girl's perspective onto these pages for nearly the entire existence of "The Lustful Quality". Recently, the light bulb illuminated in my head.

"Eureka! I'll give her a writing assignment!"

(Not another assignment - Good God, man, aren't you hard enough on her?)

I know what i think and feel (mostly) when i mummify her. I wanted her to write out how she reacts to it. This will be her first writing assignment for this site. There might be more, there might not be. Rather than her crafting directly onto transformher, for now i'll re-post her writing*. That way i can keep her...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Under Wraps

Usually the way I know it’s going to happen is because he tells me. As his girl, I wait for his cue, and he’s not shy about giving it. I’ve been mummified a few different ways — sometimes it’s a layer of cling wrap followed by a layer of duct tape, other times it’s gauze bandages — but every time, the medium is his choice. Part of the excitement for me is that I am but a pawn in his game, the base for his sculpture. Were it not for the relationship between us, I might as well be just another girl from a classified ad, but the fact that I’m not changes the nature of the scene.

Cling wrap is typically used in the winter, when it’s already generally cool in the house, but even then we usually have to turn a fan. He often uses the green cling wrap, since it’s one of my favorite colors, but sticks to the plain gray or black duct tape when a more industrial look is preferred. On other occasions, he might not use duct tape at all, and just leave it at green shrink wrap. When the gauze is used by itself, my skin can breathe, and my body becomes a rainbow of bandages. Sometimes my mouth and nose are kept free for breathing (and other things), other times I breathe through a tube. As with everything else, it’s ultimately his choice. When I am his mummy, I am his creation.

For me, this is entirely freeing. I love sleeping, so being forced to remain in one position for a long time and turn my mind inside of itself is both a treat and a relief. At the start of the session there is almost always a period where it takes some time for me to adjust to the fact that I am powerless, but eventually it comes to me that I’m actually powerless all the time. When mummified, I can do nothing but breathe, which is the very least I need to do to survive no matter what the case. The gradual acceptance that so little of my life is in my control is ultimately liberating, although frightening at first. Once I reach that point, my test is one of endurance. How long can I sustain having my legs bent backwards, my arms forced into a reverse prayer? How long can I go without being able to take deep breaths as I please?

Part of my responsibility as the mummified object is to let him know my limits. Boundaries being what they are, sometimes I don’t know where the line is until it is crossed, and that’s another facet of our play together. Throughout a session, he talks to me, checks in on me, and I can indicate my status with grunts that tell him whether I am okay or in need of release. Moreover, my head is usually one of the last things to be wrapped, and so while my body is contorted he asks me how long I think I can last in this position and works from there. This part is really important to me. I may be his subject, his work of art or even his victim, but at the end of the line my needs come first. Similarly, his needs are defined once I’ve named mine, which for my part are determined with his satisfaction in mind. If this sounds confusing, I don’t blame you. Where the wants and needs of two people are in constant flux and communication, that is where you will find the rarest of things--a true partnership of trust. For me, mummification is an expression of this trust, and I hope it is as positive and relaxing for everyone else as it is for me and my man.

*If you'd like to leave a comment for her, please do so. She reads these pages and the comments and loves feedback.

Further demands

Good afternoon, my dear. I know you told me that your phone was getting serviced today. That is precisely why i am calling right now. I don't want you to intercept my phone call. In fact, i want your stomach to sink as you turn your phone on for the first time, having just picked it up from the service center, and see that i called.

I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.

I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.

As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.

As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.

As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.

Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.

*this continues on here

Exhibition on training

Someone mentioned to me that i don't put up enough photos, that instead i rely too heavily on words. I can buy that. Words are much easier to own and create, whereas to craft a photo i'd be proud to put up on my site takes resources and talents i do not have easy access to. But, i'm not one to turn down a challenge, so i will try to do a post (following these brief messages, of course) of pure pictoral pontification.*

Nipple training (care of Master Y):















Posture training (care of Kink.com, with an appearance by Claire Adams):





















Limbless training (care of insex.com):









Patience training:




Proper storage following training (care of houseofgord.com and charlottefetish.com):





















*My humble thanks to those whose copyrighted material i've used to try to prove my point.

Sugasm #135

Sugasm #135

from Sugasm by Vixen

Field of Dreams courtesy of Erotic Garden.

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 #136? 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 Angel and the Devil
“Upon looking at my creamy white and feeling my soft lips you would think I am an angel.”

How To Approach A Dominant Woman
“Wrong way: Perhaps you know me from my blog….”

Intimate
“Lying back so the full aura from the lamp lights the area in question, I spread my legs and let him see.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
How does one trust?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

BDSM & Fetish
Muffles

Thierry Mugler

It began, i'm almost certain, with a tag-along trip with my mother to her beauty salon one afternoon when i was young. In order to paint the most honest image of myself, i won't blithely say i was bored, as i usually carried with me a stack of books or comics, but i must confess that the overflowing piles of beauty magazines attracted my eye. I picked out a handful, and scooted my little tush onto the over-stuffed couch in the lobby of the salon. All around me, females of all ages, shapes and colorations were yielding to the expertise of the scissor-wielding maestros and their visions of enhancement. I flipped through the colorful periodicals, consuming every picture (which is a considerable task when you consider that the ratio of photo to print is astonishingly high for these magazines), enjoying the parade of beautiful vixens. I couldn't help but feel entranced by the hundred different displays of cosmetic-dazzled faces, high-fashion footwear and elaborate hairstyles. I wasn't too far into my exploration before i encountered the face that would dominate my mind for years following.

The face belonged to Cindy Crawford.



That one image launched a 5-year long hobby of mine that had me scouring every monthly beauty rag out there for shots of my Cindy. In that span of time, i accumulated four 3-ring binders of pictures of her. I used to sneak into book stores and quickly flip through their magazines in hopes of scoring me yet another photospread, where i would brandish the Exact-O knife i carried in my pocket to quickly extract the goods. I'm not sure what aim i was attempting to accomplish collecting all these images. I guess i'd made a claim on Ms. Crawford (i even set to memory every biographical piece of information i could about her), and felt the closest i would come to possessing her was through these binders.

Over time, the habit of scouring these advertisement-laden publications for Crawford kibble fluttered away. But what remained in its place was an appreciation for and attachment to the inner workings of the fashion industry. In these few years, i mentally catalogued every model, every designer and nearly every trend each fashion house put forth. In doing so, i was trying to explore the possibilities of robing the female body, accentuating its beauty, exciting the imagination through the adornment of the feminine curves. I appreciated the slender yet graceful approach to apparel the folks at Dior had. In the hands of Chanel, the female body had strength, wisdom and prowess. I didn't care for the syrupy style of Dolce and Gabbana, nor the fiery flare of Versace. However, all of these centres du mode came off as middlingly pedestrian when i first encountered the diabolically fetishistic styling of Thierry Mugler.



Monsieur Mugler's appreciation and utilization of PVC, latex and corsets in his haute couture shows might've been enough to make him the singular favorite of mine, but as i grew accustomed to his dark, bent aesthetic, it was then that i discovered his most profound creations that seared his imaginative work to my psyche.

As the photo above illustrates, Mugler, who burst onto the fashion scene in the mid 80's staying until his last show in the year 2000, replaced the typical en vogue wardrobe with his warped, twisted visions of the evolution and metamorphosis of the female creature. Literally. He took the sleek waspy lines formed by a tightly laced corset, and fashioned an alien bird creature with brilliant colorful plumage that surrounded an insect-like abdomen. Even her makeup expressed supra-human qualities. I remember my first peek at this ornithic humanoid, and the way she stood engrossed in the transformation of her body into a sleek, sexual creature, the way she leered out at the worthless homo sapiens in the audience penetrated me with such gross sexual urges.

Thierry Mugler explored this were-creature exercise multiple times throughout his brilliant but short career.



























Seeing this unabashed expression of the erotic qualities of transforming the female into another being, a different vessel, on such a public and revered stage allowed my young mind, which was grappling with my own intense desires to manipulate and convert the girls in my immediate vicinity, to relax in what i felt was camaraderie with a Frenchman i would never have the chance to meet.

The more research i did into Mugler's work, the more objectification and metamorphosis i encountered, and strangely, it was the fashion world (not exactly the bastion of machismo for most straight men) that gave me the bolt of confidence to explore and demand the specific sexual nuances i still insist on to this day.

In these female robot images, the aspect that stimulated me most was the idea of a proto-typical girl submitting to the conversion from human to part machine. She wanted her dynamic sexual fire to be preserved and amalgamated in a metallic suit, letting the rigidity of her existence as part machine alter and shape her behavior and movement. I've never found robots manufactured to look like females enticing, but rather the notion of a normal girl submitting (either forced or consensual - it didn't matter in my fantasies) to the mad scientist's designs that altered her body permanently, especially her mind, has for the longest time chimed my erotic bells.

I offer the reader these final two videos that show first the robot-girl, removing her human clothing, strutting around in her awkward, newly acquired metallic exterior, then followed by the bird-creature that stares into the audience (found approximately at the 2:16 point of the video), looking for it's first victim since its recent conversion into an aviary predator. Listen to the change in music, even Mugler acknowledges the psychotic statement he makes with this feminine beast, darkening the tone and the mood appropriately. I am so deeply grateful for this one man's contribution to my sexuality, it's hard for me to realize how fortunate i was to encounter his articulation when i did.

Muffles

You never thought to ask, which you knew would yield you no answers if you had. You just stood there patiently still as i meticulously stretched a measuring tape over your body's different bends and angles. Initially, i stuck to the rudimentary lengths. Your waist, your bust, your trunk, the extent of your long, beautiful legs. Shortly after, you noticed that i started coming to you with a pencil in my mouth, and one of my small, leather-bound black notebooks in hand where i jotted down the measurements of such things as the width from your thumb to your pinkie, the span of your inner elbow, and yes, even the diameter of the entrance to your ears. All the while i'd smile, sometimes raise my eyes in surprise, and occasionally, my findings would elicit an exasperated "couldn't be!" from under my breath.

By now, i think i've grown accustomed to your lack of inquiry of my doings. I came and went with full knowledge of what i wanted, and later realized how easily you complied. This led me to contemplate how far you've progressed in your overall training. It amazes me what you are now capable of enduring and accepting as normal. Quite frankly, it titillates and arouses me. It fills me with such pride and elation, that i have been able to go with you on this journey. And it is precisely the reason why i feel with confidence your ability to handle what i had planned for you next.

When we sat at the table this morning for breakfast, you had no idea what i had as the centerpiece in my head. You were unaware that the dinner party we had scheduled for tonight would take a detour away from the social evening you expected. You couldn't know what i'd done with those well over 40 different measurements of your body. You couldn't expect the 4'X3'X4' shiny ivory-white sarcophagus that will be delivered later this afternoon. You cannot imagine the near-perfect negative relief the rigid foam insides of the box make of your gorgeous naked, packaged body. You won't anticipate the three inserts strategically positioned to hold open your mouth, your cunt and your asshole, dilating them to levels you have not yet experienced.

And once inside, once the darkness of the lid snapped tightly shut ensconces your mind, you will have no idea how to the outside observer, these three "orifices" appear as only smooth, featureless holes available for whatever use they may wish upon them. They do not reveal the nude creature muffling in near silence, deep within.

Train wreck

The definition of an obsession is one of cruel consequences for the individual who suffers under its jurisdiction. Should you come across any example of the object of your obsession, your mind becomes hostage to the stimulus, and your body is left dangling in the wind, to act without the calm and cool collectiveness of rational thought. This is how it has been for me lately with regards to induced lactation, and more centrally, the female mammaries, as apparent by the above illustration.

I have collected over the years many examples of tit transformation. Either from the monstrous enlargement as represented dangling above or from the metamorphosis a girl experiences when put through a session of self-guided tit torture. I've never really stopped to examine why i spent so much energy gathering this material. The obvious and immediate answer would be that i can't get enough tit. Every girl i've ever dated, been intimate with, played with or dominated had a decent endowment. Discount those jagged romps of my prepubescent years, and i can go on record that all of my female counterparts were at least a C cup. Now was this purposeful? No, not really, i didn't size a girl up by the proportion of her attic to her cellar. But clearly, tits have played an important role in my sexuality.

Perhaps too important a role. After all, their mutation has played a central role in my fantasies. But were you to stumble onto this site for the first time and see the aloft jpeg, you might be quite perplexed as to where i derive the enticement. The poor swollen boobed girl above offers no further information about her submissive predicament other than the fact that she has been (or let her self be) subjected to some twisted scientist's modification. But it's the extreme proportion of this singular alteration that grabs a hold of me. Who would want such a thing? What purpose would a girl with such gigantic tits serve? Who could even do such a thing?

This site's url, TransformHer, pretty much declares the focus of my exposition. Thus, a preoccupation with the conversion of a female's breasts from biological purposeful instruments into sexually freakish objects should come as no surprise to those who visit. We love to objectify here at the Chapel of Deity. And we also love to raise the ante.

Enter the fetish artist, Simon Benson. His drawings remain some of the more extreme representations of female objectification i've ever encountered. Even i have some reticence with regards to some of his more lurid fantastic illustrations, but there is one sector that he excels at that i cannot - with much effort, i do try - to turn away from: tit transfiguration.























There is not much difference between the first image i presented and these two Benson offerings, except that the two girls immediately above have been stripped ever further of their humanity, which, of course, i find even more erotic. They are fixtures, appliances, mechanisms.

A man who lets such things overcome him to the point of obsession eventually, over time, seeks more and more accelerated stimulation. Staring at these pictures over and over, attempting to feed this insatiable beast inside could only last for so long. Soon the creature within will want something new, a different kind of prey. This leads someone with my affliction to search and scavenge for ever greater examples of objectification accomplished, of course, through even more extreme mammary alteration.

What i recently found, i'm still not sure what to make of. The video that concludes this entry represents the strongest example of female servitude to the patriarchal hegemony i've yet witnessed. Despite that, i couldn't help but watch the entire video, and worse, i couldn't help but be entirely aroused. What turned me on was the idea that someone would offer their body - specifically this one part - to another human being as their treasure, their domain to master.

I don't even know if the magnitude of the girls' tits in this video are real or possible. I don't know if, actually (and perhaps, thankfully) these are fake prosthetics strapped to these females' backs. And as i came down from the erotic rush that such massive transformation injected into me, i began to feel some remorse and hope that they were indeed fake. I couldn't imagine a world where girls had to manage with tits this large. What has happened to these young ladies borders on deformation, and i struggle with the idea that any of it aroused me (several times).

I'm quite secure about how my mind reacts to the world and constructs my desires, but i also recognize, as a result of my real life power exchange with my girl, that there has to be a natural ultimate to fantasy. This video exhibits the possible overstep of that limit as a rational and acceptable boundary.

Discuss...

Sugasm #123

Sugasm #123

from Sugasm by Vixen

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

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 #124? 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
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers
“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”

Breakfast In Bed
“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”

Inked
“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage

Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The great myth of the “Venus corset”

The great myth of the "Venus corset"

There should be little mystery that my female aesthetic focus has magnetically pulled towards the looks and attitudes of the 1940's and 50's. From the hairdos, the bright red lipstick, and the seamed stockings to the corseted waists, lack of pants and - yes - their fetish for bondage.

I adore cartoons. I watched them non-stop as a child, citing many of them as the provider for life's lessons. I can say without any doubt that the damsel-in-distress so often portrayed in hand-drawn animation struck a tuning fork deep in my chest. I also developed many crushes on the cartoon girls that pranced across the screen. From Disney's library of screen heroine's, the first of which i fancied was the sleeping beauty Aurora, to the big, doe-eyed fanciful creatures of Tex Avery.

I'll never forget the particular marvelous Saturday afternoon that introduced me to and the imprint it delivered through this playful update of a classic story.



Almost as if my burgeoning sexuality had been sent on a once-in-a-lifetime shopping spree, all the things that would eventually serve as the foundations for my fetishes could be found in this illustrated play. I was sold on the sharp, heavy outlines of the 40's and 50's, the long fairy-like eyelashes that fluttered an awfully enticing code, and the wicked, accentuated curves.

When i finally arrived on the complete ordnance of objects that would - revolving around in my head - bring about sexual satisfaction, i looked to this era for real life examples. To my young eyes, it appeared to be the last time period these sort of female accoutrements were seriously deployed. Women truly enjoyed the exclusive statement on femininity their hair, makeup, footwear, and, most importantly, undergarments declared.

I pushed myself to explore as much material that existed on this period of feminine constraint, and in tune pushed the range of my own desire further. My search brought me to the darker recesses of the quaint 1950's attitude. It was here i first encountered the artwork of Eric Stanton.

Very quickly, i swam in an ocean of wickedness, male chauvinism, aggressive pursuit, and hunger - pure, unmitigated hunger. In the privacy of my chamber, i enjoyed what my eyes flowed over, but were anyone to ask me in public if i endorsed this material, i would have abdicated. Gone were the peppy housewives of the 40's and 50's, replaced by the extricated female objects whose limbs were contorted and abducted, only to be corralled for the pleasure of their male master.

Among these shockingly arousing panels of the works of Stanton and others of his time, i encountered the device known as the Venus corset:



























The one just above and to the left does the best to exhibit why this corset is called the "Venus". Quite literally, it was imagined to also constrict the wearer's arms behind her back with the same lacing that cinched in her waist. The effect had the subject resembling the very famous Aphrodite sculpture from the ancient Greek town of Milo. Illustration after illustration demonstrated this innovative contraption. To my eye, every single female above is striking and beautiful in this pose, and seeing this, i was sold. I knew i wanted one.

And thus began the great myth. Over a decade of searching, i've never found one. Corset site after corset site, and no one, from what i've seen, has offered their own prototype. The closest i came was a corset that had an attached single-glove armbinder with integrated back lacing. But, alas, i have never discovered an actual arm-encapsulating device.

Perhaps someone could felicitously prove me wrong.

Forniphalia

I can't remember the exact first image that captured what i'd been murmuring deeply inside, but when i came across Mr. Gord's thorough exposition on the transformation of girls into furniture, i knew i'd found an ally, a beacon. As i navigated through the rivulets of his well-groomed caverns, i encountered all variables one could attempt with the female form. Yet, instead of being appalled, every arrangement that had the female form as some functional, but ornamentally gorgeous inanimate object captivated me. This is wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't i be confronted by columns of feministic bodyguards whose sole purpose is to eradicate the objectification of the feminine physicality? It's been well over 10 years since i first set eyes on this genre, and no such confrontation has occurred.

Perhaps, there won't be one. Perhaps those forces that seek to disavow any association between the female form and an ornamental item recognizes that those who practice this art are offering the ultimate honor and respect to the double-Xed chromosone.

After all, centuries of art have obsessively lingered on the female form, using the various iterations of womanhood as guides and stencils for creative outlet. It seems to make natural sense that instead of employing oil paints or marble to create works of art, borrowing the very anatomy that has inspired masterpieces and appropriating it as the medium through which one would express their utmost respect for women fits a natural progression of artistic auteurism.

Still crazy, isn't it? I mean, who are these people who think they can get away with turning a gorgeous girl into an office chair? Can't they see the complete disrespect and worse, damage they are doing to the cause of equality between the sexes (i've addressed this argument at an earlier time)? Let us not even address those females who wander willingly into the clutches of such an individual; nothing shall we say about their brainwashing, their ignorance, their betrayal.

I gave all of these thoughts some air to float around and expand inside my head. As much as a stubborn and somewhat chauvinistic man i can tend to be, i like to think of myself as open and intelligent. I'd do myself and those who oppose this form of expression a disservice if i didn't delve a little deeper.

In doing so, i came to learn that House of Gord is not the originator of this form of female manipulation. In fact, with just a little exploration, one can find numerous examples, emanating from every decade of the last century.

Here's some of what i found:

A classic Edward Stanton illustration...and an advert for Vollers Corsets.

To my surprise, i was able to find examples of forniphilia with my favorite director, Stanley Kubrick, in his film A Clockwork Orange:


I even was able to find an image of Ms Dita Von Teese, doing her best barmaid impression.


Ultimately, i cannot claim to understand or even concur with the positions that the individuals who imposed upon these above female figures their plasticine visions. They could come from a completely different school of thought than i. When i see these photos, when i contemplate the transformation of an already stunning beauty into an object of static existence, i feel a well of pleasure bubble up inside of me. I've wanted to collect and capture as much beauty as possible ever since at the age of five i pinned my first butterfly to the small cake of Styrofoam. I really do not have the faculties to address whether or not this desire is doing harm to the fairer sex that i lust and fantasize about so frequently. I can only assume that for me, damage is not being done, and in fact pure, uninhibited worship happens.