My collection

From a very early age (oh dear, here we go again. Another one of Deity's posts about how he was as a kid - 'fraid so), my favorite places in the world to spend my time were museums. I loved their quiet, church-like solemnity. People spoke in hushed tones, whispering, as if the artifacts were sacred relics (some in fact were) that shouldn't be disturbed. And, contrary to what most must assume, it wasn't just art museums I adored. No in fact. It was all museums. Natural History museums. Transit museums. Military museums. Art museums. Sports Museums. Hell, I'd even go to a toothpick museum, as long as there were objects, on display preferably (and actually a very important detail) behind glass cases.

It turns out that this is a rather prevalent part of my psyche. I've always loved collecting things: stamps, business cards, soil - you name it, i would find a way to gather and archive it. Whatever the collectible, the most important component was the container I kept it in. I preferred that it was see-through. Something about looking at the contents, captured, yet protected and preserved gave me peace; as if i were relieved that they couldn't get away but also, nothing could get to them. I thrilled at the task of cataloging these individual specimens, taking great care to label each with the contents that lie inside. But just as enjoyable was my process of orderly and meticulously putting these treasures away.

I liked knowing I had these little bundles stored in my closet or stacked meticulously on my shelf. By possessing them, I took on the very serious role as their caretaker. I looked after them, made certain they remained organized and cleaned and gave them copious amounts of my attention. I felt total ownership of them, and as a result they were completely and totally mine.

(O)wnership

I can't remember exactly where i first heard of Pauline Reage's Story of O. I have a flimsy memory of it popping into a conversation between me and some French friends in Paris (how appropriate). I'm certain that they brought it into the conversation to illustrate some political point - which oddly the majority of any conversation i've had with les Francaises has involved politics - thus treating the book as a foot note. This meant my mind shelved the idea of a mainstream novel written on the subject of the willful debasement of a beautiful girl, only to call upon it later. At the time, i was still engaging in a massive amount of self-restriction and denial about my sadistic urges. However, hearing that a momentous work of fiction, one that had cultural and political significance, addressed the realm of power exchange gave my internal slants legitimization.

To prove this point even further, in order to purchase the book, i didn't need to visit an adult book store, but my local community one. And i didn't find the glossy all-white paperback stuffed in a section behind a curtain that discouraged drop-ins from minors, but instead under the gloriously celebrated genre of "Literature". I remember when reading it while riding the train, at first i tried to conceal the cover and spine to avoid what might be chastising comments. But as i advanced through the narrative, the intoxication of O's ordeal gave me courage, and by the time i finished i was practically flaunting the book to complete strangers. I wanted someone to see that i was reading this seminal work on the off-chance the right person might strike up a conversation. I treated the book like an unspoken password that would gain me entrance into this world where females willingly dip into roles of servitude and flagellation.

I credit Madame Reage's tale with injecting a vivacious serum into my mind whose chief properties inspired me to live my life as i dared. It helped corrode the shackles i'd placed on my desires. The prose of her novel moved silkily through my mind whenever i pursued someone, acting like a template and a guide. I would introduce the book to many people, especially those with whom i shared an emotional and physical intimacy. I guess it was my own proselytizing, my attempt to convert the straight-minded into the warped and twisted creature i was.

I found many images detailed in the book inspiring. The description of O lifting her skirt before she sat on the cold, steel garden chair, pressing her unclothed cunt against the frigid grill. The flames of the fireplace at Roissy, where within inches O received numerous floggings. All of these stirred me, communicated with me. But none more so than the following:

"Hasn't Yvonne said anything to you about this?" Anne-Marie asked O.

O shook her head. What was there for Yvonne to tell her?

"And i know Sir Stephen didn't either. No matter. Anyway, here are the rings he wants you to wear."

..."On the blank side will be your name, your title, and Sir Stephen's family and given names," Anne-Marie said "with, below it, a design composed of a crossed whip and riding crop. Yvonne is wearing a disk just like it on her necklace, but yours will be worn on your loins."

This seared itself like cave drawings on the cavern walls of my mind. I had never before thought of such possibilities. It was so raw, so primal. The young man that i was knew immediately this is how he wanted to make the ultimate statement with any girl he pledged to own.

I've dabbled with SM in numerous ways, dangling the meaty carcass of lust before the beast, letting it swipe and slice at this lure. Each episode, whether it lasted for minutes, or stretched out over months gave my appetites temporary respite. I knew that fundamentally what i wanted from any exchange was ownership.

Last night, i took my girl to our piercer, and had her outer labia pierced with a single curved barbell. I've been working with a jeweler in the UK, designing the jewelry that will eventually hang from her cunt lip. Because my girl reads this, i won't go into the detail of the design i've conjured, but perhaps, in two months, after she's fully healed, and she's been presented with her tag, i might be inclined to post some pictures.