I received her first package earlier than i expected. What a pleasant surprise. I turned the box over and over in my hand, looking at it as i walked into my kitchen. I dropped it with the rest of the mail on the counter, and forgot about it for the remainder of the evening. Right before i turned in for the night, the package popped back into my head.
-----------------
We'd met one evening, on one of my endless series of business trips. She approached me in a bar, she said, struck by my solitude yet not looking at all alone. I was ravishing my glass of whiskey, letting the auburn liquid swirl around, splashing up the side. Our eyes met, and instantly i approved of her gesture. She was stunning, but beyond that, i could see an immediate hunger in her qualities. She wore it like a tight-fitting dress. More importantly, it wore her. I told her that i didn't require her company. She rebutted.
"I didn't require your permission to sit next to you."
"Oh no?"
-----------------
When i opened the box, a waft of flowery fragrance immediately splashed against my nose. My fingers swam through the brittle cloud of shredded paper stuffed into the box for shipping, finally landing on a mound of soft, silky fabric. Clenching onto my prize, i retracted my hand from the package. Draped in my fingers were a lavender pair of satin panties - the conduit for the perfume. But i detected a different note than just designer perfume, a bolder, richer, hungrier scent. Opening up the lingerie, a white, texturous trail filleted the crotch which was the evidence showing, as asked, that she'd sent a used pair. I pressed this girlish output to my face, crushing it into my nostrils. I swam in the gorgeous contrast of sweet and dirty, inhaling deeply for several minutes.
-----------------
"What exactly do you mean you wouldn't phrase it that way?"
"Well, i'm a man for whom permission is a requirement."
"You can rest assured that i won't seek your permission for anything."
"Well, then, it was nice speaking with you." I turned my body away from her and resumed my position, hovering over my drink.
"Excuse me? You've got to be kidding..." A few seconds of pure silence passed, enough for me to tilt back the rest of my drink and to motion to the bartender for another one.
"You have GOT to be kidding!" My former companion huffily lifted herself from her chair and stomped out of the bar into the hotel lobby. I watched after her. I loved watching the angry protests of women. She'd come back. I took out a pen and grabbed a cocktail napkin, writing down something in preparation for when she did.
-----------------
She'd sent the panties, but it seemed she'd forgotten something else. Tipping the box upside down, i allowed the stuffing to fall to the floor. I was pleased to see the loose note flutter out. I bent down to pick it up, chuckling immediately when i read its pointed brevity.
"you're such a bastard."
Over the course of the next few months, i had the privilege of receiving similar presents in the mail. As agreed, each arrived by a certain date, containing the exact items i'd detailed to her. I enjoyed each delivery because they conjured immediate images of her and the lengths she went to satisfy my requirements. It was many months before i was able to make it back to her city.
-----------------
"You have some serious nerve."
"Why hello there." I looked at her with the side of my eye. Apparently, the hotel lobby wasn't as interesting as she'd hoped it would be. "You're back?"
"I had to let you know how ridiculous you are to insist that a woman ask permission to sit down and give you her company."
"Well are you going to ask?" The ice cubes in my drink broke apart from eachother, creating a little jingle sound. This musical interlude was interrupted by her heavy sigh.
"Would you," she shook her head, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "Would you mind if i sat down?"
"I would love it." I pulled the chair next to me out, guiding her in with my open hand. "Can i get you a drink?"
She ordered a glass of Chardonnay. As the bartender was pouring her drink, i slid over the folded napkin i'd earlier written on.
"What's this?"
"Read it."
Her eyebrows curled in perplexion as she unfolded the note and read.
A week following our conversation, you'll buy a brand new pair of satin panties. One evening when you're by yourself, you'll put them on, and wear only them all night. Before you go to bed, i want you to remove them and the next morning send them to me. I want you to include a note that details your thoughts as you slide the panties off.
The bartender placed her wine in front of her. She looked at the glass, then shot me with her eyes, "You know, on second thought, i think i'll pass on the drink." She pushed herself up from the table and charged out of the bar. I grabbed another napkin, and jotted down my next few demands.
Showing posts with label permission. Show all posts
Showing posts with label permission. Show all posts
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
THE LITTLE MOMENTS
It’s Sunday morning. Still not quite awake, I become aware of a red dog collar being placed around my neck...and then my nipples being pinched. I can feel myself ‘drop’ as my body is manipulated into another position. It is the beginning of a morning of intense ‘pleasure’ (or pain); a morning that will see me float through the day, and even sustain me for longer than the day. This is the feast.
It’s Tuesday morning. Still not quite awake, he comes to my side of the bed and pulls the covers off; feels my body - my cunt, bottom and breasts. He returns the covers and tucks me in tight; kisses me on the lips and tells me to be a good girl while he is away. He leaves for the rest of the week. This is the famine.
But in between the feast and the famine, there must be nourishment. The little moments constitute the nourishment that sustains me from one feast to the other, without dying of starvation. The little moments reminds me of who I am and why I live this way.
I’m inclined to think that structure, rules, rituals...call them what you will...are the mainstay of our relationships. I’ve often wondered what other people’s rituals are, and I have long harboured a desire for some of my own. My mentor provides delicious moments for his girl. He puts her on an invisible ‘cunt leash’ sometimes when they are out with friends; at a party perhaps. If she breaks the leash by moving away from him, consequences await her upon their return home. So, let’s say she has moved away – by design or by mistake. And, let’s say, he notices. He says to her, “Come here”. Vanilla folk won’t pay much attention to these words, but his girl knows what they mean. She knows she’s going to bed with a bloody sore backside. I suspect it’s a heady moment, felt all the way to her cunt; bittersweet.
I have an exercise that I am required to do daily. It is not my own invention but rather one that was taught to me by a dear cyberspace friend, some time ago. He refers to it as ‘bar time’, so PH if you are reading, my heartfelt thanks. I suppose it is an extension of yoga and requires me to undress, at least below the waist. I spread my legs about three feet apart and I reach down and touch my ankles (or a bar if you happen to have one). I hold the position for fifteen minutes, not moving at all. In that time, I ruminate, and try very hard to think about my decision to submit.
If I am feeling scattered, this exercise is difficult. Three minutes can seem an eternity. But, as I hold the position, I do begin to feel more settled. Upon completion, I feel pleased with myself that I did it. (I’ve had a spot of bother maintaining consistency with this daily routine, to the chagrin of the dominants in my life!) Of course, there is a level of humiliation in the exercise too, which works nicely for me. As well, I keep an electronic journal that I must write daily.
Then, there is the permission seeking for bed time at the end of the day. I owe this last ritual completely to Deity and I sent him my thanks at the time. I just love how such a little thing created harmony between my man and me when before that, it had been something of a stalemate. I can’t keep my eyes open after midnight, and that’s when his eyes widen with all the possibilities afforded him to conjure up ideas in the silence of the early morning. Asking permission and being put to bed was the perfect solution.
It was a particularly golden day recently when I opened an email from my mentor which informed me that:
“Perhaps we need a symbol for you, some sign that you are submitting, so that when your man tells you off that it is clear to him that you are accepting his message to you and submitting to him.”
I just love the way the man reads my mind. He goes on later to say:
“I'm thinking that one way to signal your submission would be to put your hands behind your back. When a sub puts her hands behind her back, she should put each of her wrists in the small of her back, one above the other, so that they are above her waist. This way, if the dom needs to whip her then her hands are already out of the way. The sub should never put her hands over her bottom because this allows her to feel the security of possibly blocking the blows. That's strictly not allowed. So, my suggestion, off hand, would be that at least you stand and put your hands behind your back, facing him and paying attention. This will make it much easier for him to see that you are submitting, and it will also allow you to separate from whatever emotions you were having before he addressed you.”
Brilliant!
Now, if you were not a submissive type, this sort of suggestion would have you very upset. It would be a ‘How dare he make such a dreadful suggestion!’ moment. But, I’m long past pretending that such a suggestion isn’t perfect for me and the type of relationship I want.
It is rather ironic that when I can be so sure of exactly what I want, I have such trouble giving that information to my man. It is not so much that it is embarrassing, as it just doesn’t feel right to be giving your man ideas directly. So, what to do? Well, slipping the idea into the conversation surreptitiously can work; as if it is no big deal.
“Janus sent through an interesting idea today.”
“Did he?”
“Mmmm. He had this idea for me to put my hands behind my back, in the small of my back...you know...sort of one wrist crossed over the other...as a sort of symbol of submission. Go figure, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyways...fancy a cup of tea?”
And, then? Well, I wait, basically. I wait for him to put the idea into action – however long that takes.
In the meantime, I used the move in Pilates class. There is an exercise where we are required to put our hands behind our backs. There are no prizes for guessing my little variation on this. Of course, I cross my wrists, one over the other, and place my hands in the small of my back, just as Janus suggested, and I pretend that I am required to do so, or else. It’s a buzz, while I wait for the real thing.
I am happy to report that the ‘real thing’ took place last weekend. Inclined to cheekiness at a family gathering, I was sent to the corner upon our return, AND I was told to put my hands in the small of my back, with one wrist crossing the other. YES!!!! After I was given enough time to think about the consequences of my actions that day, along he came and took from around my neck the long, thin silk scarf I was wearing. He tied my wrists together. DOUBLE YES!!!! What he did then really isn’t suitable reading, but rest assured I learned my lesson.
I’m sure there are so many little rituals to discover out there. Why not write in and tell me your favourite?
Postscript: This post was written before my ‘no hinting’ rule came into force. As I re-read it, I see that it is ridiculously revealing! I think I just cooked my own goose. Again.
It’s Tuesday morning. Still not quite awake, he comes to my side of the bed and pulls the covers off; feels my body - my cunt, bottom and breasts. He returns the covers and tucks me in tight; kisses me on the lips and tells me to be a good girl while he is away. He leaves for the rest of the week. This is the famine.
But in between the feast and the famine, there must be nourishment. The little moments constitute the nourishment that sustains me from one feast to the other, without dying of starvation. The little moments reminds me of who I am and why I live this way.
I’m inclined to think that structure, rules, rituals...call them what you will...are the mainstay of our relationships. I’ve often wondered what other people’s rituals are, and I have long harboured a desire for some of my own. My mentor provides delicious moments for his girl. He puts her on an invisible ‘cunt leash’ sometimes when they are out with friends; at a party perhaps. If she breaks the leash by moving away from him, consequences await her upon their return home. So, let’s say she has moved away – by design or by mistake. And, let’s say, he notices. He says to her, “Come here”. Vanilla folk won’t pay much attention to these words, but his girl knows what they mean. She knows she’s going to bed with a bloody sore backside. I suspect it’s a heady moment, felt all the way to her cunt; bittersweet.
I have an exercise that I am required to do daily. It is not my own invention but rather one that was taught to me by a dear cyberspace friend, some time ago. He refers to it as ‘bar time’, so PH if you are reading, my heartfelt thanks. I suppose it is an extension of yoga and requires me to undress, at least below the waist. I spread my legs about three feet apart and I reach down and touch my ankles (or a bar if you happen to have one). I hold the position for fifteen minutes, not moving at all. In that time, I ruminate, and try very hard to think about my decision to submit.
If I am feeling scattered, this exercise is difficult. Three minutes can seem an eternity. But, as I hold the position, I do begin to feel more settled. Upon completion, I feel pleased with myself that I did it. (I’ve had a spot of bother maintaining consistency with this daily routine, to the chagrin of the dominants in my life!) Of course, there is a level of humiliation in the exercise too, which works nicely for me. As well, I keep an electronic journal that I must write daily.
Then, there is the permission seeking for bed time at the end of the day. I owe this last ritual completely to Deity and I sent him my thanks at the time. I just love how such a little thing created harmony between my man and me when before that, it had been something of a stalemate. I can’t keep my eyes open after midnight, and that’s when his eyes widen with all the possibilities afforded him to conjure up ideas in the silence of the early morning. Asking permission and being put to bed was the perfect solution.
It was a particularly golden day recently when I opened an email from my mentor which informed me that:
“Perhaps we need a symbol for you, some sign that you are submitting, so that when your man tells you off that it is clear to him that you are accepting his message to you and submitting to him.”
I just love the way the man reads my mind. He goes on later to say:
“I'm thinking that one way to signal your submission would be to put your hands behind your back. When a sub puts her hands behind her back, she should put each of her wrists in the small of her back, one above the other, so that they are above her waist. This way, if the dom needs to whip her then her hands are already out of the way. The sub should never put her hands over her bottom because this allows her to feel the security of possibly blocking the blows. That's strictly not allowed. So, my suggestion, off hand, would be that at least you stand and put your hands behind your back, facing him and paying attention. This will make it much easier for him to see that you are submitting, and it will also allow you to separate from whatever emotions you were having before he addressed you.”
Brilliant!
Now, if you were not a submissive type, this sort of suggestion would have you very upset. It would be a ‘How dare he make such a dreadful suggestion!’ moment. But, I’m long past pretending that such a suggestion isn’t perfect for me and the type of relationship I want.
It is rather ironic that when I can be so sure of exactly what I want, I have such trouble giving that information to my man. It is not so much that it is embarrassing, as it just doesn’t feel right to be giving your man ideas directly. So, what to do? Well, slipping the idea into the conversation surreptitiously can work; as if it is no big deal.
“Janus sent through an interesting idea today.”
“Did he?”
“Mmmm. He had this idea for me to put my hands behind my back, in the small of my back...you know...sort of one wrist crossed over the other...as a sort of symbol of submission. Go figure, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyways...fancy a cup of tea?”
And, then? Well, I wait, basically. I wait for him to put the idea into action – however long that takes.
In the meantime, I used the move in Pilates class. There is an exercise where we are required to put our hands behind our backs. There are no prizes for guessing my little variation on this. Of course, I cross my wrists, one over the other, and place my hands in the small of my back, just as Janus suggested, and I pretend that I am required to do so, or else. It’s a buzz, while I wait for the real thing.
I am happy to report that the ‘real thing’ took place last weekend. Inclined to cheekiness at a family gathering, I was sent to the corner upon our return, AND I was told to put my hands in the small of my back, with one wrist crossing the other. YES!!!! After I was given enough time to think about the consequences of my actions that day, along he came and took from around my neck the long, thin silk scarf I was wearing. He tied my wrists together. DOUBLE YES!!!! What he did then really isn’t suitable reading, but rest assured I learned my lesson.
I’m sure there are so many little rituals to discover out there. Why not write in and tell me your favourite?
Postscript: This post was written before my ‘no hinting’ rule came into force. As I re-read it, I see that it is ridiculously revealing! I think I just cooked my own goose. Again.
Monday, April 21, 2008
May i damage you?
May i take your perfect visage and slam against it, forcefully?
May i hold the alabaster of your soft cheek, only long enough to shatter it?
May i address you in curt ways, that humiliate you, reduce you to an insult?
May i seek pandemonium in your crevices, stabbing them thoughtlessly with my member?
May i cause you to shriek in fear, to mimic the pain i feel on a daily basis?
Will you do that for me? Will you suffer, truly suffer, not cosmetically suffer, but endure so much that it leaves a scar, a permanent welt that i can return to, when i need the solace that tells me i'm not alone with this torment?
May i look you straight in the eyes, and without remorse, collapse my entire spirit upon you, spilling my bloody insides all over your beautiful, untouched canvass?
May i maim you? Transform you? Turn you into something else that you do not recognize?
May i rob you of your persona, re-route your natural instincts and feed you my disease, my slanted way of life?
May i drag you along the rough, cragged surface of my abilities, my clumsiness and ignorance scraping across your flesh?
May i pounce on you, without any warning? May i shove my hunger onto you, taking what i need to feed, leaving you with just scraps?
May i reconstruct you? May i tear you apart and put you back as i prefer?
May i damage you? May i damage you? May i inflict?
Ask yourself if you trust me. Ask yourself if you can survive this.
May i hold the alabaster of your soft cheek, only long enough to shatter it?
May i address you in curt ways, that humiliate you, reduce you to an insult?
May i seek pandemonium in your crevices, stabbing them thoughtlessly with my member?
May i cause you to shriek in fear, to mimic the pain i feel on a daily basis?
Will you do that for me? Will you suffer, truly suffer, not cosmetically suffer, but endure so much that it leaves a scar, a permanent welt that i can return to, when i need the solace that tells me i'm not alone with this torment?
May i look you straight in the eyes, and without remorse, collapse my entire spirit upon you, spilling my bloody insides all over your beautiful, untouched canvass?
May i maim you? Transform you? Turn you into something else that you do not recognize?
May i rob you of your persona, re-route your natural instincts and feed you my disease, my slanted way of life?
May i drag you along the rough, cragged surface of my abilities, my clumsiness and ignorance scraping across your flesh?
May i pounce on you, without any warning? May i shove my hunger onto you, taking what i need to feed, leaving you with just scraps?
May i reconstruct you? May i tear you apart and put you back as i prefer?
May i damage you? May i damage you? May i inflict?
Ask yourself if you trust me. Ask yourself if you can survive this.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sugasm #126
Sugasm #126
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 #127? 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
Up Your Bum
“Now, every mainstream porn film seems to include anal sex as part of the sequence”
A Moment Captured
“Right now I am looking out down at the street from my window and my fingers have found their way to my soft wet labia.”
Things Every Man Should Own/Know/Hear
“You can also give the controller to her, or use it yourself, and play with the power of the vibrations.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The New York Times’ Best Porn Articles
Editor’s Choice
Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy #1
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Piss off
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Piss off
When i was a teenager, one of the guys on my hockey team showed us this strange discoloration on his foot. We all looked at it up close, fascinated by the patterns of green and purple blotches spread across his skin. Our coach came in to the locker room, saw us gawking at our teammate's foot and added his two scents to break up the crowd.
"Athlete's foot. From the showers. You gotta piss on your feet to kill it before you get out."
Thanks, Coach. Ever since then, i've pissed on my feet whenever i've taken a shower in a public place, and i don't think twice about the fact that i'm spraying urine all over myself. In fact, i take such a casual approach to my own micturation that i've never really found an erotic urge to pee on someone else.
However, i'm fascinated by a girl's relief of her own bladder.
I used to "accidentally" break into the bathroom when i knew my sister was taking a leak, just because i couldn't believe she did it sitting down. Any girl i've been with, i've thrilled at watching them piss. It sounds different than when men do it. Our urine is concentrated into a thin liquid spear whose primary noise comes from the surface off which it splatters. Whereas, the female stream takes the form of a ribbon of urea, that whistles into the air as she squeezes it out.
I could take or leave my urine, but the female's liquid waste excites me to no end. Thus the few times i've involved it in a predicament session.
--------------------------------------
She was a young freshman in college who'd stumbled into a chatroom i intermittently floated through. Of the dozen or so feminine handles listed in the chatroom's roster, her's was the most appealing and realistic-sounding. We struck up a conversation, where i tried my best to assuage her doubts about my character (as any good and intelligent girl should have with a complete strange male) all the while disguising the ravenous desire i felt to warp this relatively untouched lamb.
Over time, we developed trust in each other that opened the way to her offering me a glimpse of her through her webcam. A very beautiful girl met me the first time i accepted her invitation to view her. But that was not the dominant thought in my mind. Instead, i felt an immediate urge to control and manipulate her.
The presence of an impending force that boiled up the more and more we spoke clanged many a bell in my head. I knew this pull from previous experiences where i'd come to label it "The Gain". All it took was a few words between us, and i could feel this intense exchange of energy passing back and forth.
One afternoon, we'd been chatting for an hour or so, and she casually mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that she informed me of this need, or maybe i would've grabbed the reins in another way, but i let the internal demons speak. They said "no".
"But i have to really go bad."
I offered that it was informative to hear, but she, for the moment must remain exactly where she was. Minutes passed, with not much substance shared from either of us.
"Please, i really really need to go."
I asked her if she had a tall glass. She responded affirmatively. I told her that if she in fact needed to relieve herself so badly, that she must do it in this tall glass and return, with not a drop spilled. Streaming across the internet, i got an assortment of looks via her webcam first of pure frustration, followed by exasperation, and then finalized by reservation and acceptance. She lifted herself from her seat, and left the room.
A few minutes later, she returned and showed me the large square-sided glass filled with her own urine. I told her to place it on her desk, and resumed the conversation from where we'd left it. However, i never took my mind off the collection of liquid that sat inches away from her keyboard.
"What am i supposed to do with this glass?"
Up until this moment, i'd no idea what i wanted her to do with it. As i felt the familiar energy flow into my body, the exact prescription for this glass of urine came to me.
"I want you to take the glass in your hand. Lift it up to your mouth, i want you to hold it there, and do not move it away."
I still remember the blank stare from her into the optical unit stationed atop her computer, capturing her image that was delivered to my laptop. No more than five seconds passed before she grasped the glass and raised it to her lips. Her posture, the way her hair hung over her ears, everything about her broadcast the anger she felt at being put in this position. But, underlying this sternness, i could see a delicious plea for mercy. Even though she chose not to articulate it, that she was in the position she was, glass held against her mouth, the impact was very clear.
I realized as her hand positioned a pint of her own urine at her lips, and the smell of the warm liquid wafted into her nose, that she'd exhibited an understanding, a grasp of the lesson i sought to offer her. This compliance was all that i needed. After five or 6 minutes, i instructed her to lower the glass back down to her desk. As she left to empty the liquid into the toilet, i was struck by how meaningful a experience could be by merely controlling someone's basic biological functions.
"Athlete's foot. From the showers. You gotta piss on your feet to kill it before you get out."
Thanks, Coach. Ever since then, i've pissed on my feet whenever i've taken a shower in a public place, and i don't think twice about the fact that i'm spraying urine all over myself. In fact, i take such a casual approach to my own micturation that i've never really found an erotic urge to pee on someone else.
However, i'm fascinated by a girl's relief of her own bladder.
I used to "accidentally" break into the bathroom when i knew my sister was taking a leak, just because i couldn't believe she did it sitting down. Any girl i've been with, i've thrilled at watching them piss. It sounds different than when men do it. Our urine is concentrated into a thin liquid spear whose primary noise comes from the surface off which it splatters. Whereas, the female stream takes the form of a ribbon of urea, that whistles into the air as she squeezes it out.
I could take or leave my urine, but the female's liquid waste excites me to no end. Thus the few times i've involved it in a predicament session.
--------------------------------------
She was a young freshman in college who'd stumbled into a chatroom i intermittently floated through. Of the dozen or so feminine handles listed in the chatroom's roster, her's was the most appealing and realistic-sounding. We struck up a conversation, where i tried my best to assuage her doubts about my character (as any good and intelligent girl should have with a complete strange male) all the while disguising the ravenous desire i felt to warp this relatively untouched lamb.
Over time, we developed trust in each other that opened the way to her offering me a glimpse of her through her webcam. A very beautiful girl met me the first time i accepted her invitation to view her. But that was not the dominant thought in my mind. Instead, i felt an immediate urge to control and manipulate her.
The presence of an impending force that boiled up the more and more we spoke clanged many a bell in my head. I knew this pull from previous experiences where i'd come to label it "The Gain". All it took was a few words between us, and i could feel this intense exchange of energy passing back and forth.
One afternoon, we'd been chatting for an hour or so, and she casually mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that she informed me of this need, or maybe i would've grabbed the reins in another way, but i let the internal demons speak. They said "no".
"But i have to really go bad."
I offered that it was informative to hear, but she, for the moment must remain exactly where she was. Minutes passed, with not much substance shared from either of us.
"Please, i really really need to go."
I asked her if she had a tall glass. She responded affirmatively. I told her that if she in fact needed to relieve herself so badly, that she must do it in this tall glass and return, with not a drop spilled. Streaming across the internet, i got an assortment of looks via her webcam first of pure frustration, followed by exasperation, and then finalized by reservation and acceptance. She lifted herself from her seat, and left the room.
A few minutes later, she returned and showed me the large square-sided glass filled with her own urine. I told her to place it on her desk, and resumed the conversation from where we'd left it. However, i never took my mind off the collection of liquid that sat inches away from her keyboard.
"What am i supposed to do with this glass?"
Up until this moment, i'd no idea what i wanted her to do with it. As i felt the familiar energy flow into my body, the exact prescription for this glass of urine came to me.
"I want you to take the glass in your hand. Lift it up to your mouth, i want you to hold it there, and do not move it away."
I still remember the blank stare from her into the optical unit stationed atop her computer, capturing her image that was delivered to my laptop. No more than five seconds passed before she grasped the glass and raised it to her lips. Her posture, the way her hair hung over her ears, everything about her broadcast the anger she felt at being put in this position. But, underlying this sternness, i could see a delicious plea for mercy. Even though she chose not to articulate it, that she was in the position she was, glass held against her mouth, the impact was very clear.
I realized as her hand positioned a pint of her own urine at her lips, and the smell of the warm liquid wafted into her nose, that she'd exhibited an understanding, a grasp of the lesson i sought to offer her. This compliance was all that i needed. After five or 6 minutes, i instructed her to lower the glass back down to her desk. As she left to empty the liquid into the toilet, i was struck by how meaningful a experience could be by merely controlling someone's basic biological functions.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Consent
Charting all of my sexual conquests creates a list that is severely lopsided in one direction. 'Conquests' perhaps is not the right word. That implies offense, battering rams, hordes of marauding mercenaries spilling over village walls. I don't seek and conquer women. I set sexual traps.
I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.
From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.
I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.
In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.
My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.
I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.
From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.
I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.
In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.
My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.
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