Multi-tasking

The thing that interests me the most about cooking is the chemistry involved. You can take an egg (a liquid) and apply heat to it, and it changes into a solid (an omelet). Because I'm able to understand these phase changes, I'm actually a very gifted cook. I can read a recipe once, understand the basic methodology the various chemical/physical reactions it's intending to create, and improvise. I'm able to open my fridge, scan the leftovers, jars and vegetables, and compile a quick meal that exceeds most courses on offer at higher end restaurants. I'm not saying this from my point of view. I'm saying it from the point of view of the countless dozens of people who have been the recipient of my cooking. They cannot help themselves but offer their joy and delight upon immediately tasting the cuisine in front of them. All it takes to make a good dinner is concentration and clarity.

So then, why would I fuck with this combination by putting my girl into a predicament bondage tie while I'm in the middle of preparing the main course for an upcoming dinner party?

It had been awhile since she and I had played, and we had both been able to take off some extended time from our jobs during the holidays. This left us with more leisure time than we're used to having. I was going to the Italian market that morning, to get the essential ingredients for the sauce I'd be serving for dinner. As I was leaving, my girl came to me and expressed her interest in being tied up at some point that day - and who would turn that down? I told her I would be able to work it in once I started cooking.

The afternoon arrived, and I led her to the bedroom. On the bed, I had already laid out four 7-meter lengths of hemp rope, her latex-strapped wand/vibe harness, and her baby pink latex hood from Kink Engineering. I quickly bound her arms at her elbows, then anchored these to her torso, encircling her tits, until all bits were well wrapped and squeezed. I moved to her left leg, and affixing her wrists to her ankles, bound up her leg so that it was pointing up towards the ceiling. I repeated this same arrangement on her right side, threaded the rope through the outer bars of her bed, which forced her thighs up and outward. She would not be closing those for the entire time she was bound. I buckled her Hitachi into the harness wound around her crotch, and rest it between her legs. The head of the wand rested firmly against her naked, anticipating cunt. The last thing I did was to pull the snug, pink latex hood over her head, ensuring the micro-cut nose holes were in the right spot on her face.
And then I left.

I wandered into the kitchen, set the timer on the oven for 8 minutes, and began preparing the ingredients for my tomato sauce. When the timer went off, I quietly entered the bedroom. I began to inspect the rope, to make sure her circulation remained vibrant. I checked to make sure her breathing in the hood wasn't too obstructed. Kissed her delicately on the shiny, pink forehead, then flicked the switch on the Hitachi to 'low', and exited the bedroom.

Setting the kitchen timer to 10 minutes, I returned to my task, sautéing the ingredients I had prepared. The scent of the aromatics in the pan finally burst into the air right as the timer went off.

Once again, I penetrated the quiet bedroom, but this time, I was met with the constant hum of the Hitachi, and the seductive myews of a girl slowly reducing into a sexual collapse. Immediately, I turned the wand off. I methodically checked the rope and her breathing, and saw that she could easily remain for a good time more. I began to walk myself back to the kitchen, but before I left the room, I felt the rhythmic throb of my erect cock tenting out my slacks. In fact, once I took a moment to notice, my entire demeanor had altered, and a hunger to torment smeared itself all over my face. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out my black, latex cock sheath, lubed up my pulsing member, and slid it into the sheath.

I went back to the kitchen to attend to the sauce cooking on the stove. Set the kitchen timer for 8 minutes, and tried as much as possible to not think about the bound, naked, writhing frame lying on my bed.

Over the course of 45 minutes, I would repeat the cycle of wand on/wand off, eventually building the crescendo of not being able to stop myself from sampling the pool of erotic energy that once was my girl.

Incidentally, the sauce turned out amazing. Our dinner guests couldn't stop praising its richness and vitality.

Tunnel vision

Immediately, I feel the need to react.

There are few things like this in my life. I can pause my growing hunger for very long periods. I can perform throughout my day on very little sleep from the night before. I can run past the point of my fatigue.

But when faced with my girl taking that first step into the unfairly tilted game I've set up for her that evening, I am completely arrested on the spot and unable to ignore it.

We both love puzzles. We love the idea of tackling a challenge. But, these types of games cannot be put down, and casually picked up later. They demand an immediate solution.

I cannot see anything but her struggle. I cannot smell anything but the sweet poison of her warming sexual arousal. I hear only the whimpers and groans. Soon, my uncommonly strong restraint disappears, and my only choice is to react.

Only then do these blinders lift.

Boy training

A commenter on this post made an excellent suggestion that someone tackle the lazies of the male persuasion. Honestly, i just love getting suggestions for posts, and couldn't pass this one up.

Without further ado:

I feel for the most part that this entire site, despite its nomenclature of "transformher", has been dedicated to the ways a man can become a better man. I speak frequently about the need for restraint. I celebrate the virtue and necessity of patience. I subscribe to the notion that what is done here, what i speak of is more than just about sex, but about finding an inner peace and connection with my partner.

But ultimately, the matter that sits at the core of my entire psyche is the unceasing creation of beauty. I know this word automatically has feminine inferences woven into it. Rare is it that someone would say "that man is beautiful" and even if they do, it is something that causes you to take express notice. Additionally, for my sake, beauty is not just physical attractiveness. In fact, we limit the power and prevalence of beauty if we only use physical characteristics as its ingredients.

How does one contribute beauty to the world? With the list of things i chose to highlight in my other post, you'd think offering something beautiful was arduous (you mean i have to wear high heels in order to contribute positively to the world?). Actually, it's quite simple. Just care. That's all you need to do. Care about other people, care about your loved ones, but most importantly, care about yourself.

I'm surrounded by men who have no problem oggling some cute thing fluttering by in her little mini skirt and wedges, all the while their potbellies pour onto the table from where they stuff their mouths with the worst, nutrient-deficient, fat-laden food on the planet. They demand that their women look a specific way - tiny, thin, attractive - yet they give no thought to how they themselves look. They dress like the clothes they own were as inconvenient a formality as the wrapper on their greasy cheeseburger. They take no pride in their appearance, whether it is how little attention they pay to their grooming habits (i have seen some collosally awful haircuts that men seem to care very little about) or how homogenized they've made their outfits (can anyone tell the difference between what a guy wore on Monday to what he wore on a Thursday?).

Let me provide a little background information to round out the context to where i'm coming from. I was raised on a ranch. My father did not wear bespoke clothing. His regular outfit was a plaid button down and some heavily-worn jeans. And that suited his vocation. However, whenever he found himself attending some public function, he made a point to be dressed as nicely and handsomely as possible. He never once was found at a social event not dressing or looking his best. Doing so spoke about the welfare of his family, but also provided other folks with a charming, dashing gentleman to occupy their visual sampling. He knew that there was a bigger purpose than all of us. And i remember giving him a great deal of grief as a boy on Sundays, when i couldn't understand his insistence that i wear my navy suit to "dumb ole church". His simple answer was stolen straight out of a J.D. Salinger story (a fact i didn't learn until years later, on my own, reading "Franny and Zooey").

"Do it for the Fat Lady."

As men, we ask a lot of our women. We ask them to be seductive co-eds. We ask them to be blushing brides. We ask them to be strong, pregnant ladies. We ask them to be diligent partners, and impeccable mothers to our children. All of this is fine and warranted, only if we ask of ourselves on magnitudes much, much higher. We are not under the same pressure that women are to look, act and dress a certain way.

But if i could slow things down, for just a moment, let me speak solely to my very, small male audience.

Do better.

Do and be better. Don't let fatigue allow you to let things slide. Don't let laziness be your calling card. Don't let busyness interrupt your ability to offer more.

If you need encouragement from a bigger force, know for certain that the world benefits when you take the time to care and acknowledge that your contribution on this day is to a much larger and spiritually fulfilling effort.

Sadistical analysis

When i'm swatting my girl, her shrieks, jerks, moans, and groans are the currency that affords me purchase to a very erotic engagement. The thought process i embark on to derive whatever posture she will assume while getting tortured satisfies a deep mental itch. I do enjoy handling a cane or a whip. I especially enjoy the feel of rope as i bind her to a pole or bed frame in a prone position. However, these are the prep work a sous chef completes in order for the master chef to create a delectable repas.

When i strike her exposed behind, the bludgeoning is not the end of the dialogue for me. I seek her response. I'm not poking and prodding a lifeless doll. Her pleas for clemency are the fruits i seek to feast upon. Her appeals for leniency give me the sustenance i require. She knows i'll listen, but what makes me grin wickedly is that she knows that's all i'll do. Now the question that should be carefully handled is does this man who calls himself 'Deity' like any and all torture?
Actually, no.

I've collected a large number of SM videos wherein there are many scenes with a girl getting tortured and screaming bloody murder out to the heavens, and for the most part, this does absolutely nothing for me. On the intellectual side, i'd like to think that speaks to how little misogyny plays into my sexuality. On the emotional side, i know precisely why it doesn't excite me. What i need is a relationship between the 'victim' and the 'torturer'. Simply seeing a girl withstand lashing after lashing across her back does nothing for me. Now, if you were to provide some narrative details that reveals the level of intimacy between the two parties, then it would suddenly become interesting. What excites me is understanding the amount of submission and sacrifice the girl is offering. Watching two complete strangers engage in corporal punishment will never arouse my interest.

This reminds me of a public flogging me and my girl witnessed at a local play party a few years back. It was a thing of utter beauty. The setting for this event was a loft converted into a multi-chambered torture vault. This allowed many voyeurs to scuttle along the hallways and peek their heads into different rooms where scenes of various nature (medical play, water play, knife play, etc.) could be viewed. I'd brought my girl, at an early point in our relationship, as way of giving her her first public spanking. Being as gorgeous a creature as she is, she received the grand share of interest of most any girl in attendance, except for one named 'lacey' who we found bound, nude to a St. Andrew's cross in an all candle-lit room. Being so packed with gawkers, it truly was standing room only. We found a place that had my girl and i only a few feet from lacey's naked backside.

She was blindfolded, wrists and ankles bound by leather shackles to the wooden frame. Not a single stitch of clothing, she hung there, waiting. For what, none of us really knew. Then suddenly, a man entered the room, black button-down, black jeans, black boots, in his hand a sheath that held multiple rattan canes. Without seeing him or hearing his voice, somehow lacey sensed it was "Him". Her body tensed. Her posture improved. Her buttocks pointed out with intense supplication. Over the next 40 minutes, me and my girl would bear witness to eight different canes being broken over lacey's backside, accompanied by her marvelous masochistic expletives. The colors of the streaks across lacey's flesh, held up by the swollen welts that gave her torment raised dimension were stunning and beautiful, but they were not the most admirable object on display that evening. The relationship that lacey had with her Top, the intimacy she invited us to witness, and the gift of seeing her torment (as it was quite clear that she was not just suffering for "him" but for all of us in the room) touched me for many, many days.

When i force pain upon my girl and make her endure it, the end result isn't that she's simply taken it, but rather we've explored, together, another dimension of our relationship. I adore her when she wakes in the morning, hair all mussed by her trip to beddy-by, and it's that which i value as i strip her of her personality and flog her beautiful ass until she pleads with me to stop. That she puts herself in that position, that she puts her limitless intelligence and emotional aptitude in my hands to suspend for the duration of our disciplinary scene is a strange way of achieving intimacy, but what i understand is that its her struggle, her sacrifice, her surrender to me that ultimately satisfies my sadistic bent. Pure pain doesn't capture me, but rather sacrifice and humility.

Correction vs. Condescension

"How was your dinner last night?"

"Well, it was okay, but i think there was something wrong with the hummus i bought."

"So, what did you do?"

"I ate the rest, unhappily."

I'd left her alone to tend to herself one evening, while i was out with a friend. This already sounds like my girl is incapable of autonomy, and quite frankly, that is categorically untrue. For many years, she managed her own life, finances, her wardrobe more successfully than most young ladies her age. The level of responsibility she demonstrated shames most folks 20 years her senior.

"You did what?!?"

Her posture drooped. Her face turned from me.

"Go get it out of the fridge." Fetching the leftovers of the pasty garbanzo dip, she handed the container to me. I could tell just by the bulge of the lid that the internal contents were rotten. An acrid hiss sprayed into the air as i lifted the lid, mirroring her diminishing confidence in her decision to soldier through with the slop the night before.

Rather than bore the reader with the seven bars of conversation wherein i demand in demonic perplexities why she would allow herself to eat spoiled food instead of lifting herself off of her keister and marching to the befouling store, i'll fast forward to the lesson learned.

*ahem*

The lesson, that is, that i learned.

She is my girl. My responsibility. Her safety, comfort, behavior, appearance are my responsibility. As mentioned earlier, this is not because she is incapable of handling these responsibilities, but because we have both found that we want this arrangement. I think of my girl as one of the most intelligent individuals i know, and for her to willingly grant me the gift of marshaling over her speaks not only of her trust in me, but her intellectual acuity. However, what i said, and more importantly, how i said it, made her feel stupid.

Instead of feeling corrected, informed, she felt incapable, inept and imbecilic. I did not practice any restraint on my tone or my irritation. I let it fall freely into the air and obtusely onto her chest. It is never my intention to make her feel stupid. That is errantly irresponsible, and not worthy of the very responsibility she delicately places into my hand, everyday, as we walk together to our respective day jobs.

Always on

Recently, my girl had fallen ill two separate but closely spaced times. For a young lady whose immune system usually outperforms most customs officials, this was a rarity. Both incidents, she needed considerable amounts of recovery time, which resulted in her unable to attend to the duties she normally fulfills. Personally, i love these infrequent moments where i get to take care of her. She is at her most vulnerable when the nasties are riddling her insides with discomfort.

One might expect that my dominant side gets turned off when my girl is sick, in order to go easy on her and allow her ample energy to recover rather than submit. Unfortunately, i do not have the capacity to turn the urge to dominate off. That would be tantamount to mentally turning off the drive to respire fresh oxygen into my lungs. Domination is not a need, per se, but a component of my life. The same goes for my girl. Her submission is not a cosmetic that gets applied, but the foundation to who she is.

Now this is not to say that i demand, in between hacking coughs, that my girl drop to her knees and perform fellatio. I may be a sadist, but i'm also a gentleman. However, i am stern with her. I give her strict guidelines to the amounts of fluids and medication she needs to ingest, and when these are not followed (which invariably, they never are - her mental faculties are suspect during these bouts) i chide and reprimand her. Just like regular spankings can help guide a submissive - reminding her of her place, helping her feel that comfortable boxed sensation - insisting on discipline to a strict remedy to her ailments also guides her to a recovery.

All of this works quite well when put into application. There are a only a few disturbances that can short circuit it. Recently, one such snafu occurred in the form of a malady hitting both of us at the exact same time.

She awoke feeling crappy on a Sunday morning. I felt a little nauseous, but assumed it was residual effects of the previous evening's social activity. Whatever pathogen she had almost immediately took over her body. The poor girl was in great discomfort, barely able to stand upright, made worse by her having to vomit (which is even more rare than her catching the occasional cold). With as much as she was discharging from her insides, i knew she would need to recapture her fluids, or her symptoms would be exacerbated. As the queasiness in my stomach continued to gurgle on, i bundled up and went outside to go round up some supplies at the corner store. I hadn't walked more than 20 steps on the sidewalk before i felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I knew instantly, having battled with it a few times before, that what she had and now i was food poisoning. By the time i shuffled myself to the store and back, i could barely hold in all that was fighting to come out.

For the next 14 hours, our bodies went through torment. Aches that made every position we lay in uncomfortable. I knew i needed to continue to consume as many liquids as possible, even though i was shortly sending it back into the city's sewer system. Unfortunately, because i felt like one of Mike Tyson's sparring partners, i could not remain as diligent as i normally would about my girl's own hydration. Her struggle with the food-borne affliction bookended mine, where i was back to normal the following morning, it took her several days to feel her pretty little self again.

At one point during the residual days of her health restoration, i felt an immense desire to take her over my knee. I'd been fighting it for the past two days, and just suddenly gleaned that the moment was right. When i called her into my bureau, she saw me sitting in my big, comfortable chaise, and knew instantly why i summoned her. She sighed vocally, and her shoulders collapsed inward, signalling her resistance to the idea. I held my stare on her face, giving her a clear indication that i had no intention to bend. She offered her compliance in the form of lowering her pajama bottoms and panties, then positioned herself over my legs.

Once i began, i knew this was the exact thing i needed. A sensation of organic creation grew inside of me. I rubbed her flesh, and my somewhat cloudy vision from the days before sharpened as i caught the detail from each ripple of the meat of her buttocks. The weight of her on my lap awakened instincts that had to be supplanted while my body fought the food poisoning, as did the familiar scents that arose from her naked flesh. When i began to swat her ass, i listened to her response, smiling as each shriek slowly produced notes of growing pleasure. When it came time to give her hard smacks to which she counted each out loud, the amount i settled on just materialized in my head. Once administered, she and i both knew it was the proper dosage required.

It gave the sickbed aura a sense of normalcy, indicating that we'd moved past the infirmity. In fact, the next day, my girl declared how much better she felt. And, when i reflected on it, so did i.

The bottomless pit

I have a bountiful libido that has provided consistent drive for me to explore the limits, depths and extents of my fleshly desires. I take the pragmatic approach by saying that it hasn't always existed at the current high elevation. Occasionally, the drive for sex resembled an arid and empty desert landscape. But, mostly, it has rushed through my veins with a velocity that thins my blood and makes my head swim.

I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.

As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.

I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.

The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.

The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.