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.

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."

This Old House

Recently, my girl's relations paid us a pre-Holiday visit (scheduling conflicts do not allow us to share the yuletide with them). Visits like these (and any from non-kink friends, really) always result in a quick scan of the house to make sure it is properly scrubbed and sanitized of any obvious SM paraphernalia. My girl takes the conservative approach, preferring to hide and conceal for reasons of modesty but also issues she still struggles with. Whereas, i rail against hiding and feel like people should just deal with the fact that her and i practice a power exchange. How we compromise is to not go out of our way to shove everything "in the closet", but to not leave out anything that's too obvious - to which i say "define obvious".

(Humorous note: One such episode of her folks visiting had her father grabbing my hard cover edition of Steven Diet Goedde's "The Beauty of Fetish" from the lower shelf of our coffee table. This resulted in dear ole dad inquiring to my girl as to whether or not i was into 'leather'. She replied, quite affirmatively, "We both enjoy that book, Dad.")

Out of respect to her, i do not leave any toys lying about (although i have been known to conveniently forget the buttplug sitting in the dish rack after getting washed), nor do i make any real mention of our activities when her family and friends are concerned. Truthfully, one would have to be completely blind not to see the marrow of our dynamic, especially when you see my girl always in skirts or you witness her dropping everything when i summon her from the other end of the apartment. But i digress...i guess.

In order not to be faced with considerable labors of shoveling things away whenever we have company (and we have company quite frequently - i love to cook massive feasts, although, ironically, i do not like to eat massive feasts), our home has been arranged so that regular, commonplace objects appear to visitors as benign accoutrements but in fact can serve as devices of nefarious deviation.

For instance, were i able (and willing) to take each of you on a tour of the House of Deity, seeing as you are here under the kinkiest auspices, i would be able to fully boast of the ways i've been able to use everyday objects for devilish intentions.

I'd take you to the bedroom, where i would point out the black, scrolled metal bed purchased from Ikea many years ago. To the average eye, it looks like a nice, Gothic setting for nighttime slumbering, but from the deviant's perspective they could immediately see how the long bar on the top and all the curly, metallic scrolls provides this sadistic mind plenty of anchorage.

We'd continue on to the kitchen where there sits a common wooden bar stool. Nothing kinky about that, you might say. Not so fast, friend. That stool serves as a very economical spanking bench. With a little rope, my girl is appropriately fashioned to it and given no choice but to stick her cute little tushy up and out.

Traveling down the hallway, we'd come across the bathroom - or as i like to call it the "examination room". Many times, post shower, i examine my girl's parts to make sure she's properly scrubbed them. It is also here where i administer her regular enemas.

Leaving the bathroom, our next logical destination would be my bureau. Fashioned across the doorframe is my pull-up bar, which has been used frequently for devilish purposes.

Once inside the precipice of my bureau, it's not hard to find deviant use of any of the furniture that resides there. In fact, i'd be amiss if i didn't confess that was my complete intention when i designed the layout of my office. If it can't be used somehow to correct a girl or provide me with some unsavory advantage, i won't have it.

When i actually reviewed my domicile, it became quite clear that there isn't any surface, corner or piece of furniture that hadn't been sullied with my sexual agenda. This might be overreaching on my part. It might be hubris. It might be profligated arrogance. But, at least it's home.

p.s. I'm greatly saddened by the loss of Ms. Bettie Page and would like to ask that you who read me give a moment of your day - any moment you can spare - in silent reflection to how much her contribution helped those of us similarly afflicted.

Cradled

I waited until she'd started her shower, rummaging through my collection for the necessary equipment. In the background, i could hear the sound of water pouring forth from the shower nozzle onto her body, cleansing her. In a few minutes, i would provide my own form of cleansing.

I stood at the end of the bed, looking at each post, then studying the steel scrollwork that formed the footboard. I spread my legs as far as i could, until each foot rested against the bed's supporting trestle. I gathered my bearings, feeling how much balance i'd lost from when i was just standing straight up. I examined the thick, black railing that travelled between the two posts. I rested my wrists on it, spreading them as far out as i could.

More. I'd need more.

I leaned my torso forward so that my arms could lie against the railing. I noticed the arch in my back in this position.

More. I'd want more.

I folded my top half fully over the bar, pressing the center of my chest into it. This brought my entirety of both arms in contact with the rail, even my armpit rested on it, but more importantly, it caused an extreme, even taxing arch of the back. My butt peaked into the air like a mountain ridge - impassable, unavoidable, intense.

I'd found my posture.

She emerged from the shower, glistening with freshness. Truthfully, i adore every inch of my girl, but my favorite moments to put my hands and mouth on and in every crevice and cavity is right after she's bathed.

"Darling, are you gon-"

I interrupted her by grabbing her by the wrist and directed her to the bathroom. She followed silently, accepting of the transaction about to take place. I pressed her body into the bed's end and asked her to let me know if she should grow cold. I then set to work.

Feverishly, i grabbed a coil of jute, positioned her right ankle to the same spot my own was in modeling this posture. I quickly anchored her foot to the bed, traveling up her leg, attaching every twelve inches or so the rest of her thigh to the bed's frame. I switched to her other leg, and mirrored my rigging. I specifically pulled the rope that ran just under her ass cheeks on both sides particularly tight for three reasons:

-this cradle would provide an inordinate amount of support and security to her, allowing her to lean back in the bondage
-it pinched the meat of her ass, causing it to bubble out and protrude in a cartoon-like fashion
-it would trap more blood in the sub-cutaneous levels, resulting in dramatically-enhanced markings from the cane

I fashioned her arms to the railing with as much greediness as i had enjoyed on her legs. In fact, several times, i had to pause and re-adjust the sizable erection straining upward in the crotch of my pants. When i was finished, she sat there completely immobilized. Her naked flesh angrily conversed with the rope that bound it to the steel bedframe. It was an inviting picture, her body hung like captured prey in my trap, juxtaposed by the very furniture she and i sought for re-energizing and slumber. It reminded me of the a rhyme from my childhood days:

Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Once i'd sufficiently fastened her to the bed, i stepped away, examining my handiwork. I thought of the wind, and its blows, its strength, and its damage. I exited the bedroom and walked down the hallway, knowing i'd leave her hanging there for a few minutes before i returned, cradle and all.

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.

You called me a WHAT?

I was so satisfied with the overall effect binding my girl's arms to my pull-up bar had on her, that when Friday's ritual came along, i decided to employ this method once more. I could tell she was in a feisty mood, and not at all really interested in the correction that was about to be administered. As a result, i made some alterations in my head to the design i'd been fiddling with all week. I originally planned on binding her legs together at the knees so as to throw off her balance, but in receiving the bit of attitude from her, i abandoned that plan for another, more scheming.

I told her to remove all of her clothing, to place foam earplugs into her ears, and come into the den. I put on some music which i knew would throw her off. Even though the plugs would dampen what sound she heard, she'd still be able to hear when i spoke to her. When she came into my den, she showed a bit of defiance by leaving her house slippers on.

"Take those off!"

"Oh...", was all she simply said. Instantly, we simultaneously reacted to the use of the earplugs by using few, if any, words. This continued throughout the arrangement. I produced her black, leather posture collar, and instead of telling her to hold onto the front as i laced up the back, i grabbed her hand and placed it on her throat. I lifted her other hand onto her ebony hair gathered into a mound atop her head. I positioned her in front of the full-length mirror, and laced up the neck corset rigidly tight. I like to have her looking at herself in the mirror, to watch her slow transformation from dignified lady with ample autonomy to my submissive plaything. But even then, this drew up more of her defiant posture. I pointed at the mirror, to indicate that she stay focused on her image in it, and instead of simply abiding this direction, she widened her eyes as if to say: Yeah! I get it!

Much, much to be addressed, i could see. I pulled her body to right beneath the black bar spanning my doorframe. Instead of lassoing her hands together like before, i individually bound each to the horizontal bar with its own coil of jute. Satisfied that should she see fit to try to wiggle out of the binding (more defiance), i proceeded to the next stage.

Taking another coil, i ran the bitter ends through the o-rings attached on both sides of the collar, wrapped this around the front of her neck, pulling the two lengths over her mouth. Even with the presence of the rope right at her lips, the petulant girl needed illustration by my own mouth what she was to do. Opening her lips, i drafted the rope tightly through them and continued around to the back of her head. Following the high line of the corset, i criss-crossed the rope again, and pulled it sternly over her eyes, wrapping it several times to ensure her vision was impaired. I knew i'd tugged it tight, and could see that it would tax her. I wanted more. She deserved more. I knew that this whole episode would reach a point that had her in that realm where she wasn't enjoying the predicament. Put simply: i wasn't doing it for her enjoyment.

Not completely satisfied with her immobility, i took one more coil of jute and at her elevated elbows, began another wrap, which would be led over her face, at her eyes. In the empty spaces between her extended arms and her rigidly held head, i slowly coiled the rope, effectively vicing her head to her static arms. Any movements she should make while being flogged would be commuted to her entire upper torso, thus reducing any potential movement. Sighing with satisfaction, i proceeded.

Awhile back, rummaging through some old possessions in storage, i came across a mini replica wooden hockey stick that i used to play with all the time as a kid. I knew immediately when my hand found its 18 inch trunk, that i had to add it to my arsenal. It goes without saying that i enjoyed the perversity of me using a toy from my childhood to corporally punish my girl. And boy, can that thing smack!

I flailed on her backside with great force, as she cried out through the rope gag. I would jerk her body back into position, only to beat the ivory flesh of her buttocks again. Repeatedly, i pounded the flat, wooden blade on her ass, on her thighs, in between her legs, and each time, she disobediently twisted away from me. I told her that should she wish this to stop, that she might want to find a way to hold as still as she could. No matter how much i slapped with the stick, her stubbornness saw fit to remain as high as her hands above her head. I decided to take much more drastic measures.

My girl (and don't tell anybody) is incredibly, and i mean incredibly with an emphasis on the "incredible" part, ticklish. All up and down her entire body. Usually, just to be playful, i will tickle her sides to get her to squirm and giggle, but i rarely do so in a scene. It can be quite torture for her to have to endure a tickling barrage and not be able to squirm away. I started slowly, drawing the tip of the stick's handle gracefully up and down her vulnerable naked sides. She immediately sensed my motives and began to plead very vocally through the rope that i desist (doesn't she know that's precisely what i want to hear?). In response, i poked the stick into her sides, to which she writhed, leaning as far away from me as her aloft binds would allow. And then the deluge burst upon her.

Without any remorse i attacked her sides with the stick, arousing tormented guffaws from this naked bound creature's mouth. I stopped suddenly, allowing her to get her bearings, only to slap her rotund cheeks viciously with the blade. I cycled like this between the two tortures for a minute or so. During a lull, whilst gathering her breath, i heard her say something through the ropes, but i couldn't make it out exactly.

"Repeat that?"

"You aw in ath ho."

"Did you just call me an asshole?"

"Yeth."

"It's not the smartest thing to call the person who tied you to a pole and has a wooden weapon in his hand an 'asshole'."

"I dow keh."

"We'll see. Pick a number."

"Thee."

"Try again."

"Foh."

"Pick a real number."

"Telve."

Thirteen it was.

ces choses

these things you need weren't there before.

these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.

these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.

what happened to you?

you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.

you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?

you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.

still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.

you've changed. what happened to you?

what happened to me? i've changed too.

my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.

i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.

i've become attached to these things. Quite so.

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 3

A man and his tools.

There is a very precise and precious relationship between the two. The first few items he acquires are usually found, inherited or errantly purchased just to satisfy his immediate needs. But that does not diminish the man's connection to them. He uses them to craft, to tinker, to fix and repair. And he does this mostly in solitude - A man alone with his tools, jointly focused on the object to which they are applied. Over the years, he will acquire new additions, retiring old ones, finetuning his collection which serves as a non-vocal expression of himself.

A man rarely thinks about how he may appear to others amidst the use of his instruments. They sometimes take on the status of a secret mistress, where the man doesn't act the same way around them as he does around his friends. I myself witnessed this with a chum of mine i'd known for over a decade. One day, he invited me to his woodshop for the first time, to work on a project of my own design. When he first greeted me, he looked the same as he always had, but once set in front of the racks of tools hanging from his shop's walls, his appearance changed. He took on more the likeness of a little boy, with a gleam in his eye, as he greeted the numerous implements in his collection and contemplated their potential to create an object out of raw, uncut materials. He had no idea he'd come off differently, but he later offered that it was strange, almost difficult sharing that experience with me. He wasn't prepared for the vulnerability he felt inviting someone into his shed to view his intimate connection with his utensils.

Our last installment on the evening between me, my girl, K and his had us just at the beginning of our use of a newly ordered supply of jute rope. It wasn't until i was walking back to the living room with the rope-filled bag that i realized i felt odd, perhaps a little bare. Hundreds of times, i'd grabbed this satchel, digging in it for the precise equipment i required. In many ways, this sack represented a physical manifestation of my imagination, the ladder to the next level in my imaginary world. Once i stepped into the warm light of the den that cast on my girl and our guests, i would be exposing a very delicate entrance to my internals.

I undid the latch, and began to disembowel the case of its ropey entrails. Bundle after bundle of khaki coils piled up on the coffee table, wafting a sweet and rich aroma of seaweed and leather into the air. I called my girl to me, and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. Her proximity brought me comfort. I kissed her on the lips, then instructed her to disrobe. I didn't pay close attention to the other couple, but in my periphery, i could see a tender exchange of caresses and movements that eventually had K's girl in the same naked state as mine. I looked to K for his lead for what should take place next. I've bound my girl dozens of times, even leaving her tied for hours with confidence that my self-educated rope skills would satisfy the purpose. That night's activity, however, would require a level of acumen i didn't possess, and for that reason, K served (nobly, patiently and graciously) as my guide.

He grabbed a 7 meter coil and with it methodically bound the hands of his girl behind her back, starting what would become a basic but sturdy torso harness. I mimicked each tug and turn of the malleable jute, arranging my girl's limbs to resemble her counterpart's. I loved the friction of the rope's fibers across my flesh, leaving a slight trail of burn between my fingers and thumb. The detail-obsessed demon inside me found ample opportunity to commandeer the rigging, as it took meticulous care to make sure the rope lay beautifully across her skin, both lining it up and coiling it in a perfectly eye-pleasing way. In very short time, we had both girl's arms immobilized, as well as their naked tits bound tightly by the interweave of sea foam-colored rope.

At this point, K excused he and i from the bound bottoms in order to go examine the pull-up bar as well as provide a little more tutorial. The apex of the evening as we had planned it would culminate in my girl's inaugural suspension. Nervous but confident in my tutor, i reworked his oral instruction over and over in my head standing beneath the rigid rail that extended between the door frame of my study. When we returned, the strangest but loveliest of spectacles met our eyes. As we left them, constricted, topless and armless, the girls had found seats and taken up a conversation they'd started some hours before as if the configuration of their limbs were normal and warranted. This touched me for some reason. I believe it spoke to the level of comfort established by us all in that atmosphere, but also the pure peace each girl sank into when bound as such.

K led his bottom into my study and quickly anchored another length of rope to the back of the rigid harness trussed around her frame. Every inch of movement or action he took, he dictated to me the methods he employed, ensuring i understood why the rope was attached at that exact location or how to protect the submissive from being whipped in the face by the rapidly yanked lariat. In what seemed like an instant, he was ready to hoist his girl into the air. She'd mentally retracted inside of herself (or it could be seen as opening herself to everything and anything), that when he tugged on the lever that he'd created, lifting her from the ground, she responded as if that was the natural location her body was to occupy for the next few moments of time. He asked me if i caught all of that. I had not. He asked again, firmly, but patiently. Again, i indicated that some of it had been lost on me. With exquisite confidence, he then lowered her and raised her several times, until my mind captured the mechanics of the winch, allowing me to transfer the instructions to my hands that held tightly to my excited but uncertain girl.

K finally let his girl hang for a few minutes with her legs wiggling beneath her, giving her the pleasure of suspension, before he released her. Rather than immediately attend to me, as i awaited to repeat this effect with my girl, he ministered to his roped submissive, quickly checking to see if she was in order before proceeding. As he did this, i continued to replay in my head the step-by-step instructions he gave me, trying to implant my girl into the pictographic illustrations. When it came time to perform, i felt a sensation of calm firmly in my grip.

Without much intercedence, K observed as i used the rope to craft a halyard to my girl's harness. I stopped a few times to allow him to inspect, but otherwise, i could sense a momentum building in my hands. I squatted a little as i held the tackled rope, and placed my shoulder into the cavity of my girl's chest. I spoke quietly to her.

"Ready?"

She breathlessly indicated her affirmative, and i pulled, simultaneously lifting her with the rope while supporting her with my body. Once i was certain the suspension would hold, that the principles of Archimedes would indeed do all of the work, i held firmly to the working end of the line, and stepped out from underneath my hovering girl, leaving her hanging completely freely for the very first time in her life.

I was amazed at how little strain there was in the length of jute i held in my hand, yet the arrangement i crafted from the instructions i received looked suspiciously too simple. My darling submissive dangled in mid-air, completely unable to free herself from this predicament. Her skin sung a song of rosy awareness, while her cunt moistened her twin, exposed petals. I swung the girl-sack that hovered above me back and forth, snickering to myself at how vulnerable this item was in this position. A few minutes passed when, finally, i could detect a change in the composure of her physiognomy. It was time to come down.

As my nose picked up the effluvium of the not yet consumed, hearty soup drenching the air from the kitchen, i recognized that our evening was drawing to a close. I could sense how hungry my girl had become, and i accepted the fact that her time off the ground had ended. I knew she was done, there was not much more that i could purchase from her body. It was time to feed her and our guests the meal i'd been preparing all day. After all, i'd kept her in suspense quite long enough.

No country for old me

My interests have a very local component. The cheekbone that passes just near my shoulder, the heel clicking by my ankle, the thin wrist cradling the cellular conversation i overhear on the elevator. All of this occurs in proximity to my personal space. The transaction of these geometries excite and stimulate me. Since college, i've been fascinated with spatial relationships that exist between objects, people, cultures, and have thus evaluated every connection i make in my daily life via the rubric of how close it is to me and how much space it occupies. When i feel a sense of alienation, that somehow my energy and body do not fit in the geography it occupies, i can sometimes feel lost. Which makes the recent discovery i unearthed in my site statistics all the more unsettling.

I have it set so that i'm able to chart how many visits i get by not only the continent, nor just the country, but by the city. Without any bashfulness, i must declare that i receive stop-overs from one burg by more than 2-to-1 over any other city. The perverted metropolis in question?

London, England.

I am not by any means insulted by this overwhelming plurality of Londoners crawling the caverns of my cacophony, but the sheer imbalance over any other municipality strikes me as odd mostly because i myself am not from that fair, grey (or is it 'gray'?) city. I have never even visited it. Yet, somehow the material i post here at TransformHer tickles the cockles of my cockneyed brethren. Those of you who do call this blessed plot, this earth, "home", i'd value some theories as to why you and yours have chosen to click into my literary realm. Perhaps it's perfectly obvious, or perhaps you see my pro-Britannia nuance in amongst my regular kinky blather, and thus feel compelled to purchase a few moments of screen adoration via a visit.

For whatever reason that draws those oh so cultured urbanites, being an amateur detective myself (less Sherlock Holmes and more Philip Marlowe), i, of course, took it upon myself to float my own deductions regarding this quandary. The only thing that i could dig up was an early lesson (albeit culturally short-sighted, and ethically just short) i learned when i was trying to educate myself on the larger world of SM and fetishes. It turns out that my proclivities for localness do not reside solely with me. To bastardize a quote by Tip O'Neill, "All kink is local."

As i consumed the various kinky outputs from the then nascent Information Superhighway, perhaps because my mind is attuned to the layout of maps, i noticed very quickly that certain fetishes had their core followers in different regions and countries. From what i can tell, my very unscholarly evaluation assigned the following nation-states with the various fetishes as such:

Germany/Austria/Eastern Europe - heavy rubber/latex, military uniforms, medical
United Kingdom/Australia - latex outfits, crossdressing/maids, diapers/mackintoshes, schoolgirl, spanking
France - corsets, heels/ballet boots, dungeon, whipping
United States - steel bondage, mechanical contraptions, rope (Western/Cowboy influenced)
Japan - rope (Shibari), dollification, extreme feminization/body modification, Daddy/little girl

Of course, this is a generalization, and of course there are fans of latex in Japan just as there are practitioners of Shibari in Germany, but i think the dissemination of the kinks is relatively accurate.

(What is glaringly obvious about this list is the dominance of industrialized "Western" democracies, and few representations from the Second and Third world nations. Does this make the argument that those with disposable incomes and time develop kinky sexualities? Certainly such an argument can be made when someone notes the average cost of a custom-made latex catsuit, not to mention the ability to take photos of it, upload those photos to a website via a connection to the internet, and...wait, you probably have no interest in my sociological polemic. I don't blame you.)

What does all of this mean? Well, in a nutshell (yes, i will provide you voracious readers with a 'point') i should probably pack up these digs and ship me, the girl and the Castle of Deity over to London. Clearly, my public awaits me there.

Demands

When you go home, i want you to, at the exact instant you close the door behind you, drop everything in your possession right there on the floor in the hallway. Your purse, your jacket, your skirt, everything. I want you to stand naked, shivering in the comfort of your own home.

I want you to then move to your bedroom, pull out the tray of implements you keep stored beneath your bed. I want you to slide your feet into the 5" black, patent leather platforms. Pay close attention to the tinny echo of your heels knocking against the hard floor, as you thread a 6 meter length of rope through the side of the bedframe. Pull this rope to the opposite side, leaving a "v" of rope opening towards you.

Then, extend the adjustable spreader bar to the widest length, wrap each cuff around the corresponding ankle, and lock them shut with the small brass padlocks. I want your mind to envision the keys to these locks as they are, suspended in blocks of ice in your freezer.

Position yourself against the mattress, so that your naked backside points outward and upward. Grab the bottle of lube from the tray. I want you to squeeze a liberal amount of slick liquid into your palm. With the other palm, i want you to rub your hand in between your throbbing slit, feeling the increasing moistness. Smear this all over your cunt, in between your legs, along your thighs and against your asshole. Take the hand with the lube, and mix this with your pussy juice, preparing the whole area to be used. Shove one finger at a time into your puckering anal passage, filling that chute with as much moisture as possible.

When you feel that your genitals are well-prepared - to the level you know i would be satisfied - i want you to take ahold of a branch of the extended rope in each hand. Lay the top half of your torso on the bed, making sure to stretch it across the mattress and lift and point your ass up in the air, muscles tensed and firm. Twist the rope around your wrist, manipulating it as i've shown you, binding each of your hands in self-locking knots.

I want you to wait like this. Wait, and think of why you're in this position. Think of what use you serve, what your body serves, splayed like this.

And then, i want you not to make a single sound when you hear me enter.

*this continues on here

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 2

When we last visited this subject, me and my dominant friend had established a date, location and agenda for an evening of four-headed playtime. The week leading up to the impending evening, i asked my girl every morning if she was excited, and every morning i heard the same response:

"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."

You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:

"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."

I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.

I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.

K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.

He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:

"No, i have no idea. None."

I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.

Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.

I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.

With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.

*this continues on here