It would not be a wrong assumption that my recent trip to a mountainous environ would involve taking in the powdery slopes of some ski resort. However, even though this recreation is native to my home state, it is not something i usually engage in, due largely to my fascination with exploring the outdoors. Whenever i travel back, i like to fill my time with walks, drives, hikes, rock-climbing, and on a rare treat, horseback riding.
I have stated before my experience with horses, but i haven't really mentioned much about my girl's. Through a perfectly lucky coincidence, she and i have a similar affection for horses and riding, with a few differences. Her experience came through summer camps where she would be paired with an animal, taught how to care for it entirely as well as ride it, which has led her to romanticize these great creatures to the point of girlish glee whenever she sees one. Whereas, my interaction with horses served as more of a functional, work-related symbiosis. While i enjoy their presence i still see them as a means of transport, just like my feet, a car and my hands might also facilitate my exploration of the terrain.
Prior to leaving for our trip, my girl arranged for us to have a couple of hours of private riding with a guide. She could hardly contain her excitement for this opportunity to sit in a saddle once again. The entire time leading up to it, she kept telling everyone who'd listen about her time with horses and how much she was looking forward to this time.
Our guide picked us up at an arranged location in the middle of the small mountain town. Within the first sentence he spoke, you could tell how genuine this man was as the purveyor of a dozen horses. This man was a cowboy. An old cowboy, one who had seen many changes across the West, and most of them from off the top of a horse. He ferried us in his "bukkit uh bolts" to his horse corral, where he had three steads waiting for us, ready to ride. My girl chose "Rascal" - who proved to live up to his billing - which left me with ole "Burly". Walking up to Burly, i could tell that like our cowboy guide, he too had seen many a years, but i had no problem trusting him and lifted myself atop his saddle. Our guide took us up a trail that raised our elevation by 1,500 feet in less than 20 minutes. My horse was gulping big lungfuls of air by the time we summited to the vast open mesa - always a strange experience to feel that coming from something you're straddling.
It felt good to be back on a horse. The land on the plateau we explored was so vast, i had several opportunities to wander off and let my horse out into a gallop. This is an experience that is hard to describe to those who've never done it. Galloping a horse is very unlike riding in a speeding car or on a roller coaster. While there is speed, the excitement isn't just unique to the rider in the saddle. Horses are evolutionarily made to run, and more than that, they love to run. So, holding onto the reins as this animal charges underneath you, hurtling you at frantic speeds, it's both a thrill for you AND your horse.
When we'd finished, my girl and i got to speak a little about the experience. While i had a blast, my girl had what could be described as a near spiritual experience. I wanted to learn more about what made it so profound. The thing, she said, that really grabs her is that it's very similar to a Dominance and submission relationship. The horse must submit to her commands, but she is dominant only because this 2-ton animal lets her. There must be consent, or else she'll be tossed from off its back. And that allowance, that willingness to consent to guidance and command really affects and fulfills her.
I knew exactly what she meant.
--------------------------------------------
I'd like to thank Vesta for her always impressive stewardship of this site in my absence. I do hope you enjoyed her perspective. I know i did as she always serves to enlighten me about some detail in a past post i hadn't thought of before.
Showing posts with label submission. Show all posts
Showing posts with label submission. Show all posts
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Thursday, December 25, 2008
BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO WHIP ME?
Hello readers. I’m Vesta and I’m filling in for Deity while he is on holiday. Rest assured that he will be back with you very soon.
Whilst I truly do love all of Deity’s posts, one of my personal favourite topics is the Friday night disciplinary session with his girl. There is something so erotic about reading of somebody else’s punishment, don’t you think? I know that sounds a little mean, but let’s face it, it’s true.
Yet, it occurs to me that one’s reaction to these posts might depend on which end of the stick one is on. Let me give you an example. I like to write erotic stories and so does a cyberspace dominant friend of mine from England. I will send him a story, and he’ll come back with a comment like, “Yes, it’s good, but can you go into some more detail about what her bottom looked like with the marks?” After reading one of his stories I have been known to say something like, “Loved it! But, to be honest, I don’t really need to know that his balls are enlarging and so on.” This inclines me to think that men and women want different things out of erotic writing. We all want to know what happened and how the poor wretch was disciplined, but maybe women want to know a bit more about how she felt about it all, and why that nasty man who is thrashing her backside felt the need to do so.
Deity tends to relate what happened in vivid detail. That’s good. It certainly works for me. He tells us about how he positioned her, and tied her, and what implements he used. He tends to take us into his mind and detail the planning and the pleasure of the exercise, from his perspective, of course. It is better than cheesecake to read and I love every yummy detail, but almost every time, I find myself asking the same question. “But, what did she do wrong?”
Now, we all know that she didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. Quite possibly, Deity came home and advised that although she had been a perfect angel the entire week, the punishment session was going ahead because it would do her good, or he didn’t want to neglect her, or it would settle her for the weekend, or he’d been looking forward to it all week, or any such excuse as that.
But, on the other hand, it is also more than possible that his girl was indeed, quite naughty. So, what did she do? Precisely why is she about to be striped like a tiger for at least part of the coming weekend? I asked Deity this question once. He graciously informed me that she was, getting up later than she should in the mornings. Oh! I don’t know about you, but the setting of my alarm clock became a particularly poignant moment for me the evening I read that!
But, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t take the matter of ‘punishment’ seriously. In fact, I take it very seriously. I have a mentor. We have not met, and we live in different countries, but he and I correspond regularly, and he also emails my husband once a week with a ‘report’. Let’s call him Janus, since that is the God for Doorways and New Beginnings. I think he’ll approve of that. Janus believes very strongly in the teaching of ‘lessons’. Even thousands of miles away, he has a way of teaching a girl a lesson. He can rely on my husband to mete out any flagellation required, of course, but this is only one part of the punishment session. First, says Janus, the dominant talks to the sub about what she has done wrong. She needs to acknowledge all her transgressions (somehow any naughtiness of mine tends to have a good four subsets to it). She needs to apologize for her naughtiness and she needs to ask to be punished. By the time a girl gets through the speech, the acknowledgement, the apology and the request for punishment, a girl feels pretty naughty and in need of punishment, let me assure you. And, after the punishment, naturally, the girl thanks him for punishing her. Oh yes, indeed!
Not long ago, it was a very busy time for us both and Janus put a limit on the number of emails that I could write, as well as a word limit for each email. I didn’t consider this a problem until I hit a day when I found myself in a chatty mood and I blithered on, without a care in the world. Of course, Janus tends to have a tighter grip on the rules than me sometimes and it didn’t pass him by that this was a wordy email.
“I’m sorry, but this is too long. It's over the 1000 word limit by about 213 words. To make sure you're clear on this, you will need to write some lines for me. You will use your best penmanship and you will show the lines to Jove when you are finished. You will ask if he approves, and you will need to get his approval that you've done a good job or you'll need to do them again. For this, I want you to write me 213 times the line:
"I shall be concise in expressing my thoughts."
I'm sorry that you've taken on this new and boring writing assignment, but let's be very clear that the rules are not to be broken."
Damn! But, what could I say? It was my mistake. And, I had already learnt the lesson about arguing the point. I did the lines. The next day, I let Janus know that the lines had been written. He wrote back,
"I'm glad you did your lines. Hope it taught you a lesson."
There have been countless lessons. The first lesson is still the most memorable and in some ways the hardest: ‘The dom is always right.’ That took some learning, since I have spent quite a number of years considering that I am right about many, many things. You can imagine!
Another memorable lesson was, to submit. It sounds simple enough. However, what I needed to learn was that a girl should not do what she thinks will please her Dom. Rather, she should simply “obey”. Janus will say, “Vesta, just do as you are told!” It is infuriating, but arousing at the same time. Submissive readers know what I mean.
Now, isn’t it going to be interesting to see if Deity starts telling us why he does what he does on a Friday evening, and all the paraphernalia leading to the main event! I can just hear him now. “What was I thinking to give that Vesta a voice on my blog?!”
My best wishes to you for a very happy holiday season. May you find joy in the company of those you love.
Whilst I truly do love all of Deity’s posts, one of my personal favourite topics is the Friday night disciplinary session with his girl. There is something so erotic about reading of somebody else’s punishment, don’t you think? I know that sounds a little mean, but let’s face it, it’s true.
Yet, it occurs to me that one’s reaction to these posts might depend on which end of the stick one is on. Let me give you an example. I like to write erotic stories and so does a cyberspace dominant friend of mine from England. I will send him a story, and he’ll come back with a comment like, “Yes, it’s good, but can you go into some more detail about what her bottom looked like with the marks?” After reading one of his stories I have been known to say something like, “Loved it! But, to be honest, I don’t really need to know that his balls are enlarging and so on.” This inclines me to think that men and women want different things out of erotic writing. We all want to know what happened and how the poor wretch was disciplined, but maybe women want to know a bit more about how she felt about it all, and why that nasty man who is thrashing her backside felt the need to do so.
Deity tends to relate what happened in vivid detail. That’s good. It certainly works for me. He tells us about how he positioned her, and tied her, and what implements he used. He tends to take us into his mind and detail the planning and the pleasure of the exercise, from his perspective, of course. It is better than cheesecake to read and I love every yummy detail, but almost every time, I find myself asking the same question. “But, what did she do wrong?”
Now, we all know that she didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. Quite possibly, Deity came home and advised that although she had been a perfect angel the entire week, the punishment session was going ahead because it would do her good, or he didn’t want to neglect her, or it would settle her for the weekend, or he’d been looking forward to it all week, or any such excuse as that.
But, on the other hand, it is also more than possible that his girl was indeed, quite naughty. So, what did she do? Precisely why is she about to be striped like a tiger for at least part of the coming weekend? I asked Deity this question once. He graciously informed me that she was, getting up later than she should in the mornings. Oh! I don’t know about you, but the setting of my alarm clock became a particularly poignant moment for me the evening I read that!
But, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t take the matter of ‘punishment’ seriously. In fact, I take it very seriously. I have a mentor. We have not met, and we live in different countries, but he and I correspond regularly, and he also emails my husband once a week with a ‘report’. Let’s call him Janus, since that is the God for Doorways and New Beginnings. I think he’ll approve of that. Janus believes very strongly in the teaching of ‘lessons’. Even thousands of miles away, he has a way of teaching a girl a lesson. He can rely on my husband to mete out any flagellation required, of course, but this is only one part of the punishment session. First, says Janus, the dominant talks to the sub about what she has done wrong. She needs to acknowledge all her transgressions (somehow any naughtiness of mine tends to have a good four subsets to it). She needs to apologize for her naughtiness and she needs to ask to be punished. By the time a girl gets through the speech, the acknowledgement, the apology and the request for punishment, a girl feels pretty naughty and in need of punishment, let me assure you. And, after the punishment, naturally, the girl thanks him for punishing her. Oh yes, indeed!
Not long ago, it was a very busy time for us both and Janus put a limit on the number of emails that I could write, as well as a word limit for each email. I didn’t consider this a problem until I hit a day when I found myself in a chatty mood and I blithered on, without a care in the world. Of course, Janus tends to have a tighter grip on the rules than me sometimes and it didn’t pass him by that this was a wordy email.
“I’m sorry, but this is too long. It's over the 1000 word limit by about 213 words. To make sure you're clear on this, you will need to write some lines for me. You will use your best penmanship and you will show the lines to Jove when you are finished. You will ask if he approves, and you will need to get his approval that you've done a good job or you'll need to do them again. For this, I want you to write me 213 times the line:
"I shall be concise in expressing my thoughts."
I'm sorry that you've taken on this new and boring writing assignment, but let's be very clear that the rules are not to be broken."
Damn! But, what could I say? It was my mistake. And, I had already learnt the lesson about arguing the point. I did the lines. The next day, I let Janus know that the lines had been written. He wrote back,
"I'm glad you did your lines. Hope it taught you a lesson."
There have been countless lessons. The first lesson is still the most memorable and in some ways the hardest: ‘The dom is always right.’ That took some learning, since I have spent quite a number of years considering that I am right about many, many things. You can imagine!
Another memorable lesson was, to submit. It sounds simple enough. However, what I needed to learn was that a girl should not do what she thinks will please her Dom. Rather, she should simply “obey”. Janus will say, “Vesta, just do as you are told!” It is infuriating, but arousing at the same time. Submissive readers know what I mean.
Now, isn’t it going to be interesting to see if Deity starts telling us why he does what he does on a Friday evening, and all the paraphernalia leading to the main event! I can just hear him now. “What was I thinking to give that Vesta a voice on my blog?!”
My best wishes to you for a very happy holiday season. May you find joy in the company of those you love.
Monday, December 22, 2008
TAKING MY OWN SWEET TIME
Hello. I’m Vesta, and Deity has asked me to guest host his site while he is on holiday. I am delighted to have this opportunity to share some thoughts with you.
I thought I would begin by telling you something of myself. The reason I chose the name ‘Vesta’ is because she is the Goddess of the Home and Hearth. I have children myself and they keep me very busy. Readers with children will agree, I think, that living with children and living a D/s lifestyle 24/7 is challenging, and possibly worthy of a post all on its own. Deity has touched on problems associated with noise and prying eyes. You may recall that sometimes the children below his apartment will scream for an hour. My main concern is ensuring that the children do not listen to me scream for an hour. But, I digress.
My path to the life I lead now with my husband is rather long. I do envy young girls who are relatively comfortable with their submission from the outset. That is not my experience at all. I was painfully slow about recognizing my own needs and agonizingly tardy about revealing them to my husband. I wish I had those wasted years back. You know the fable about the Tortoise and the Hare? Well, I feel a bit like the Tortoise. He was very slow, but in the end, he won the race. Let me explain:
Deity has talked about the effect he has had on the odd summer intern at his work place. You might recall the girl who took three hours out of her day to change her sweater, simply because Deity looked at her in a certain way. I so related to that! In my twenties, I was Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of a financial institution. My boss was not unlike Deity in that he appreciated a well- dressed woman, and it was immediately apparent when he did not care for a piece of apparel that I wore. This happened quite rarely because such men quietly, even silently, train girls to appreciate what they appreciate. My boss liked tailored skirts and cotton shirts, and so did I. But, every woman makes a mistake when purchasing a garment every now and then. My mistake was a brightly- coloured patterned dress; expensive, but on sale. Since I knew that HE wanted me in light neutral colours, it was quite stupid of me to wear it to work. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.
As I walked in the door, he cast his eye over me and said,
“What are you wearing?”
Already feeling on shaky ground,
“I gather that you don’t like it.”
“I hate it.”
“What’s wrong with it?"
“It’s horrible, that’s what is wrong with it. Don’t ever wear it again. I will have Robert drive you home so that you can change.”
“But, I paid good money for it.”
“I don’t care. It’s horrible. Give it away.”
“But, what do you want me to wear?”
“Put on the crème skirt and the crème shirt. That looks nice.”
An hour later, upon my return,
“You see, that looks lovely!” he said.
Even now, it is difficult to explain to you the effect HE had on me, and in some ways, everyone who came into his path. There was a certain way to open a letter, and to address an envelope. There was a way to serve him coffee, and a way for me to communicate with staff. There was a way for me to wear my makeup and my hair. Every little detail of our day had rules associated with it.
It was not all smooth sailing. I am not short of an opinion myself and early on, I aired them. I can still see him, calmly explaining to me the way it was going to be:
“Vesta, there will be times when you and I will disagree as to how something should be done. Rest assured that when that time comes, we will do them MY way. Do you understand?”
I think I was expected to find him obnoxious. I found him fascinating.
Of course, I had my little rebellions. Who of us does not? But, I soon learned that it was not worth the effort. In his arsenal of weapons he owned the fiercest of all-rejection. I hated it, and avoided it like the plague. My training was complete.
At the time, I did not understand our attraction for one another. I had no control over the fact that he was intoxicating to me. I desired his company and even though he was maddeningly superior and judgemental, I sought his praise, and his affection. I knew without being told that he loved my company and our working relationship, but praise of me was rare, coming through the channel of other people, rather than directly to me. He once told me that he worried that praise would go to my head. You had to be strong to be around him, and there were moments when it was all too much for me.
One day, his caustic complaint of something I had done cut deep. On the spur of the moment, I told him I was resigning.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you aren’t happy with anything I do.”
“What can you mean? I am happy with everything that you do. Stop this nonsense immediately and get on with your work.”
With mixed emotions, I left his employ after some years and I began my family soon thereafter. I spent years trying to make sense of the experience. Why was I so attracted to his personality? Why did HE behave as he did? He was very stern, but kind; attentive, but distant; difficult, but appealing. The more I tried to make sense of those years, the more confused I became.
Then, one day, three years ago now, I decided to do some research on the internet. I was sitting there with my laptop alone in the house and I typed in the word ‘spank’. I simply can’t put into words the emotions within me when I realized for the very first time, that the thoughts that I had carried around in my head since I was a young child were shared by so many people. I must have spent hundreds of hours over the next few months reading everything I could find, from spanking blogs, to information sites, through to academic papers on the topic. On those pages, for the first time in my life was validation of my innermost thoughts. One evening, when the children were at sleepovers and we should have been at a dinner, I asked my husband if we could stay home. I had something important to discuss. I told him about my ‘research’ and I told him about my desires. I asked him if he would spank me.
My husband didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ordered me to bend into the bedroom chair and he warmed by backside well, first with his hand and then with the only implement available to him at the time – the toy plastic sword our young son had left on the stool at the end of our bed. After he iced me down, he turned me over to sit on the chair and hugged me as I cried. They were tears of joy and relief. We made love and then we went to dinner; ravenous. I sat on the edge of the seat, trying to find a way to sit that hurt a little less. It is an extraordinarily happy memory.
Over time, I came to see that I needed more. I wanted to be controlled; dominated. My ‘research’ took a different direction and one evening on the computer I happened upon Deity’s blog. I discovered his blog during the ‘senses’ series and loved what I read. He had asked his secretary to purchase a product that masked the smell of the men’s room. I laughed out loud. (Sorry, Deity) Here was a man unto my own heart. Here was a replica of my old boss; deliciously difficult! For quite some time, I was a scaredy cat. All that rope and spandex; all those bandages! But, I kept coming back for more. His affection for his girl was as evident as his need to dominate her, and I loved that. Eventually, the idea of being tied up weaved its spell on me, and I soon discovered that a night all tied up into a little bundle is heaven.
It has been a wild and wonderful ride. Naturally feisty and prone to cheekiness, I tend to equate it to the taming of the shrew. I took my own sweet time to declare my hand, but now that I have done so, I am deliciously, deliriously happy. I consider myself a very lucky girl and I’m tickled pink to be sharing this time with you.
I thought I would begin by telling you something of myself. The reason I chose the name ‘Vesta’ is because she is the Goddess of the Home and Hearth. I have children myself and they keep me very busy. Readers with children will agree, I think, that living with children and living a D/s lifestyle 24/7 is challenging, and possibly worthy of a post all on its own. Deity has touched on problems associated with noise and prying eyes. You may recall that sometimes the children below his apartment will scream for an hour. My main concern is ensuring that the children do not listen to me scream for an hour. But, I digress.
My path to the life I lead now with my husband is rather long. I do envy young girls who are relatively comfortable with their submission from the outset. That is not my experience at all. I was painfully slow about recognizing my own needs and agonizingly tardy about revealing them to my husband. I wish I had those wasted years back. You know the fable about the Tortoise and the Hare? Well, I feel a bit like the Tortoise. He was very slow, but in the end, he won the race. Let me explain:
Deity has talked about the effect he has had on the odd summer intern at his work place. You might recall the girl who took three hours out of her day to change her sweater, simply because Deity looked at her in a certain way. I so related to that! In my twenties, I was Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of a financial institution. My boss was not unlike Deity in that he appreciated a well- dressed woman, and it was immediately apparent when he did not care for a piece of apparel that I wore. This happened quite rarely because such men quietly, even silently, train girls to appreciate what they appreciate. My boss liked tailored skirts and cotton shirts, and so did I. But, every woman makes a mistake when purchasing a garment every now and then. My mistake was a brightly- coloured patterned dress; expensive, but on sale. Since I knew that HE wanted me in light neutral colours, it was quite stupid of me to wear it to work. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.
As I walked in the door, he cast his eye over me and said,
“What are you wearing?”
Already feeling on shaky ground,
“I gather that you don’t like it.”
“I hate it.”
“What’s wrong with it?"
“It’s horrible, that’s what is wrong with it. Don’t ever wear it again. I will have Robert drive you home so that you can change.”
“But, I paid good money for it.”
“I don’t care. It’s horrible. Give it away.”
“But, what do you want me to wear?”
“Put on the crème skirt and the crème shirt. That looks nice.”
An hour later, upon my return,
“You see, that looks lovely!” he said.
Even now, it is difficult to explain to you the effect HE had on me, and in some ways, everyone who came into his path. There was a certain way to open a letter, and to address an envelope. There was a way to serve him coffee, and a way for me to communicate with staff. There was a way for me to wear my makeup and my hair. Every little detail of our day had rules associated with it.
It was not all smooth sailing. I am not short of an opinion myself and early on, I aired them. I can still see him, calmly explaining to me the way it was going to be:
“Vesta, there will be times when you and I will disagree as to how something should be done. Rest assured that when that time comes, we will do them MY way. Do you understand?”
I think I was expected to find him obnoxious. I found him fascinating.
Of course, I had my little rebellions. Who of us does not? But, I soon learned that it was not worth the effort. In his arsenal of weapons he owned the fiercest of all-rejection. I hated it, and avoided it like the plague. My training was complete.
At the time, I did not understand our attraction for one another. I had no control over the fact that he was intoxicating to me. I desired his company and even though he was maddeningly superior and judgemental, I sought his praise, and his affection. I knew without being told that he loved my company and our working relationship, but praise of me was rare, coming through the channel of other people, rather than directly to me. He once told me that he worried that praise would go to my head. You had to be strong to be around him, and there were moments when it was all too much for me.
One day, his caustic complaint of something I had done cut deep. On the spur of the moment, I told him I was resigning.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you aren’t happy with anything I do.”
“What can you mean? I am happy with everything that you do. Stop this nonsense immediately and get on with your work.”
With mixed emotions, I left his employ after some years and I began my family soon thereafter. I spent years trying to make sense of the experience. Why was I so attracted to his personality? Why did HE behave as he did? He was very stern, but kind; attentive, but distant; difficult, but appealing. The more I tried to make sense of those years, the more confused I became.
Then, one day, three years ago now, I decided to do some research on the internet. I was sitting there with my laptop alone in the house and I typed in the word ‘spank’. I simply can’t put into words the emotions within me when I realized for the very first time, that the thoughts that I had carried around in my head since I was a young child were shared by so many people. I must have spent hundreds of hours over the next few months reading everything I could find, from spanking blogs, to information sites, through to academic papers on the topic. On those pages, for the first time in my life was validation of my innermost thoughts. One evening, when the children were at sleepovers and we should have been at a dinner, I asked my husband if we could stay home. I had something important to discuss. I told him about my ‘research’ and I told him about my desires. I asked him if he would spank me.
My husband didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ordered me to bend into the bedroom chair and he warmed by backside well, first with his hand and then with the only implement available to him at the time – the toy plastic sword our young son had left on the stool at the end of our bed. After he iced me down, he turned me over to sit on the chair and hugged me as I cried. They were tears of joy and relief. We made love and then we went to dinner; ravenous. I sat on the edge of the seat, trying to find a way to sit that hurt a little less. It is an extraordinarily happy memory.
Over time, I came to see that I needed more. I wanted to be controlled; dominated. My ‘research’ took a different direction and one evening on the computer I happened upon Deity’s blog. I discovered his blog during the ‘senses’ series and loved what I read. He had asked his secretary to purchase a product that masked the smell of the men’s room. I laughed out loud. (Sorry, Deity) Here was a man unto my own heart. Here was a replica of my old boss; deliciously difficult! For quite some time, I was a scaredy cat. All that rope and spandex; all those bandages! But, I kept coming back for more. His affection for his girl was as evident as his need to dominate her, and I loved that. Eventually, the idea of being tied up weaved its spell on me, and I soon discovered that a night all tied up into a little bundle is heaven.
It has been a wild and wonderful ride. Naturally feisty and prone to cheekiness, I tend to equate it to the taming of the shrew. I took my own sweet time to declare my hand, but now that I have done so, I am deliciously, deliriously happy. I consider myself a very lucky girl and I’m tickled pink to be sharing this time with you.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The hunter and the hunted
A great deal of the internal dynamics of a power exchange can resemble that which exists between the predator and the prey. The chief difference coming from the animal under chase in Nature is not one who wants to get caught and turned into the ravenous carnivore's meal. Clearly, between a Top and a bottom, someone in this transaction wants to "get caught".
In my youth, i unknowingly mimicked the game of 'cat and mouse' everyday out on the playground. Instead of playing H-O-R-S-E with the boys on the blacktop, i instead honed in on my latest crush, only to chase her around the jungle gym for the duration of our recess. Either she let me catch her, or i finally managed to do it myself, this conversation would always result in me pinning her to the ground, a potpourri of snickering and giggling, while my victim lay beneath me struggling to get away. Again, sometimes i'd let her wiggle free, or she'd actually escape on her own (i preferred the latter over the former). Still, i never connected this game to the actual task of hunting down and taking another creature's life.
I have hunted animals before. I was raised on a ranch, and i have slaughtered livestock, even those i raised with great care and attachment from their birth. I have pulled an entire evening meal's worth of fish from the ocean, watching these creatures flail the last of their life force in a bucket of sea water. I do not grimace when i watch nature films that depict the killing of an antelope by a pack of lions, nor do i feel the need to shield myself from the notion that the food on my table came at the expense of some other lifeform's demise.
Recently, in a discussion i was having with a colleague, the notion of hunting/slaying/gathering as a dominant trait came up. I had never identified those aspects of myself as related to my dominant streak (especially since it was required of everyone on the ranch to face the fact that in order to live you must commit murder). But i wonder if others feel this way. Do most folks who identify themselves as submissives turn away from the idea of taking another creature's life for the sake of their own sustenance? Are all dominant-types able to hunt and fish without any pause? Something in me rejects this notion as a true delimiter of what makes someone submissive and dominant. I'm very interested to hear what others think.
In my youth, i unknowingly mimicked the game of 'cat and mouse' everyday out on the playground. Instead of playing H-O-R-S-E with the boys on the blacktop, i instead honed in on my latest crush, only to chase her around the jungle gym for the duration of our recess. Either she let me catch her, or i finally managed to do it myself, this conversation would always result in me pinning her to the ground, a potpourri of snickering and giggling, while my victim lay beneath me struggling to get away. Again, sometimes i'd let her wiggle free, or she'd actually escape on her own (i preferred the latter over the former). Still, i never connected this game to the actual task of hunting down and taking another creature's life.
I have hunted animals before. I was raised on a ranch, and i have slaughtered livestock, even those i raised with great care and attachment from their birth. I have pulled an entire evening meal's worth of fish from the ocean, watching these creatures flail the last of their life force in a bucket of sea water. I do not grimace when i watch nature films that depict the killing of an antelope by a pack of lions, nor do i feel the need to shield myself from the notion that the food on my table came at the expense of some other lifeform's demise.
Recently, in a discussion i was having with a colleague, the notion of hunting/slaying/gathering as a dominant trait came up. I had never identified those aspects of myself as related to my dominant streak (especially since it was required of everyone on the ranch to face the fact that in order to live you must commit murder). But i wonder if others feel this way. Do most folks who identify themselves as submissives turn away from the idea of taking another creature's life for the sake of their own sustenance? Are all dominant-types able to hunt and fish without any pause? Something in me rejects this notion as a true delimiter of what makes someone submissive and dominant. I'm very interested to hear what others think.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
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.
"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.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Treading
She placed the wine glass into the sink, directly beneath the spigot of the fountain, summoning the liquid serpent hiding in the pipes:
Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.
From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.
The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.
Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.
He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.
"I won't need that for awhile."
She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.
Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.
From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.
The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.
Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.
He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.
"I won't need that for awhile."
She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Coffee with Deity
Hi. I'm Stormy, here only in Deity's temporary absence. You'll have him back soon, I promise.
---------
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
---------
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
Indeed, I was.
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
When i feel that you are ready, i lead you through a slow discussion of what you'd confessed to me online. I force you to talk explicitly about the things you want done to you. I demand that you speak at the same conversational level that we were previously. You are made to describe why you believe you deserve to be treated this way, why you have come to meet me at the cafe, and why you know this has to happen.
As each minute passes with you not taking your eyes from mine, i strip you of your vices. I remove you of your hangups. I peel away your vulnerabilities. At a certain point, you'll disappear.
At a certain point, you'll be gone.
Indeed, I was.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Unspoken
A lot can be said with regards to establishing and maintaining a power exchange. Lord knows, i've pasted myriad words up on that endless ebony scrim attempting to detail my own experience. But something occurred to me as i pondered that wall, my experience, and the words i've used to describe it. The more i reflected on this and the self-publishing tomes of other tops and bottoms, i realized that there is a lot that goes unsaid.
Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.
Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":
These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.
Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.
Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":
- immediate disposal of pants v. gradual, eventual weeding out
- piercings whenever called upon v. her gradual acceptance of the fact
- tightlacing v. our modified version of tightlacing
These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
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 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
Monday, January 7, 2008
Sugasm #113
Sugasm #113
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 #114? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
A Different Kind Of Authority For Sex Bloggers
“As we sex workers, sex bloggers, and adult business folks swim in our ponds or spin in our micro universes & connect with others, we continue to build authority.”
Of sex and strippers
“At one point she was straddling Girlfriend’s right leg, grinding her thigh against Girlfriend’s clit through her jeans.”
Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge
Her comments were something to the effect of, “No one wanted to see me twirl with tassels ~ on fire or not ~ when some girl was going to sit on stage and insert things into herself.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Kofola
Editor’s Choice
Interview with Paul Festa about circumcision
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & FetishTuesday, January 1, 2008
Who knew Uncle Sam was kinky?
For many of us, the last day of the year signifies a time where we reflect on the 364 diurnal periods that preceded it as well as plan for the coming year with steeled resolve to do more/less, be more/less or think more/less. For those of us in the States who work in a corporate environment, this day signifies a different form of reflection. December 31st is the very last possible day that one can make purchases that qualify as a withdrawal from their flex spending account.
The nutshell (let's break it down):
These are pockets of money you can have taken out of your paycheck every pay period before the US gubbmint gets its grubby hands on your money and siphons off taxes. This then theoretically lowers your income bracket, thus reducing the amount of total tariffs you owe the IRS come the middle of April.
The catch (come on, you knew there had to be one):
You must use these funds only for the purchase of certain healthcare-related costs, AND you must make these purchases within the calendar year of the payroll deductions. Meaning if money was taken out of my salary during 2007, i must use these funds before December 31st 2007, otherwise i forfeit this money and it goes straight into Uncle Sam's pocket.
That's right. Forfeit. Lose. Never get back.
I participate in this program through my office, and was caught off guard when i received my December statement in the mail explaining my remaining balance. I had a rather large amount of money i needed to spend before January 1st, and i had absolutely no scheduled healthcare costs. Not wanting to horde cases of sterile gauze pads and vitamins, i was stuck for what i'd do with the surplus amount. And then i found a devilish loophole.
The redeemer:
It figures the the solution to my problems could be found on the internet. It turns out that such sites as drugstore.com and walgreens.com have specific sections of their inventory cordoned off to make using your flex spending dollars as easy as possible. But what they consider eligible, i would never have expected to fit within the requirements of the IRS. All it took was a few clicks of the mouse before i was able to determine that a good amount of this money was going towards fulfilling several of my fetishes.
Of all the self-adhering elastic bandages, Nexcare is by far the best for use in a mummification scene. It does not bunch like other brands, comes in extra wide strips and really vibrant colors. I personally love using this "space-age" material when entombing someone because it is breathable, which allows for longer periods of bondage as well as total closure. Instead of needing to cut holes in the elastic like i would if it were tape or shrinkwrap, the submissive is able to draw breath through the bandage itself.
With my flex spending account, i was able to order enough for several scenes of total encapsulation.
Enemas are crucial aspects of any serious anal training, but also are enjoyable tools when used in a predicament scenario. A girl being trained anally must grow accustomed to regular enemas so that the use of her "third cunt" is safe and healthy for both involved. It's important to note that enemas are not to be administered too frequently, because the gastro-intestinal tract has natural bacteria that must exist in order for proper digestion. More than once a month should be avoided.
Enema play is it's own wonderful subject that i plan to go into later, but as i have said many times before, a girl knows her place almost immediately when she is made to think of her ass in a different way through the rudiments of anal play. Being told to hold in an enema despite urges from her stomach, her bowels and her anal rings to release is an incredible act of obedient submission.
All in all, i was able to outfit myself with a number of items that will, in addition to making the House of Deity a safer, more sanitary and less sniffly of a place, also make devilish appearances in sadistic ways that i'm sure the bigwigs who conjured our tax code in Washington would be proud of.
I wish all of you who purchase some entertainment from this site a Happy and Prosperous New Year. I look forward to seeing where it might go in 2008.
The nutshell (let's break it down):
These are pockets of money you can have taken out of your paycheck every pay period before the US gubbmint gets its grubby hands on your money and siphons off taxes. This then theoretically lowers your income bracket, thus reducing the amount of total tariffs you owe the IRS come the middle of April.
The catch (come on, you knew there had to be one):
You must use these funds only for the purchase of certain healthcare-related costs, AND you must make these purchases within the calendar year of the payroll deductions. Meaning if money was taken out of my salary during 2007, i must use these funds before December 31st 2007, otherwise i forfeit this money and it goes straight into Uncle Sam's pocket.
That's right. Forfeit. Lose. Never get back.
I participate in this program through my office, and was caught off guard when i received my December statement in the mail explaining my remaining balance. I had a rather large amount of money i needed to spend before January 1st, and i had absolutely no scheduled healthcare costs. Not wanting to horde cases of sterile gauze pads and vitamins, i was stuck for what i'd do with the surplus amount. And then i found a devilish loophole.
The redeemer:
It figures the the solution to my problems could be found on the internet. It turns out that such sites as drugstore.com and walgreens.com have specific sections of their inventory cordoned off to make using your flex spending dollars as easy as possible. But what they consider eligible, i would never have expected to fit within the requirements of the IRS. All it took was a few clicks of the mouse before i was able to determine that a good amount of this money was going towards fulfilling several of my fetishes.
Of all the self-adhering elastic bandages, Nexcare is by far the best for use in a mummification scene. It does not bunch like other brands, comes in extra wide strips and really vibrant colors. I personally love using this "space-age" material when entombing someone because it is breathable, which allows for longer periods of bondage as well as total closure. Instead of needing to cut holes in the elastic like i would if it were tape or shrinkwrap, the submissive is able to draw breath through the bandage itself.With my flex spending account, i was able to order enough for several scenes of total encapsulation.
Enemas are crucial aspects of any serious anal training, but also are enjoyable tools when used in a predicament scenario. A girl being trained anally must grow accustomed to regular enemas so that the use of her "third cunt" is safe and healthy for both involved. It's important to note that enemas are not to be administered too frequently, because the gastro-intestinal tract has natural bacteria that must exist in order for proper digestion. More than once a month should be avoided.
Enema play is it's own wonderful subject that i plan to go into later, but as i have said many times before, a girl knows her place almost immediately when she is made to think of her ass in a different way through the rudiments of anal play. Being told to hold in an enema despite urges from her stomach, her bowels and her anal rings to release is an incredible act of obedient submission.
All in all, i was able to outfit myself with a number of items that will, in addition to making the House of Deity a safer, more sanitary and less sniffly of a place, also make devilish appearances in sadistic ways that i'm sure the bigwigs who conjured our tax code in Washington would be proud of.
I wish all of you who purchase some entertainment from this site a Happy and Prosperous New Year. I look forward to seeing where it might go in 2008.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Lottery
A few more words from me, stormy. Deity will return soon, promise!
Robert and I have only known each other for about 2 months. He's a dominant man and I'm a submissive girl, but we are simply platonic friends. Yet that doesn't stop him from getting ideas in his head.
The other day, while I thought he was taking a moment of quiet reflection, he was apparently busy conjuring up a way to explain his own kinky idea of an Indecent Proposal.
"I had the most remarkable idea on the way home from work today," he said abruptly.
"I believe I shall win the lottery and purchase you."
Uh oh.
The terms: I would be 'acquired' for $1 million, for one year of service.
The conditions: I would receive no markings or body modifications for that first year; I would not be required to engage in any act that placed my life in danger or risked injury; and I could walk away at any time, with compensation for 'time served.'
Beyond those conditions, I would be owned in my entirety and used as he wished - and believe me, Robert has a very dark list of interesting activities he likes to indulge in.
This contract would be signed before a lawyer, the money placed in escrow, to be paid to me 365 days after signing. Then I could choose to sign a contract for a second year... but for only $1. Conditions to be renegotiated (and certainly not in my favor).
Hmmmm...
"Money isn't a big motivator for me," I said after some thought. "Why would you think I would ever agree to this?"
"Oh, because you want to," he answered.
Damn. And so now you know: Gambling really can be dangerous.
(Would you sign it? Personally, I find the idea terribly seductive... I'm just not telling Robert that.)
Robert and I have only known each other for about 2 months. He's a dominant man and I'm a submissive girl, but we are simply platonic friends. Yet that doesn't stop him from getting ideas in his head.
The other day, while I thought he was taking a moment of quiet reflection, he was apparently busy conjuring up a way to explain his own kinky idea of an Indecent Proposal.
"I had the most remarkable idea on the way home from work today," he said abruptly.
"I believe I shall win the lottery and purchase you."
Uh oh.
The terms: I would be 'acquired' for $1 million, for one year of service.
The conditions: I would receive no markings or body modifications for that first year; I would not be required to engage in any act that placed my life in danger or risked injury; and I could walk away at any time, with compensation for 'time served.'
Beyond those conditions, I would be owned in my entirety and used as he wished - and believe me, Robert has a very dark list of interesting activities he likes to indulge in.
This contract would be signed before a lawyer, the money placed in escrow, to be paid to me 365 days after signing. Then I could choose to sign a contract for a second year... but for only $1. Conditions to be renegotiated (and certainly not in my favor).
Hmmmm...
"Money isn't a big motivator for me," I said after some thought. "Why would you think I would ever agree to this?"
"Oh, because you want to," he answered.
Damn. And so now you know: Gambling really can be dangerous.
(Would you sign it? Personally, I find the idea terribly seductive... I'm just not telling Robert that.)
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Who's the Boss?
My name is 'stormy', and I was invited by Deity to share a few words while he and his girl enjoy their yuletide journey. Fear not: he'll be back soon!
There are plenty of sexual things that 'feel' right to me that others would find bizarre: being sexually subservient, emotionally dependent, mixing pain & pleasure, and more. But my kinks are my own, not something for everyone, and so I tend to keep my desires private but for a few close friends.
But even among friends, I've still found there are triggers that create a backlash. Like the language of sexuality.
The honorifics of D/s are something many people take very seriously. When you talk to your dominant, is he 'Daddy'? 'Master'? Or can he be just a guy named 'Jack'?
Are we driven to use the names we choose because we truly feel them, or because we think we're supposed to? I've often wondered what other submissives and dominants think of this whole issue.
I could be wrong, but when I read sex blogs, my overwhelming feeling is that most submissives address their dom as 'Master' because they think they 'should', because it makes them more genuine in some way. And by extension, it seems like many doms believe they're only properly respected if they're referred to as such.
And it's not that there's anything wrong with that but I often wonder if these people genuinely feel their role, or if they're simply following some script to legitimize themselves.
'Master' in particular is a term I have mixed feelings about. I've been in several serious D/s relationships, yet none of the men I ever formed a profound connection with ever demanded a constant form of address. It wasn't protocol they wanted, nor empty words to define what they were to me. They knew they were dominant; what they were more concerned with was ensuring I knew it, too. Right down to my bones.
I do value language a great deal, the subtleties of meaning and respect, but 'Master' often feels so forced and artificial, I've seldom felt the genuine desire to use it. In my limited experience, doms who expected it (especially early in a relationship) seldom deserved it, while those who did deserve it felt no need to demand the title.
I realize I'm generalizing here, but these are just my own impressions.
On the other hand, a form of respect I do enjoy without it being demanded of me, is 'Daddy.' Yet I've know many other submissives who have a serious aversion to the word.
Ironically, I'm not particularly interested in men who consider themselves "daddy doms" either, and I have no interest in age-play. But despite that, 'Daddy' is often the first word on my lips with the type of man I connect with. The title represents authority with compassion and total trust. He nurtures, disciplines and corrects, and I do what I'm told both because I want to please him, and because I fear him to some extent. He is both protector and tormentor.
But ultimately, do names like Master, or Daddy or whatever... do any of them really matter?
I'm always curious how dominants and other submissives feel about the issue. Why is it important - or not - that we use these chosen names for our dominant partners? What does it represent for you... is it part of some unseen script, or something you honestly feel inside you?
There are plenty of sexual things that 'feel' right to me that others would find bizarre: being sexually subservient, emotionally dependent, mixing pain & pleasure, and more. But my kinks are my own, not something for everyone, and so I tend to keep my desires private but for a few close friends.
But even among friends, I've still found there are triggers that create a backlash. Like the language of sexuality.
The honorifics of D/s are something many people take very seriously. When you talk to your dominant, is he 'Daddy'? 'Master'? Or can he be just a guy named 'Jack'?
Are we driven to use the names we choose because we truly feel them, or because we think we're supposed to? I've often wondered what other submissives and dominants think of this whole issue.
I could be wrong, but when I read sex blogs, my overwhelming feeling is that most submissives address their dom as 'Master' because they think they 'should', because it makes them more genuine in some way. And by extension, it seems like many doms believe they're only properly respected if they're referred to as such.
And it's not that there's anything wrong with that but I often wonder if these people genuinely feel their role, or if they're simply following some script to legitimize themselves.
'Master' in particular is a term I have mixed feelings about. I've been in several serious D/s relationships, yet none of the men I ever formed a profound connection with ever demanded a constant form of address. It wasn't protocol they wanted, nor empty words to define what they were to me. They knew they were dominant; what they were more concerned with was ensuring I knew it, too. Right down to my bones.
I do value language a great deal, the subtleties of meaning and respect, but 'Master' often feels so forced and artificial, I've seldom felt the genuine desire to use it. In my limited experience, doms who expected it (especially early in a relationship) seldom deserved it, while those who did deserve it felt no need to demand the title.
I realize I'm generalizing here, but these are just my own impressions.
On the other hand, a form of respect I do enjoy without it being demanded of me, is 'Daddy.' Yet I've know many other submissives who have a serious aversion to the word.
Ironically, I'm not particularly interested in men who consider themselves "daddy doms" either, and I have no interest in age-play. But despite that, 'Daddy' is often the first word on my lips with the type of man I connect with. The title represents authority with compassion and total trust. He nurtures, disciplines and corrects, and I do what I'm told both because I want to please him, and because I fear him to some extent. He is both protector and tormentor.
But ultimately, do names like Master, or Daddy or whatever... do any of them really matter?
I'm always curious how dominants and other submissives feel about the issue. Why is it important - or not - that we use these chosen names for our dominant partners? What does it represent for you... is it part of some unseen script, or something you honestly feel inside you?
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pet-rified
She used to corner me in the basement of her parent's house on holidays. I always took her forwardness as a thrill but certainly didn't show this to her, especially since she was two years my junior. Our parents had been friends for years and as a result, we were expected to socialize during whatever gatherings brought our two units together while the adults upstairs did their know-it-all adult thing. I'd enter their invitingly warm ranch-style house, wind my way down the long, dark staircase and immediately be lept upon by Muffy (yes, this was indeed her name). She'd grab me by the hand and with that signature spunky girl energy i've always been addicted to, she'd incessantly ask:
"Can we play? Can we play? Can we play?"
I knew exactly what sort of game she wanted to play, and of course i consented. She wanted to be my puppy, and i would spend the entire evening training her to perform all sorts of tricks, giving her food from a dish on the floor, scolding her when she misbehaved and taking her on walks (a "leash" attached to a "collar", of course). I'm not sure if our parents understood the thrill this exchange gave to both of us, but i remember them thinking it quaint and adorable, which acted as a tacit encouragement for us to continue to indulge in it. Years later, once Muffy and i had succumbed to the guilt and insecurity of our awkward teenage years, our interaction became a bitter and tense source of contention despite the sheer intimacy we shared during our childhood play.
I don't know where she is any more, so i have no way of finding out if our episodes had as profound an impact on her as they did on me. Speaking for myself, the idea of taking a girl and turning her into a pet sends shivers up and down my entire backside. I thrill at the opportunity to treat this girl in such a way that she consents to the idea of becoming my loyal animal companion. Starting from the innocuous female canvass, introduce a collar, add some bows and a bell, remove all of her clothing, tape her hands into the shape of paws (to negate her opposable thumbs) then direct her towards her cage. There, at the completion of this ritual, you have, on your hands, a non-human participant, stripped of her autonomy, trapped inside the obedient posture of a domesticated animal - this is different than my often sought after transformation of turning a girl into a doll. Instead of reimagining her in the way that fits my physical aesthetic as an object, as my pet she is wild, a lifeform with bombast and energy wholly realized as an inhuman creature seeking my guidance and direction.
And before some of you make the conclusion i suspect you will, let me pre-empt by saying this never entered the realm of bestiality. I am not reacting to her as if she were a natural-born canine, but in fact a person who knows she's a person but for the moment is acting animalistic. In the past when i've done this with a partner, if coitus occurred, it wasn't a man fucking a dog. That's not the kind of pet she's become. Here she's delicate, small, fragile and vulnerable, but without the ability to speak or interact on a human level. I can treat her with kindness or a firm hand, demand things from her that two humans wouldn't logically request. I could keep her and treat her as an innocent play thing, or with great exuberance and a growing fire inside of me, make her my slutty pet, my naughty puppy, my hungry little animal.
"Can we play? Can we play? Can we play?"
I knew exactly what sort of game she wanted to play, and of course i consented. She wanted to be my puppy, and i would spend the entire evening training her to perform all sorts of tricks, giving her food from a dish on the floor, scolding her when she misbehaved and taking her on walks (a "leash" attached to a "collar", of course). I'm not sure if our parents understood the thrill this exchange gave to both of us, but i remember them thinking it quaint and adorable, which acted as a tacit encouragement for us to continue to indulge in it. Years later, once Muffy and i had succumbed to the guilt and insecurity of our awkward teenage years, our interaction became a bitter and tense source of contention despite the sheer intimacy we shared during our childhood play.
I don't know where she is any more, so i have no way of finding out if our episodes had as profound an impact on her as they did on me. Speaking for myself, the idea of taking a girl and turning her into a pet sends shivers up and down my entire backside. I thrill at the opportunity to treat this girl in such a way that she consents to the idea of becoming my loyal animal companion. Starting from the innocuous female canvass, introduce a collar, add some bows and a bell, remove all of her clothing, tape her hands into the shape of paws (to negate her opposable thumbs) then direct her towards her cage. There, at the completion of this ritual, you have, on your hands, a non-human participant, stripped of her autonomy, trapped inside the obedient posture of a domesticated animal - this is different than my often sought after transformation of turning a girl into a doll. Instead of reimagining her in the way that fits my physical aesthetic as an object, as my pet she is wild, a lifeform with bombast and energy wholly realized as an inhuman creature seeking my guidance and direction.
And before some of you make the conclusion i suspect you will, let me pre-empt by saying this never entered the realm of bestiality. I am not reacting to her as if she were a natural-born canine, but in fact a person who knows she's a person but for the moment is acting animalistic. In the past when i've done this with a partner, if coitus occurred, it wasn't a man fucking a dog. That's not the kind of pet she's become. Here she's delicate, small, fragile and vulnerable, but without the ability to speak or interact on a human level. I can treat her with kindness or a firm hand, demand things from her that two humans wouldn't logically request. I could keep her and treat her as an innocent play thing, or with great exuberance and a growing fire inside of me, make her my slutty pet, my naughty puppy, my hungry little animal.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Ass-pirations
"Are you sure you're not gay?"
I've heard this in several iterations over the years. In fact, the number one most common misconception that people have when meeting me is that i'm homosexual. Yes, i'm that pretty.
*wink*
Plus, i'm not the most imposing of physical presences. I'm not going to go on record saying that i don't meet the minimum size requirement to ride the roller coasters at the fair, but i will say that sometimes i'm the tallest person on the subway, and sometimes i'm not. Not to mention i notice the tiniest details, especially those that refer to a female's decorum. Should a girl in my office get a trim or even change their hair tint just a slight amount, i'll notice and make a comment. There are other things that pop up, as well. I'm not a guy's guy. I don't enjoy football, or for that matter, usually other men. In fact, if you counted, the ratio of females to males in my appointment book would easily be 8 to 1. So, when i do have to relate to a room full of XY's, i find myself bored, antagonistic, disconnected. I'm proud to say i prefer the company of females, for most occasions.
But, even these superficial generalizations (not to mention the glaringly obvious lack of interest in another man's cock) are not as tough to take as the one i've received from the girl's i've been intimate with. Men like to term themselves as being loyal to one camp that adopts a part of the female anatomy as their official mascot. They like to declare that they are "tits" men, or "ass" men, or "minimal cuticle" men (not sure how many devotees there are of the latter). I've never been able to pick one feature and rally behind it as my absolute favorite. If pressed, i would have to say that i'm a:
"calf-ass-tit-lips-fingers-thighs-smalloftheback-hair-eyelashes-neck-cunt-toes-voice" man.
Couldn't do without any of them. I'm a full-fledged, dues paying member of the "official fan club of the female gender", and as much as i get a thrill from objectifying my submissive in our play, i consider the sum of the whole a true gift to this planet.
I make this clear to any girl i've been with; be it through outward proclamations or actions that demonstrate my adulation. Yet, the number of times my fascination with the female ass and what i want to do with it that has led to the gal in my life to mention her concern that i'm homosexual is astonishing. Yes, i'm quite sure i'm not gay. I just happen to, well, let me try to detail, what it is exactly i want to do to the female ass.
First:
I have an instant desire to slap a girl's ass. I won't pretend to get overtly academic and uncover the root psychological reason why that is. If the lass is pointing her well-rounded ass in my general direction, i find my hand cupping the air, quickly identifying the impact zone on the hostile rump. My internal demon likes the physical sensation of the slap, the heat that follows, and the devastating feminine myew that punctuates the act. I, of course, recognize the socially off-limits qualities of this part of the feminine anatomy. I subscribe to the notion that it is the equally shared belief that anything "ass" should not be discussed, let alone indulged, which has led to so much profound accomplishment and intimacy when i've focused my passion on this area. That leads me to my second interest.
Second:
I've long believed that the quickest and most profound way to acquire a girl's submission is through her ass. The very few times i've indulged in long-distance dominance, i have found myself turning to the buttplug as a trusty tool to impart my presence in a girl's journey into deep submission. But, i don't require the excuse of distance separating me from the girl to indulge in what i term "anal training". Whether it is by virtue that the girls i am attracted to have an affinity for back-door attention, or that i'm rather persuasive in my insistence of this form of sexual play, they grow very attached to the buttplug.
I embark on a quest to retrain the girl's ass. To teach it and her it's new purpose. The minute i begin to see the girl accept this new role, i walk trepiditiously because i know i can lose grip very quickly and let the full throttle of my inner rectal demon trounce all over me. I am taking ownership of a physical attribute that has for years been the focal point of her humiliation and disgust, imbibing it with my sexual arousal that comes from the girl finding pleasure in transforming it, with the goal that it supplants her cunt as the place where she believes she should be fucked. How could one impress deeper submissive values than to guide a girl to gradually accept that her ass is where she should provide and receive sexual attention?
Does this make me gay? I think that a strong reason that so many females have worried that i was when i pressed anal matters so much came from the fact that they wanted to believe that it was my obsession with this area, and not their own, which brought us to this transaction.
I've heard this in several iterations over the years. In fact, the number one most common misconception that people have when meeting me is that i'm homosexual. Yes, i'm that pretty.
*wink*
Plus, i'm not the most imposing of physical presences. I'm not going to go on record saying that i don't meet the minimum size requirement to ride the roller coasters at the fair, but i will say that sometimes i'm the tallest person on the subway, and sometimes i'm not. Not to mention i notice the tiniest details, especially those that refer to a female's decorum. Should a girl in my office get a trim or even change their hair tint just a slight amount, i'll notice and make a comment. There are other things that pop up, as well. I'm not a guy's guy. I don't enjoy football, or for that matter, usually other men. In fact, if you counted, the ratio of females to males in my appointment book would easily be 8 to 1. So, when i do have to relate to a room full of XY's, i find myself bored, antagonistic, disconnected. I'm proud to say i prefer the company of females, for most occasions.
But, even these superficial generalizations (not to mention the glaringly obvious lack of interest in another man's cock) are not as tough to take as the one i've received from the girl's i've been intimate with. Men like to term themselves as being loyal to one camp that adopts a part of the female anatomy as their official mascot. They like to declare that they are "tits" men, or "ass" men, or "minimal cuticle" men (not sure how many devotees there are of the latter). I've never been able to pick one feature and rally behind it as my absolute favorite. If pressed, i would have to say that i'm a:
"calf-ass-tit-lips-fingers-thighs-smalloftheback-hair-eyelashes-neck-cunt-toes-voice" man.
Couldn't do without any of them. I'm a full-fledged, dues paying member of the "official fan club of the female gender", and as much as i get a thrill from objectifying my submissive in our play, i consider the sum of the whole a true gift to this planet.
I make this clear to any girl i've been with; be it through outward proclamations or actions that demonstrate my adulation. Yet, the number of times my fascination with the female ass and what i want to do with it that has led to the gal in my life to mention her concern that i'm homosexual is astonishing. Yes, i'm quite sure i'm not gay. I just happen to, well, let me try to detail, what it is exactly i want to do to the female ass.
First:
I have an instant desire to slap a girl's ass. I won't pretend to get overtly academic and uncover the root psychological reason why that is. If the lass is pointing her well-rounded ass in my general direction, i find my hand cupping the air, quickly identifying the impact zone on the hostile rump. My internal demon likes the physical sensation of the slap, the heat that follows, and the devastating feminine myew that punctuates the act. I, of course, recognize the socially off-limits qualities of this part of the feminine anatomy. I subscribe to the notion that it is the equally shared belief that anything "ass" should not be discussed, let alone indulged, which has led to so much profound accomplishment and intimacy when i've focused my passion on this area. That leads me to my second interest.
Second:
I've long believed that the quickest and most profound way to acquire a girl's submission is through her ass. The very few times i've indulged in long-distance dominance, i have found myself turning to the buttplug as a trusty tool to impart my presence in a girl's journey into deep submission. But, i don't require the excuse of distance separating me from the girl to indulge in what i term "anal training". Whether it is by virtue that the girls i am attracted to have an affinity for back-door attention, or that i'm rather persuasive in my insistence of this form of sexual play, they grow very attached to the buttplug.
I embark on a quest to retrain the girl's ass. To teach it and her it's new purpose. The minute i begin to see the girl accept this new role, i walk trepiditiously because i know i can lose grip very quickly and let the full throttle of my inner rectal demon trounce all over me. I am taking ownership of a physical attribute that has for years been the focal point of her humiliation and disgust, imbibing it with my sexual arousal that comes from the girl finding pleasure in transforming it, with the goal that it supplants her cunt as the place where she believes she should be fucked. How could one impress deeper submissive values than to guide a girl to gradually accept that her ass is where she should provide and receive sexual attention?
Does this make me gay? I think that a strong reason that so many females have worried that i was when i pressed anal matters so much came from the fact that they wanted to believe that it was my obsession with this area, and not their own, which brought us to this transaction.
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