It is a beautiful autumn Sunday morning. The outside atmosphere rings with the church bells and the crisp fall air. I let her sleep in a little longer than usual. These are the sort of days where sleeping-in deserves special consideration.
At breakfast, i tell her that at some point in the day she will be put over my knee. I mention this to her at all because i want to glean her general attitude and emotional station, knowing that we have just broken our slumber-induced fast. I inquire as to when she thinks she would be most receptive. She gives it some thought, then states after her shower.
Later on, i'm working on the computer. Off in the distance, i hear the cascade of water cease in the bathroom. The sound of a door opening splits into the air from down the hallway, and i sit, waiting for her to soon come into my bureau. For whatever reason, i do not anticipate that she will crawl into my den. On all fours she scampers in along the floor, pulling her completely naked body, dripping with fresh, clean wetness right up to my chair.
I ask her why she came crawling.
"Because i knew i was to be spanked."
"And why are you to be spanked?"
"Because that is what you have decided."
"Is there any reason you deserve to be spanked?"
She doesn't respond.
"You have been especially bratty this week."
"When?" she asks.
"The other morning, you showed a great deal of irritation for no good reason, and were awfully short in your answers. You were being quite the little brat."
"Yes. Yes i was."
"Now do you think a spanking will do you good?"
"Yes. It will do me good for awhile, and then, i'll eventually need another."
I guide her nude frame to lie across my lap as i sit in my chaise lounge. I stroke my hand the full length of her backside. From the base of her thin neck, to the ample curvature of her round feminine hips, i explore the corpuscle terrain glowing up at me. i kiss the convex indentations of her spine, then move my embrace to her newly cleaned ass cheeks. My hand interrupts this fleshy love affair with a thwap into her right buttocks. Her muscles leap in a tense tour jeté, quickly consuming the altered rhythm of our exchange. Suddenly, i view her epidermal frontier of delicate peach and pink tones and decide they are in need of an acceleration to bright red inflammation. I slap three strokes hard into her skin.
She yelps.
I brush my hand across the newly irritated flesh, and move to the other cheek.
Three more strokes. Her body has come alive with stimulation. Her muscles pulse with fresh blood pumped through them. Small droplets of sweat pool in the concavity of her lower back. The rounded mounds of her ass cheeks throb a gravitating heat that feels so comforting to my flattened palm. I patter her butt with a quick resonance of slaps, finding a pattern that satisfies my inner hunger but does not yet push her to the limit of seeking mercy. I alternate between her right and left cheeks. Right, then left, then right, then left. I bring her pain receptors just to the edge, teasing them, hording my command over this physical domain, never quite pushing her beyond the edge. This continues for another seven minutes.
At a certain point, i work out the kink in my shoulder, arm, psyche that dictated to me that i would need this sort of expression. My girl has extracted herself from the corporal impact slapped into her body, and hovering above it, has found a clear, explicit euphoria. I can feel the visceral, ectoplasmic possession of it glistening the folds of her yet unattended cunt. I pull her up into my lap, and hold her close to my body.
I visit her silent, now suddenly-smaller-than-normal frame with tender kisses and continued strokes with my hand, perched upon my reclined legs. I give us a few tender moments in the silent stasis of this pose before i move on to the completion of our intimate moment.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
On looking
The willowy limbs that bend in an array of gently formed angles as she makes her way down the avenue, clapping wooden taps into the pavement with gondolizing arches in her heels, makes me want to be right next to her, pressed, so that i can feel her vulnerability deliver her in separate pieces.
The curves of her body that hollow out the air as she juts through it, winding around her from unseen vertices, pilloring her neck, sliding in underneath her chanteuse arms, and compressing the silhouette of her torso into a silky, all-encompassing wave, continues down her telescopic thighs, lingering just beneath the balcony of her buttocks that offer a gracious tease of future sights and sorrows, all to end in portions that begin to dwindle from the firm extension of a flammable stem.
Her hands look like delicate music, singing a song with thin, smooth reeds. They enchant every surface they touch, leading the target into a tango that starts at her wrist, travels up through the tendons of her slender hand, bending into the samba of her fingertips. Her very, musical fingers.
Her face...ahhhhhh, her face. Buried in the deep, deep surface of the earth beneath our very feet lies great forces that twists and warp solid stone. They do not get it nearly as right as the forces that carved out her cameo. The canvass of her face begins at the crest of either, predominant cheek, which gives my eye the momentum to slide downward to her protruding feverish curl of flamboyant flesh that forms her very top lip. I linger here until i walk myself upwards to the pinnacle pleasure of her eyes of hidden treasure. A delicious brightness surrounds the caverns of her ocular home, holding the gleaming occupants in a state of utter shock, awe and amazement at their own singular beauty. The copper centers occupy their visual place perfectly, causing no alarm, but as an epiphany with every glance upon them. Lining each lid, a spray of black rays springs into the air, scooping my breath out of my lungs to feed the illumination that seems to take up residence on her unforgettable face.
The curves of her body that hollow out the air as she juts through it, winding around her from unseen vertices, pilloring her neck, sliding in underneath her chanteuse arms, and compressing the silhouette of her torso into a silky, all-encompassing wave, continues down her telescopic thighs, lingering just beneath the balcony of her buttocks that offer a gracious tease of future sights and sorrows, all to end in portions that begin to dwindle from the firm extension of a flammable stem.
Her hands look like delicate music, singing a song with thin, smooth reeds. They enchant every surface they touch, leading the target into a tango that starts at her wrist, travels up through the tendons of her slender hand, bending into the samba of her fingertips. Her very, musical fingers.
Her face...ahhhhhh, her face. Buried in the deep, deep surface of the earth beneath our very feet lies great forces that twists and warp solid stone. They do not get it nearly as right as the forces that carved out her cameo. The canvass of her face begins at the crest of either, predominant cheek, which gives my eye the momentum to slide downward to her protruding feverish curl of flamboyant flesh that forms her very top lip. I linger here until i walk myself upwards to the pinnacle pleasure of her eyes of hidden treasure. A delicious brightness surrounds the caverns of her ocular home, holding the gleaming occupants in a state of utter shock, awe and amazement at their own singular beauty. The copper centers occupy their visual place perfectly, causing no alarm, but as an epiphany with every glance upon them. Lining each lid, a spray of black rays springs into the air, scooping my breath out of my lungs to feed the illumination that seems to take up residence on her unforgettable face.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Heavy machinery
I'm not sure where i developed a desire to physically modify the female form, but i know i have a serious hankering for it. To the point where i have a well fortified bimbo fetish. The aspect that informs my fascination in bimbos doesn't come from their cookie-cutter quality of platinum blond sexpots with 44D busoms. What attracts me to the notion of a "girl-next-door" submitting to the process of transformation into the next Pam Anderson is the idea that she's making permanent changes to her body in order to fulfill a sexual desire.
Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.
I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".
She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.
Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.
Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.
I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.
In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.
All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.
In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.
Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.
I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".
She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.
Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.
Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.
I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.
In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.
All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.
In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Pacificity
Where does this passion come from?
Who can i thank for my unending lust?
Who can i curse for my obsession?
Who lights this spark in me, igniting a fire that searches out fuel that can only come from the struggle of a female?
What am i seeking?
Am i running with mighty haste from, or to something?
I've often spoke of darkness, and i hear others refer to darkness inside them when they approach or marvel in their kink, but what really grows out of me as i touch the different manifolds of my sexuality is light. She is the filament, i am the current flowing through her, from which we illuminate dark, uncovered corners. She is the stone, i am the flint that strikes against her surface, shooting sparkling embers into the air, igniting the match head to produce a seedling flame.
However, I do not believe this is just sexuality or even the pure act of procreation. I struggle to define what exactly operates inside my own psyche, but i know i seek more than just a receptacle for my seed. I always have. As a young boy who lurched clumsily along my pocked field of puberty, the fantasies that brought me to my quick climaxes never consisted of me "getting with the girl". They always (and still do) consisted of me "possessing" her. In fact, when we consider biology, any chalice would serve science's purposes. I could find a random female, and as long as i have ejaculated enough semen into her that finds purchase in her womb, my genitals have suceeded galantly.
No, this is much more than simply extroverted petri dishes. How strange it must sound to the outside observer, to my friends who have no idea why i keep a lock and key on a particular door in my residence, that i find peace in such barbarism. I live in a place where "liberal" is a redundancy when assigned to someone's political views, and so i exist in a world where the protocol i enforce in my house would be labeled (has been labeled unknowingly) as sexist, Third World, fundamentalist and archaic. I can imagine the full volume debates with these people who have eaten off of my china, dined in my parlor, commemorated great events and notable celebrations for me, when they hear my supposition that i torment, bind, batter and chastise my girl in order to find peace.
Pacificity. How absurd and contradictory. One cannot live by the hard line order of their lover's regular corporal punishment and also assert that they derive peace from this, can they? One cannot enforce a stringent dress code that abides by social and cultural gender stereotypes, and claim that doing so delivers them to a near Nirvana state, can they? One cannot feel a drive to strip their loved one of their human identity, relegating them to the status of an immobile object, all the while experiencing a picturesque sampling of inner sanctum - or can they? I will not lay metaphysical claim that what i seek, constantly allowing a divining rod to guide me to a source, is the same transcendental mastery those ascetics burrowed deep into monasteries pursue. But i know the purpose for my incendiary is more than just sexual apex.
To go back to my very first post, i wonder what part of the Big Bang's matter seared itself to my cellular structure. To who am i dependent upon for my life and the manner in which i carry it out? I ask rhetorically for an explanation of my inner chemistry, half dangling my toe into the bathtub of knowledge to test its scalding temperature, while also looking to skip the cleanse altogether, concluding it is better not to know.
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Edition #7
Edition #7
Posted on September 15, 2007
Filed Under Edition | 1 Comment
Welcome to Exchange Edition #7, highlighting the most interesting, most controversial and smartest posts from the BDSM blogosphere - as nominated by the bloggers who wrote them. Not chosen by a committee, or pre-judged, these posts reflect each bloggers ‘pick’ of their own best work in the previous 2 weeks. It’s an easy way to try a new blog, written by someone who shares your interests.
This Week’s Picks
Due to the small number of posts, there are no picks this week.
Submit your best BDSM related post to be considered!
Editor’s Choice
The Ties that Bind (No Limits: A Slave’s Journey of Total Submission)
Restraining Order (The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise)
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