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.)
Saturday, December 29, 2007
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?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Since when was naughty the opposite of nice?
'Tis the season where well-meaning girls are faced with spending a little time tied up beneath the christmas tree.
I'm leaving on an extended tour of the jolliest yuletide venues, and won't be back for awhile. But don't you worry, my devoted and slobbering readers, i will not leave you unattended.
I have asked a dear and beloved friend of mine to watch over the workshop for me in my absence. Those of you who drop by during the holidays are in for a treat for not only is she a devilish mind, but also an incredibly gifted writer.
When i first approached my friend 'stormy' with the idea of babysitting the site over Christmas, she balked at the idea, not sure her take on things would fit these hallowed pages. Au contraire, i told her. My first introduction to her was through her written word, and immediately, i was addicted. Her take on and passion for this realm continues to stun me, and i am honored that she would care to offer it to my audience.
To my readers and those just casually passing by, Happy Holidays. I look forward to a brand new year through which i can further explore my debauchery.
With that thought in mind, i leave the beautiful Kay O'Hara and a Vargas pin-up as my presents to all of 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.
Friday, December 14, 2007
The machines are winning
I don't care to waste a post on the random nuances of different word combinations that get compiled in my site statistics. Those times i've read other scribes' attempts at making something of this cornucopia of mishmashed vocabulary, i haven't taken their efforts all that seriously; much in the same way i react to the internet quizzes that breakdown their personality or charm. As for what terms people search that bring them to "transformher.blogspot", i do keep an eye on this; out of curiosity for what luscious language lures unknowing readers, but also to analyze trends for any favoritism certain obsessions of mine get over others. Recently, when i was scanning the list, something alarming caught my eye.
Out of 425 key terms typed into a search engine that then led folks to clicking on my site's link, a full 105 of them had some reference to "fucking machines". That's at least 25% of all the internet searches attempted that have brought people to my wicked labyrinth. When i break it down even further, of the top 15 queried terms, 7 of them are a derivative of "fucking" and "machine" (someone actually found me while trying to look for the elusive "mashine"), for a whopping 987 visits of the total 1,057 visits from word searching alone.
Let me repeat this. For those of you accustomed to all sorts of insane traffic where your numbers per hour dwarf my modest number of visits, it may not sink in, but what i'm trying to say is this:
If all i wrote about were fucking machines, i'd be 700% more popular.
What is going on here?
I truthfully cannot say. Clearly, of all the themes i touch on in this little corner of the internet, the one that resonates with people from every continent, every major religion and every timezone is that of mechanized sexual contraptions. I'm not prepared to say why that is, which is one of the reasons i write this post because i cannot quell the curiosity. Perhaps those of you who have stumbled upon my obsessive journal of a man who likes to control and modify the females in his life only because you've been hot for stories, photos or (most likely) videos of rigid dildos pistoning in and out of wet, slick vaginas can enlighten me. What is it about the disconnection, the alienation or the bizarreness of a girl spreading her legs for a hopped-up Hoover that attracts so much of humanity?
As i wrote in my singular post about the subject, i'm not at all inspired by scenes of a girl (and i can only assume that the majority of the folks who typed in those two words in Google that landed them here are looking for machines fucking girls) merely propped up on a bench while a long stem attached to a rotor swings in and out of her pubus. What interests me is actually turning this heated femme into a machine by stripping her of any movement or say as to how much, how long or how hard the brainless device will pound into her flesh. But, i suspect, this is not the case with the mass majority of these throngs of "fucking machine" fans.
Is it the absence of the male protagonist that for so many (including me) is a major turn-off with most pornagraphic material? With a machine, you don't see the dude's awful hair, or his shitty fake bake, or hear his bursts of manly libretto whilst humping the maiden "real good". It's just a saucy female, ready to demonstrate how badly she wants sex by willingly hooking herself up to a tin torso on a tripod, and letting it ram into her.
I can sort of understand the thrill behind this display. That being said, i'm overwhelmed at the attention my previous post on the subject (and choice of vocabulary) brought to me, and genuinely feel surprised. I wasn't prepared for the interest those two words, when combined, would bring, and i would love to hear from those of you who pop in and read my entries.
If you would, drop me a comment. I'm not sure i will devote much space to hearings of this nature in the future, so please, indulge my curiosities.
Out of 425 key terms typed into a search engine that then led folks to clicking on my site's link, a full 105 of them had some reference to "fucking machines". That's at least 25% of all the internet searches attempted that have brought people to my wicked labyrinth. When i break it down even further, of the top 15 queried terms, 7 of them are a derivative of "fucking" and "machine" (someone actually found me while trying to look for the elusive "mashine"), for a whopping 987 visits of the total 1,057 visits from word searching alone.
Let me repeat this. For those of you accustomed to all sorts of insane traffic where your numbers per hour dwarf my modest number of visits, it may not sink in, but what i'm trying to say is this:
If all i wrote about were fucking machines, i'd be 700% more popular.
What is going on here?
I truthfully cannot say. Clearly, of all the themes i touch on in this little corner of the internet, the one that resonates with people from every continent, every major religion and every timezone is that of mechanized sexual contraptions. I'm not prepared to say why that is, which is one of the reasons i write this post because i cannot quell the curiosity. Perhaps those of you who have stumbled upon my obsessive journal of a man who likes to control and modify the females in his life only because you've been hot for stories, photos or (most likely) videos of rigid dildos pistoning in and out of wet, slick vaginas can enlighten me. What is it about the disconnection, the alienation or the bizarreness of a girl spreading her legs for a hopped-up Hoover that attracts so much of humanity?
As i wrote in my singular post about the subject, i'm not at all inspired by scenes of a girl (and i can only assume that the majority of the folks who typed in those two words in Google that landed them here are looking for machines fucking girls) merely propped up on a bench while a long stem attached to a rotor swings in and out of her pubus. What interests me is actually turning this heated femme into a machine by stripping her of any movement or say as to how much, how long or how hard the brainless device will pound into her flesh. But, i suspect, this is not the case with the mass majority of these throngs of "fucking machine" fans.
Is it the absence of the male protagonist that for so many (including me) is a major turn-off with most pornagraphic material? With a machine, you don't see the dude's awful hair, or his shitty fake bake, or hear his bursts of manly libretto whilst humping the maiden "real good". It's just a saucy female, ready to demonstrate how badly she wants sex by willingly hooking herself up to a tin torso on a tripod, and letting it ram into her.
I can sort of understand the thrill behind this display. That being said, i'm overwhelmed at the attention my previous post on the subject (and choice of vocabulary) brought to me, and genuinely feel surprised. I wasn't prepared for the interest those two words, when combined, would bring, and i would love to hear from those of you who pop in and read my entries.
If you would, drop me a comment. I'm not sure i will devote much space to hearings of this nature in the future, so please, indulge my curiosities.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The bottomless pit
I have a bountiful libido that has provided consistent drive for me to explore the limits, depths and extents of my fleshly desires. I take the pragmatic approach by saying that it hasn't always existed at the current high elevation. Occasionally, the drive for sex resembled an arid and empty desert landscape. But, mostly, it has rushed through my veins with a velocity that thins my blood and makes my head swim.
I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.
As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.
I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.
The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.
The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.
I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.
As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.
I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.
The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.
The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.
Sugasm #109
Sugasm 109
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 #110? 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
Body Image In Art, Porn & Media
“Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do.”
The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections
“I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same.”
When Natural Doesn’t Feel Natural at All
“I’d kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn’t remember what I look like in full and natural form.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Pic(k) of the Day
Editor’s Choice
Darkroom Fantasy
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Blow-up dolls
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Head trip
Tomorrow, i get to visit my girl's corsetier to discuss and review the mock-up of my latest commission. Trying to negotiate our three very cluttered schedules has been very difficult, so finally having the chance to see his progress has me very excited. What the item is, and the occasion for which it is being built adds a great deal to my excitement.
As i've expressed, i'm deeply obsessed with neck corsets. I own three different models already, but still cannot find (if it's possible at all) satisfaction with them. The act of covering over my girl's face, features and head has also imbibed my body with an impulsive energy that i frequently act upon. I will occasionally, amidst a daydream, doodle on a notepad a binding pose, an hourglass silhouette, or even a piece of equipment that forges from the alloys of my sexual appetites. One afternoon, after an intense drawing session, i studied the left margins of my office notepad to discover a rough draft of an idea for a new device.
Every year, my girl and i exchange the traditional yuletide presents in front of family, reserving for a private gift exchange one 'naughty' item. It's funny, but as is the case with most of my material infatuations, both of our sexy cadeaus tend to be something that can be used upon or worn by her. This year is no different.
My XXXmas gift (i know, *gag*) to her:
The process of designing this began several months ago, ignited by my disgust with the lacing hoods available both in the stores and online. As is the case with most mass-produced articles of clothing, what exists has no real sexiness to their design or detail - they offer only function. Not only that, but most individuals seeking such items tend to be of the male persuasion, and knowing this, the manufacturers keep their targeted audience's blocky, sharp and usually thicker features in mind when assembling these kinky textiles. Having this problem with most of the gear i've sought for my girl's delicate frame, it forced me to seek other options.
For someone who essentially seeks the eradication of their partner's attractive physical features by submerging them under layers of thick, binding material, it may sound odd that there would be a need for such extensive customization of this covering. Cloaking and then recreating as best as possible the shapes that i study and gaze at in great lustful detail - the slope that pours down over her cheek, the ridge where her jawbone meets her neck, the ever graceful but slight roundness of the back of her head - in dark leather actually goes further towards accomplishing her objectification. I've dissected her anatomy many times, over and over in my mind, dividing her into a long list of her beautiful components. Turning her head and neck into a shiny, leather-clad bust, with no evidence of the living, breathing human trapped beneath honors the summation of this list by forming from it sculpture, a work of art.
With all of this in mind, i came to Mr. S (the corsetier) and described to him what i wanted. He sketched out a facsimile that i tweaked until we reached a serviceable template. As an aside, having a willing artisan at my beck and call who can take my visions and give them three dimensions is a recipe for danger. With him on board, i'm one step closer to achieving my maniacal quest for ultimate domination (cue hysterical laughter). There are definitely aspects of this that could be trouble as i, one who suffers from serious impulsive and compulsive obsessiveness, can attest to with past experiences. My girl reflected this concern by commenting after our previous exit from Mr. S's studio, which was a routine trip for corset maintenance until i suddenly whipped out my idea for a hood without her even aware i had been contemplating it at all.
"You know, i love having him around to craft a new corset now and then, but his ability to satisfy these device requests of yours could get dangerous."
I just grinned.
During our outing tomorrow, he'll have a complete preliminary version of both the hood and neck corset (including boning) which my girl will patiently* model as he tugs, draws out or adds material to the head gear. Even this spectacle stimulates me. During this fitting period, she must stand there (and in the case of this hood and its features - silently*) while he and i comment on how it looks on her or whether it is suitably constraining. She has no currency in this exchange. Mr. S and i will negotiate any changes that should be made to the item, while our mannequin stands there quietly awaiting her fate*.
*She's a saint.
As i've expressed, i'm deeply obsessed with neck corsets. I own three different models already, but still cannot find (if it's possible at all) satisfaction with them. The act of covering over my girl's face, features and head has also imbibed my body with an impulsive energy that i frequently act upon. I will occasionally, amidst a daydream, doodle on a notepad a binding pose, an hourglass silhouette, or even a piece of equipment that forges from the alloys of my sexual appetites. One afternoon, after an intense drawing session, i studied the left margins of my office notepad to discover a rough draft of an idea for a new device.
Every year, my girl and i exchange the traditional yuletide presents in front of family, reserving for a private gift exchange one 'naughty' item. It's funny, but as is the case with most of my material infatuations, both of our sexy cadeaus tend to be something that can be used upon or worn by her. This year is no different.
My XXXmas gift (i know, *gag*) to her:
The process of designing this began several months ago, ignited by my disgust with the lacing hoods available both in the stores and online. As is the case with most mass-produced articles of clothing, what exists has no real sexiness to their design or detail - they offer only function. Not only that, but most individuals seeking such items tend to be of the male persuasion, and knowing this, the manufacturers keep their targeted audience's blocky, sharp and usually thicker features in mind when assembling these kinky textiles. Having this problem with most of the gear i've sought for my girl's delicate frame, it forced me to seek other options.
For someone who essentially seeks the eradication of their partner's attractive physical features by submerging them under layers of thick, binding material, it may sound odd that there would be a need for such extensive customization of this covering. Cloaking and then recreating as best as possible the shapes that i study and gaze at in great lustful detail - the slope that pours down over her cheek, the ridge where her jawbone meets her neck, the ever graceful but slight roundness of the back of her head - in dark leather actually goes further towards accomplishing her objectification. I've dissected her anatomy many times, over and over in my mind, dividing her into a long list of her beautiful components. Turning her head and neck into a shiny, leather-clad bust, with no evidence of the living, breathing human trapped beneath honors the summation of this list by forming from it sculpture, a work of art.
With all of this in mind, i came to Mr. S (the corsetier) and described to him what i wanted. He sketched out a facsimile that i tweaked until we reached a serviceable template. As an aside, having a willing artisan at my beck and call who can take my visions and give them three dimensions is a recipe for danger. With him on board, i'm one step closer to achieving my maniacal quest for ultimate domination (cue hysterical laughter). There are definitely aspects of this that could be trouble as i, one who suffers from serious impulsive and compulsive obsessiveness, can attest to with past experiences. My girl reflected this concern by commenting after our previous exit from Mr. S's studio, which was a routine trip for corset maintenance until i suddenly whipped out my idea for a hood without her even aware i had been contemplating it at all.
"You know, i love having him around to craft a new corset now and then, but his ability to satisfy these device requests of yours could get dangerous."
I just grinned.
During our outing tomorrow, he'll have a complete preliminary version of both the hood and neck corset (including boning) which my girl will patiently* model as he tugs, draws out or adds material to the head gear. Even this spectacle stimulates me. During this fitting period, she must stand there (and in the case of this hood and its features - silently*) while he and i comment on how it looks on her or whether it is suitably constraining. She has no currency in this exchange. Mr. S and i will negotiate any changes that should be made to the item, while our mannequin stands there quietly awaiting her fate*.
*She's a saint.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Blow-up dolls
As a child, i used to sneak into the upstairs hall closet to fish out a handful of sterile latex gloves from the supply my mom insisted on keeping in the off-chance that one of us rambunctious kids would incur a wound and need immediate in-home surgery. Safe in my room, i'd layer these rubber mittens over my hands, then go to sleep for what was a very restless slumber. A deep desire to find my extremities somehow transformed into rubbery appendages would wake me up frequently throughout the night. Come dawn, the only thing i would find would be thirsty, pale digits with pruney fingerprints once i sloughed the gloves off.
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.
Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Burlesque, boots and booze
I took my girl on a date to a burlesque show last night at a supper club. It's something we do every month or so, and with the recent renaissance of the art form, the options and venues are growing, which means there are ample selections to choose from.
I love the idea of dressing to the nines, taking in a show, going to a supper club, drinking cocktails instead of just liquor. It feels old-fashioned and sophisticated without being elite or pretentious. And what continues to thrill me are the little customs surrounding this entire outing. I usually don a suit with my sharp, brown felt fedora, which always receives mention for its too-rare of a common stance. Last night, my girl wore her tuxedo corset with pink accents, a nice long black skirt with built-in petticoats and her tall black leather boots. I watch her get ready from start to finish, relishing the methodical manner she employs to transform from frumpy weekender to roving pin-up. The whipped-cream-AND-cherry-on-top is when she pulls her boots on.
To say that i'm a sucker for a gal in tall black leather boots would be doing a disservice to all the other well-mannered suckers out there. I anxiously await this time of year for the annual blossoming of the knee high heels, erecting tribute to the person who first invented this fashion by giving their creation my full uninterrupted attention. No matter what i'm doing at the time, my eyes get ripped away from the conversation or activity i'm engaged in and follow the ebony gams swinging gorgeously beneath the passing female pedestrian. I gush when a gal wears attractively comported heels, but my reaction to boots is entirely more aggressive. I see them as such overt sexual objects which can be viewed in their common use in Halloween costumes, and by prostitutes and dominatrices. I imagine a girl wearing boots as attempting to affect a specific erotic aura when sliding a pair up her legs, which makes the item even more potent. I adore watching my girl put them on, slowly dragging the zipper up as if to say "These are the lines you will not be able to take your eyes off the rest of the evening", all the while giving me a slight, playful peek of her lingerie because her dress is hiked a little to accommodate the tallness of the footwear. I enjoy taking her to a shoe shine kiosk in the train station and stand off in the distance, watching her boots get a shiny gleam. This activity gives the boots the appearance as being part of her body, and the person handling them with his precise strokes strengthens this illusion.
Once we arrived at the lounge, i was delighted to see that our pre-paid tickets had us sitting right near the stage, which always makes the evening more enjoyable as invariably the MC when interacting with the crowd will, at some point, comment on my girl and her elegant appearance. The evening's host was one of my favorites, a drag-king who pulls off a great rendition of a 50's showbiz ham á la Don Rickles, who ridicules and heckles the audience (or "folks" and "kids" as he refers to us) with a faux-inebriated glee. And because the host is a lesbian dressed as a man, he can interact with the females on stage and in the assemblage in a lewd and objectifying way without coming off as creepy. I was thoroughly impressed with the girls and their routines: playful, provocative, feminine and very sexy.
I enjoy sharing this activity with my girl because we have such a shared appreciation for the art form and the culture that had originally birthed it. We can indulge ourselves in the pretty, costumed and made-up girls prancing to campy music or jazz standards without a need to hide this activity from the other as seems to be the case with visits my vanilla friends covertly make to strip clubs. These evenings usually involve a considerable amount of booze due to the atmosphere and the type of crowds that attend, and by the end of the evening i end up guiding my adorably tipsy girl into a cab, making sure i've collected all of her numerous accessories.
Oh, and i was right about the host commenting on my girl. He pulled her up on stage and made her participate in a contest to "out-dance" the other dilettantes. I smiled widely as i watched her wiggle around under the spotlights, taking great delight in the enchanted gasps from those in the crowd around me as they saw, upon her turning around, the knotted laces of her corset going from the small of her neck to her lower back.
I love the idea of dressing to the nines, taking in a show, going to a supper club, drinking cocktails instead of just liquor. It feels old-fashioned and sophisticated without being elite or pretentious. And what continues to thrill me are the little customs surrounding this entire outing. I usually don a suit with my sharp, brown felt fedora, which always receives mention for its too-rare of a common stance. Last night, my girl wore her tuxedo corset with pink accents, a nice long black skirt with built-in petticoats and her tall black leather boots. I watch her get ready from start to finish, relishing the methodical manner she employs to transform from frumpy weekender to roving pin-up. The whipped-cream-AND-cherry-on-top is when she pulls her boots on.
To say that i'm a sucker for a gal in tall black leather boots would be doing a disservice to all the other well-mannered suckers out there. I anxiously await this time of year for the annual blossoming of the knee high heels, erecting tribute to the person who first invented this fashion by giving their creation my full uninterrupted attention. No matter what i'm doing at the time, my eyes get ripped away from the conversation or activity i'm engaged in and follow the ebony gams swinging gorgeously beneath the passing female pedestrian. I gush when a gal wears attractively comported heels, but my reaction to boots is entirely more aggressive. I see them as such overt sexual objects which can be viewed in their common use in Halloween costumes, and by prostitutes and dominatrices. I imagine a girl wearing boots as attempting to affect a specific erotic aura when sliding a pair up her legs, which makes the item even more potent. I adore watching my girl put them on, slowly dragging the zipper up as if to say "These are the lines you will not be able to take your eyes off the rest of the evening", all the while giving me a slight, playful peek of her lingerie because her dress is hiked a little to accommodate the tallness of the footwear. I enjoy taking her to a shoe shine kiosk in the train station and stand off in the distance, watching her boots get a shiny gleam. This activity gives the boots the appearance as being part of her body, and the person handling them with his precise strokes strengthens this illusion.
Once we arrived at the lounge, i was delighted to see that our pre-paid tickets had us sitting right near the stage, which always makes the evening more enjoyable as invariably the MC when interacting with the crowd will, at some point, comment on my girl and her elegant appearance. The evening's host was one of my favorites, a drag-king who pulls off a great rendition of a 50's showbiz ham á la Don Rickles, who ridicules and heckles the audience (or "folks" and "kids" as he refers to us) with a faux-inebriated glee. And because the host is a lesbian dressed as a man, he can interact with the females on stage and in the assemblage in a lewd and objectifying way without coming off as creepy. I was thoroughly impressed with the girls and their routines: playful, provocative, feminine and very sexy.
I enjoy sharing this activity with my girl because we have such a shared appreciation for the art form and the culture that had originally birthed it. We can indulge ourselves in the pretty, costumed and made-up girls prancing to campy music or jazz standards without a need to hide this activity from the other as seems to be the case with visits my vanilla friends covertly make to strip clubs. These evenings usually involve a considerable amount of booze due to the atmosphere and the type of crowds that attend, and by the end of the evening i end up guiding my adorably tipsy girl into a cab, making sure i've collected all of her numerous accessories.
Oh, and i was right about the host commenting on my girl. He pulled her up on stage and made her participate in a contest to "out-dance" the other dilettantes. I smiled widely as i watched her wiggle around under the spotlights, taking great delight in the enchanted gasps from those in the crowd around me as they saw, upon her turning around, the knotted laces of her corset going from the small of her neck to her lower back.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
And yet i cannot turn away
I've frequently travelled for work, which leads to me spending many a night in a hotel room, far away from home. In past times when i was younger, i found other means of satisfaction that my unattached and single status permitted. In the most recent years, when not indulging in illicit phone calls with my homebound girl, i've turned to the now abundantly prevalent high-speed Internet connection most hotels offer. I'm not sure what came first, the DSL or the hyperactive sexual appetites, but i find myself overcome with incredible horniness once i drop my attache on the floor and eye the broadband device stationed on the end of my desk for the night.
I don't know how i would've managed to satisfy these cravings in an age when endless arteries of erotic pulsation weren't made available to my fingertips by Ma and Pa Up-fer-thu-nyte. In fact, i think it is safe to say that the Internet itself has facilitated an intense exploration of my sexuality in so many public and private venues that imagining where i would be with my libidinous development without it seems impossible. I have catalogued many real-life experiences that inform who i am today, but i would be remiss if i didn't also acknowledge the significant contribution this global network of kinky provisions has made to my overall dominant, fetishistic self.
As a result of the ample supply of caboodle, i've amassed an immense collection of links, portals, libraries and warehouses that can be easily accessed through this Internet connection should an insistent hankering arise (which it always does). I could easily end this post like that, by just offering that i'll always be able to quickly satisfy any cravings i have, but I would demonstrate great irresponsibility if i didn't address the negative side to this unfettered access to the world wide web . While i could call up in a matter of seconds intense mummification scenes, galleries of corsets, damsels gagged and suspended, this has not come without a cost. To get to this point has taken a certainly unhealthy obsession on my part, where i've culled through reams of material which as a result has exposed me to entirely unappetizing images and scenarios.
Because i've opened up a dialogue with sites and venues that offer any and every fetish, my eyes have feasted on some incredibly raunchy material. Some of the stuff i've seen has dipped to such depravity, that i begin to wonder both about my own sanity but also the end result for those who seek this extreme filth. I realize i introduce the topic of de-sensitization when i criticize those who parade such seriously decrepit fetishes, but i can't help but feel that i straddle a fairly reasonable and sensible line (no matter how demanding my dress code becomes). The lewdness and despicable character some of these sites demonstrate on face value is enough to call in to question the overall benefits of an endless stream of cyber information. An inability to identify the source, the subjects being portrayed and their overall context underlies the debauchery of the stomach-turning expositions i've seen. Let us not even try to extract the legality or the ethics of the organization behind it.
Let's be honest, most horny men don't give a crap about the source (i admit, even i occasionally fall into this category), nor do they care about the context of the clip itself. It has been pointed out to me several times that we as a (male) gender have such a raw approach to porn that we can be blinded to the hurt, the suffering and the desperation of the subject that helps us get our rocks off. While i'm stuffed away in an isolated hotel suite, with an ample supply of tissues, these things are not on the forefront of my mind. What arouses me could have as little grounding material as possible, and it would still serve to excite if i'm in the right mood. Of course, as i think about this in the light of day and under a moral magnifying glass, guilt seeps into every pore. To assuage this guilt, i am quite overly critical of the material i do encounter, especially those that feature a dominant male in them, as opposed to the girl, alone, on her own, enduring her ordeal. I almost don't want to ever see the dominant. I'd rather not contend with this anonymous figure. I'd rather not critique his poor choice of fashion and style, and i would most rather not like to focus on his sloppy handling of the girl now entombed.
Instead, i'd rather obsessively stare at this vision, suspended in time and in image, struggling for the moment to breathe yet stay still and to represent the perfectly static beauty my soul really longs for in those moments of complete solitude.
I don't know how i would've managed to satisfy these cravings in an age when endless arteries of erotic pulsation weren't made available to my fingertips by Ma and Pa Up-fer-thu-nyte. In fact, i think it is safe to say that the Internet itself has facilitated an intense exploration of my sexuality in so many public and private venues that imagining where i would be with my libidinous development without it seems impossible. I have catalogued many real-life experiences that inform who i am today, but i would be remiss if i didn't also acknowledge the significant contribution this global network of kinky provisions has made to my overall dominant, fetishistic self.
As a result of the ample supply of caboodle, i've amassed an immense collection of links, portals, libraries and warehouses that can be easily accessed through this Internet connection should an insistent hankering arise (which it always does). I could easily end this post like that, by just offering that i'll always be able to quickly satisfy any cravings i have, but I would demonstrate great irresponsibility if i didn't address the negative side to this unfettered access to the world wide web . While i could call up in a matter of seconds intense mummification scenes, galleries of corsets, damsels gagged and suspended, this has not come without a cost. To get to this point has taken a certainly unhealthy obsession on my part, where i've culled through reams of material which as a result has exposed me to entirely unappetizing images and scenarios.
Because i've opened up a dialogue with sites and venues that offer any and every fetish, my eyes have feasted on some incredibly raunchy material. Some of the stuff i've seen has dipped to such depravity, that i begin to wonder both about my own sanity but also the end result for those who seek this extreme filth. I realize i introduce the topic of de-sensitization when i criticize those who parade such seriously decrepit fetishes, but i can't help but feel that i straddle a fairly reasonable and sensible line (no matter how demanding my dress code becomes). The lewdness and despicable character some of these sites demonstrate on face value is enough to call in to question the overall benefits of an endless stream of cyber information. An inability to identify the source, the subjects being portrayed and their overall context underlies the debauchery of the stomach-turning expositions i've seen. Let us not even try to extract the legality or the ethics of the organization behind it.
Let's be honest, most horny men don't give a crap about the source (i admit, even i occasionally fall into this category), nor do they care about the context of the clip itself. It has been pointed out to me several times that we as a (male) gender have such a raw approach to porn that we can be blinded to the hurt, the suffering and the desperation of the subject that helps us get our rocks off. While i'm stuffed away in an isolated hotel suite, with an ample supply of tissues, these things are not on the forefront of my mind. What arouses me could have as little grounding material as possible, and it would still serve to excite if i'm in the right mood. Of course, as i think about this in the light of day and under a moral magnifying glass, guilt seeps into every pore. To assuage this guilt, i am quite overly critical of the material i do encounter, especially those that feature a dominant male in them, as opposed to the girl, alone, on her own, enduring her ordeal. I almost don't want to ever see the dominant. I'd rather not contend with this anonymous figure. I'd rather not critique his poor choice of fashion and style, and i would most rather not like to focus on his sloppy handling of the girl now entombed.
Instead, i'd rather obsessively stare at this vision, suspended in time and in image, struggling for the moment to breathe yet stay still and to represent the perfectly static beauty my soul really longs for in those moments of complete solitude.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Conjectural relations
Visiting family for the holidays does not in any way feel sexy or erotic. In fact, in many ways it sucks any urges i may have to indulge in my sexual needs. When i travel back home, i use the downtime that comes from driving from one widely spaced-out relative to another as a way to decompress from the often stressful experience spending time with the relations provides. Typically, i manage to pack in well over a dozen individual visits with a different person on my holiday sojourn, sometimes seeing a handful of people in one day (i have a humongous family and many old friends). Over the past few years, i've brought my girl along with me which has introduced variables i hadn't fully anticipated.
Most commonly, we stay at someone's house, sleeping in guest rooms, bedrooms of children momentarily discharged on our behalf, or even couches. Even though there are moments of arousal as we lie together in our temporary sleeping quarters, we do not dare act on them out of propriety and respect for our host.
To remedy this urge to consummate, i have taken the initiative to declare one evening out of our stay of pure solitude for me and my girl. We stay at a secluded lodge tucked away in the mountains. The bed and breakfast we escape to is a completely self-contained cabin that offers us total privacy. To me, this option serves as such a relief, as it permits a much needed outlet of stress and anxiety these visits with family always wallop me with. In preparation, i'll pack a TSA-alerting assortment of toys and equipment (without fail, every time we open our bag we find a little "how do ya do") that allows us to have a decent but modest play session, invariably replete with some much needed spanking.
Another variable involves how my kin reacts to us. I grow so accustomed to the way in which my relationship with my girl functions that i tend to overlook how it appears to others. Where i live, we have established such a comfortable niche that few interruptions to our sexual agenda present themselves. However, my family and hometown friends do not regularly see a corseted girl who wears nothing but skirts and dresses in the chill of winter or has inch-long artificial nails dangling from each of her fingertips. In this way, to these incredibly vanilla people, my girl comes off a little out of place.
I'm always struck by how much defensiveness i feel whenever a relative makes a comment about how odd her extremely hour-glassed waist appears or when their eyes grow big at the first sight of her manicured talons thrashing through the air as she gestures with her hands while relating some entertaining story of hers. I know that in the worst-case scenario they judge her, which always riles me up. I see these few disparagements as a rejection of our lifestyle, of someone i deeply love and, ultimately, me. Thankfully, these altercations are few, as most of my family members remain politely uncertain as to why someone would choose to "limit" themselves this way. My close family has grown accustomed to my girl's appearance and the occasional times i act in a dominant fashion towards her. A few have even inquired further, indulging in natural curiosities such oddities arouse, which have led to some gentle but eye opening discussions about power exchange. I value these opportunities to chat about SM with a selected set of family members because it allows me to be myself around them, more and more, but also gives me a thrill that i may provide insight into a way of life they themselves would enjoy. I can't be the only sadistic nut hanging from our family tree.
Most commonly, we stay at someone's house, sleeping in guest rooms, bedrooms of children momentarily discharged on our behalf, or even couches. Even though there are moments of arousal as we lie together in our temporary sleeping quarters, we do not dare act on them out of propriety and respect for our host.
To remedy this urge to consummate, i have taken the initiative to declare one evening out of our stay of pure solitude for me and my girl. We stay at a secluded lodge tucked away in the mountains. The bed and breakfast we escape to is a completely self-contained cabin that offers us total privacy. To me, this option serves as such a relief, as it permits a much needed outlet of stress and anxiety these visits with family always wallop me with. In preparation, i'll pack a TSA-alerting assortment of toys and equipment (without fail, every time we open our bag we find a little "how do ya do") that allows us to have a decent but modest play session, invariably replete with some much needed spanking.
Another variable involves how my kin reacts to us. I grow so accustomed to the way in which my relationship with my girl functions that i tend to overlook how it appears to others. Where i live, we have established such a comfortable niche that few interruptions to our sexual agenda present themselves. However, my family and hometown friends do not regularly see a corseted girl who wears nothing but skirts and dresses in the chill of winter or has inch-long artificial nails dangling from each of her fingertips. In this way, to these incredibly vanilla people, my girl comes off a little out of place.
I'm always struck by how much defensiveness i feel whenever a relative makes a comment about how odd her extremely hour-glassed waist appears or when their eyes grow big at the first sight of her manicured talons thrashing through the air as she gestures with her hands while relating some entertaining story of hers. I know that in the worst-case scenario they judge her, which always riles me up. I see these few disparagements as a rejection of our lifestyle, of someone i deeply love and, ultimately, me. Thankfully, these altercations are few, as most of my family members remain politely uncertain as to why someone would choose to "limit" themselves this way. My close family has grown accustomed to my girl's appearance and the occasional times i act in a dominant fashion towards her. A few have even inquired further, indulging in natural curiosities such oddities arouse, which have led to some gentle but eye opening discussions about power exchange. I value these opportunities to chat about SM with a selected set of family members because it allows me to be myself around them, more and more, but also gives me a thrill that i may provide insight into a way of life they themselves would enjoy. I can't be the only sadistic nut hanging from our family tree.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Sugasm #106
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 #107? 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
“Suck your man’s penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum.”
“He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say.”
“The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life.”
Mr. Sugasm HimselfOur fearless leader tells me he’s crazy busy so I’m presenting one from the vaults.
Editor’s Choice
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Happy Spanksgiving
I'm grateful for many things that i've encountered since i first dropped the initial sentences in the url transformher.blogspot.com. I've met many great people who have visited my hovel, received an assortment of enlightening feedback, and expanded my own frontiers through the process of sharing my thoughts on my sexuality. I'll be traveling the entire week of Thanksgiving, and as a result will be out of touch with the three bits of enjoyment i mentioned above.
In the spirit of the season, i'll leave the reader with a list of links i take particular pride in but most importantly, instances that i'm very appreciative for because i have such an outlet in my life. Without further ado, i give spanks for the following posts:
Whereupon she says she needs it
I'm a generous and charitable man. When she pleads, i provide.
Those fleshy mounds are meant for something, no?
I look for a canvass where i can paint my customized mark upon flesh.
An outlet for my internal hypertension
I should fill out an application for canonization. She deserves it.
The few square inches this part of the female anatomy occupies does not hold up to my obsession with it
And how could it? No one could satisfy these kind of demands...or could they?
A simple correction
I expel my transgressions over a knee, and see if we can't arrive at some sort of compromise.
Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers, and a pleasant week to those in other regions.
In the spirit of the season, i'll leave the reader with a list of links i take particular pride in but most importantly, instances that i'm very appreciative for because i have such an outlet in my life. Without further ado, i give spanks for the following posts:
Whereupon she says she needs it
I'm a generous and charitable man. When she pleads, i provide.
Those fleshy mounds are meant for something, no?
I look for a canvass where i can paint my customized mark upon flesh.
An outlet for my internal hypertension
I should fill out an application for canonization. She deserves it.
The few square inches this part of the female anatomy occupies does not hold up to my obsession with it
And how could it? No one could satisfy these kind of demands...or could they?
A simple correction
I expel my transgressions over a knee, and see if we can't arrive at some sort of compromise.
Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers, and a pleasant week to those in other regions.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Self restraint
In the spring of 1994, i was diagnosed by my psychologist at the time with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Actually, she was testing me for Attention Deficit Disorder, but she had something up her sleeve i didn't know. I had anticipated that she was testing me for ADD, which she anticipated, confirming what her expert mind had long theorized. My first response when she told me that i had OCD was, "Well, duh, Doc." Not the hardest thing to notice about me.
I OBSESS. I obsess about obsessing. I do not have a severe form of the disorder where i need to have absolute, manic control of my environment - locking doors multiple times, scrubbing my hands arduously, following the exact same routine precisely to the letter - i have no impulse for any of that. But where OCD manifests itself in my sexuality is my unabashedly pinpoint and frighteningly precise attention to detail. I regularly notice when one of the girls in the office alters her hair color, her hair style, her makeup, even her perfume. I even notice when a girl who i encounter infrequently on the train platform waiting for the next one to arrive has changed something with her style. I'll usually offer this to them, to which they almost all bewilderedly confirm my hunch.
What is my point, you the reader, might be asking? I find something that entrances me, station myself in front of it, and then digest as much of the subject as possible.
My latest surfeit: self bondage
***I must preface the following, do NOT attempt this without the proper safety precautions installed. Safety and common sense is of the utmost importance when attempting any of what i'm about to discuss. I cannot stress this enough***
My recent splurge in the consumption of self bondage media happened innocently enough. I was browsing through YouTube looking for various mummification videos (there are some tremendous offerings and others that are just sadly disenchanting), when i came across an Italian girl who was interested in filming herself bagging for her boyfriend. This is an incredibly risky habit - INCREDIBLY - and if it appeared even remotely like she was at risk of putting herself in danger, the video would lose all of its appeal. It is not the danger or the risk that excites me. What got me aroused was that she was doing this for someone else.
I've controlled girls long distance before. The physical separation requires some creativity when trying to restrain the bottom. Obviously, i will not be able to bind her like i would if i were there, my shadow cast over her naked form. I quickly realized in these telephonic relationships that i would need to devise a way to imprison the girls in a thorough but safe way. I made the impediment simple, unobtrusive for safe activity like a chain collar, leather cuffs or - my favorite - a chastity belt. The situation called for real ingenuity when it came to the locking of these confinements. I devised on the low-tech end - freezing the keys for the lock in a jar of water - on the high end - a time safe. The stimulation for me came in the exact moment when the girl agreed to this arrangement, took my instructions and locked herself away.
A few days after i found the italian autorista, now in full slash and burn obsession mode, i came across some old Devonshire Productions videos that featured the beautiful Simone Devon herself. I couldn't control myself. My appetite had peaked for scenarios of auto-confinement, and Mme Devon had the goods.
One particular video had her starting on a bed, taking rope and binding her thighs, then her ankles, and anchoring this to a crotch rope. Next, she took a pair of handcuffs, thread these through the loops that she had made on the ass-side of the crotch rope. She produced throughout the restriction, the most adorable groans and whines. These reached a peak when she pulled out from her bag of toys a ball gag. She was about to pull off one of the most arousing gestures i've encountered in this genre: self-gagging. I turned up the volume. I wanted to hear every squeak, ever frustrated yet inflamed vocal struggle. She completed her bondage by laying on her stomach and locking her hands behind her back in a respectable but not completely orthodox hogtie.
That her struggles indicated an inability to free herself from this predicament was not what tickled my mental erogenous zones. It was the fact that the camera was clearly there indicating that someone was nearby, and that this girl had, for the audience, bound herself up. She would increase the bondage in the two subsequent segments, with the last one dousing me in erotic fever when she actually pulled a full leather hood over her head, entombing her entire crown in tight restrictive darkness.
I can understand why it exacts such a strong response from me. In my pursuit to transform the girl into a creature overflowing with my appetites and desires, to be able to witness her go step by step, putting herself in these shackles signifies the purest acceptance of my lessons. She's not only saying that she wants to be there, but she's actively stepping in front of a camera in order to document and declare her need to be there.
I OBSESS. I obsess about obsessing. I do not have a severe form of the disorder where i need to have absolute, manic control of my environment - locking doors multiple times, scrubbing my hands arduously, following the exact same routine precisely to the letter - i have no impulse for any of that. But where OCD manifests itself in my sexuality is my unabashedly pinpoint and frighteningly precise attention to detail. I regularly notice when one of the girls in the office alters her hair color, her hair style, her makeup, even her perfume. I even notice when a girl who i encounter infrequently on the train platform waiting for the next one to arrive has changed something with her style. I'll usually offer this to them, to which they almost all bewilderedly confirm my hunch.
What is my point, you the reader, might be asking? I find something that entrances me, station myself in front of it, and then digest as much of the subject as possible.
My latest surfeit: self bondage
***I must preface the following, do NOT attempt this without the proper safety precautions installed. Safety and common sense is of the utmost importance when attempting any of what i'm about to discuss. I cannot stress this enough***
My recent splurge in the consumption of self bondage media happened innocently enough. I was browsing through YouTube looking for various mummification videos (there are some tremendous offerings and others that are just sadly disenchanting), when i came across an Italian girl who was interested in filming herself bagging for her boyfriend. This is an incredibly risky habit - INCREDIBLY - and if it appeared even remotely like she was at risk of putting herself in danger, the video would lose all of its appeal. It is not the danger or the risk that excites me. What got me aroused was that she was doing this for someone else.
I've controlled girls long distance before. The physical separation requires some creativity when trying to restrain the bottom. Obviously, i will not be able to bind her like i would if i were there, my shadow cast over her naked form. I quickly realized in these telephonic relationships that i would need to devise a way to imprison the girls in a thorough but safe way. I made the impediment simple, unobtrusive for safe activity like a chain collar, leather cuffs or - my favorite - a chastity belt. The situation called for real ingenuity when it came to the locking of these confinements. I devised on the low-tech end - freezing the keys for the lock in a jar of water - on the high end - a time safe. The stimulation for me came in the exact moment when the girl agreed to this arrangement, took my instructions and locked herself away.
A few days after i found the italian autorista, now in full slash and burn obsession mode, i came across some old Devonshire Productions videos that featured the beautiful Simone Devon herself. I couldn't control myself. My appetite had peaked for scenarios of auto-confinement, and Mme Devon had the goods.
One particular video had her starting on a bed, taking rope and binding her thighs, then her ankles, and anchoring this to a crotch rope. Next, she took a pair of handcuffs, thread these through the loops that she had made on the ass-side of the crotch rope. She produced throughout the restriction, the most adorable groans and whines. These reached a peak when she pulled out from her bag of toys a ball gag. She was about to pull off one of the most arousing gestures i've encountered in this genre: self-gagging. I turned up the volume. I wanted to hear every squeak, ever frustrated yet inflamed vocal struggle. She completed her bondage by laying on her stomach and locking her hands behind her back in a respectable but not completely orthodox hogtie.
That her struggles indicated an inability to free herself from this predicament was not what tickled my mental erogenous zones. It was the fact that the camera was clearly there indicating that someone was nearby, and that this girl had, for the audience, bound herself up. She would increase the bondage in the two subsequent segments, with the last one dousing me in erotic fever when she actually pulled a full leather hood over her head, entombing her entire crown in tight restrictive darkness.
I can understand why it exacts such a strong response from me. In my pursuit to transform the girl into a creature overflowing with my appetites and desires, to be able to witness her go step by step, putting herself in these shackles signifies the purest acceptance of my lessons. She's not only saying that she wants to be there, but she's actively stepping in front of a camera in order to document and declare her need to be there.
Monday, November 12, 2007
In the eye of the beholder
"As soon as you make contact with your life’s passion — which can mean finding your vocation, your life partner or even your sexual identity — you are going to experience a kind of spiritual suffering until you act on that passion. That suffering is actually a form of divine motivation, urging you to pursue a more authentic life."—Caroline Myss
We speak of many physical purchases on these pages. If i'm not abstractly obsessing over the curves that spill over the female hip, i'm regaling those who read here on how something looks to the eye, feels to the touch, and even occasionally smells to the nostril. I will not take away any of the importance these sensual satisfactions provide my life, but i have always inwardly understood that i pursue my sadistic agenda to accomplish some level of metaphysical harmony.
I received the quote at the top from a very dear friend of mine, who thought i would relate to the words "spiritual", "suffering", and "divine". She couldn't have been more wrong. I don't relate to those words. I am those words - they inform every breath i ever make. The general impression floating around these here walls may be that i'm a little obsessed with kinkiness and sex - that needn't be corrected. The only thing that comes close if not outright exceeds it is my fixation on spirituality.
Music moves me. Stirs me. Gets behind every single red blood cell and pushes them through my veins with great velocity. In fact, after "The Great Minimization" of my material goods in 2004, the only music i owned, the only literature i put on my shelves, and the only movies i ever watch are those that deliver me to some euphoric level of consciousness. I meditate frequently, several times throughout the day. I'm not doing it so that i have clarity which then allows me to leap on the next big financial deal or to come up with the crucial missing piece for time travel. When i take a shower, i anxiously await the moment at the end where i train the stream of hot, cascading water down on the base of my neck. Somehow the heat penetrating this part of my body signals my internal anchorage to let go of every muscle, ligament and tissue - instantaneous out-of-body experience.
I feel the same raw expulsion of energy burst through me whenever i give in to the heady demands of a strenuous and intense bondage scene. At those moments when my chest buzzes with so much electricity as i gaze down at the prone feminine figure rendered so vulnerably by my hands and power, what i'm engaging in rises and ascends above the pure base act of intercourse. Communion, of two souls, who must use unconventional methods to slip out of the mortal cloaks hanging from their spines in order to momentarily exist outside the narrow, unnatural confines of their physical frames. Communion.
I seek the Divine in every gesture, mistake and moment of passion. In fact, one of my most frequently (and perhaps too frequently) stated idioms is "There is not enough beauty in this world. We must use every store of energy in our body to do what we can to rectify that."
For beauty reminds us of the Divine. Beauty brings the Divine closer to us. Beauty supersedes all other woes.
We speak of many physical purchases on these pages. If i'm not abstractly obsessing over the curves that spill over the female hip, i'm regaling those who read here on how something looks to the eye, feels to the touch, and even occasionally smells to the nostril. I will not take away any of the importance these sensual satisfactions provide my life, but i have always inwardly understood that i pursue my sadistic agenda to accomplish some level of metaphysical harmony.
I received the quote at the top from a very dear friend of mine, who thought i would relate to the words "spiritual", "suffering", and "divine". She couldn't have been more wrong. I don't relate to those words. I am those words - they inform every breath i ever make. The general impression floating around these here walls may be that i'm a little obsessed with kinkiness and sex - that needn't be corrected. The only thing that comes close if not outright exceeds it is my fixation on spirituality.
Music moves me. Stirs me. Gets behind every single red blood cell and pushes them through my veins with great velocity. In fact, after "The Great Minimization" of my material goods in 2004, the only music i owned, the only literature i put on my shelves, and the only movies i ever watch are those that deliver me to some euphoric level of consciousness. I meditate frequently, several times throughout the day. I'm not doing it so that i have clarity which then allows me to leap on the next big financial deal or to come up with the crucial missing piece for time travel. When i take a shower, i anxiously await the moment at the end where i train the stream of hot, cascading water down on the base of my neck. Somehow the heat penetrating this part of my body signals my internal anchorage to let go of every muscle, ligament and tissue - instantaneous out-of-body experience.
I feel the same raw expulsion of energy burst through me whenever i give in to the heady demands of a strenuous and intense bondage scene. At those moments when my chest buzzes with so much electricity as i gaze down at the prone feminine figure rendered so vulnerably by my hands and power, what i'm engaging in rises and ascends above the pure base act of intercourse. Communion, of two souls, who must use unconventional methods to slip out of the mortal cloaks hanging from their spines in order to momentarily exist outside the narrow, unnatural confines of their physical frames. Communion.
I seek the Divine in every gesture, mistake and moment of passion. In fact, one of my most frequently (and perhaps too frequently) stated idioms is "There is not enough beauty in this world. We must use every store of energy in our body to do what we can to rectify that."
For beauty reminds us of the Divine. Beauty brings the Divine closer to us. Beauty supersedes all other woes.
Friday, November 9, 2007
I'll assume i'm on the naughty list
Hardly long after the last plastic Lil Orphan Annie mask is discarded and the final Necco wafer has been scarfed at the conclusion of Halloween, are we suddenly inundated with the festive vandalism of Christmas green and red decorations stapled all over every disgruntled employee, surface and product. Coinciding this forced change of colors, i begin to receive the first of many requests from friends and relatives wanting me to compose my yuletide wishlist.
I don't care for this task whenever i receive it for two succinct reasons.
The first being that i don't like to accumulate "things". I long ago abandoned my childhood hobbies of collecting stamps, business cards and fossils. A half dozen years or so ago, i relinquished my shelves of most of my CD's, books and DVD's - a near total purge of my vast collection. My bare bones media library now consists of those options i turn to regularly, with views, reads or listens in the dozens or more for each that remain. I'm loathe to fill up a list with titles of movies that i will invariably only watch once or twice just so someone can include me in their holiday shopping.
The second reason i abhor this task is that the objects i would really want to ask for would most likely trigger Mr. Claus' (notoriously sensitive) naughty alarms, which would then result in not only me not getting these gifts, but me also suffering the intense, scornful gaze from family members at the eggnog bowl due to my audacious request. Let me state what might be the obvious: the items on this list would receive exponentially more use than all of the Da Vinci Code copies i've opened with a quickly following grimace ever did.
It's for this reason and because i don't feel i'll receive the same judgmental scrutiny here on my own site that i jot down the following "If-i-could-ask-for-anything-Xmas-list".
Dear Sanity Clause*,
I've been a really decent (and by decent i mean i have actually helped more elderly ladies across the street than those i've pushed down the stairs - i'm kidding!) boy this year, and i hear you reward those of us who are on our best behavior. Please find the following list of items as gentle suggestions to what i'd like to receive as payment for my year-long decency.
At the top of my list:
Ballet boots - I'd like a pair of Mary Janes, Gwendoline knee-high's, Justine thigh-high's - all patent black leather - and one pair of white patent Wanda's. Women's size US 81/2. Most of these can be found here.
Continuing on:
Latex gear - Corsets, hobble skirts, catsuits, mitts, straightjackets, inflatable butterfly gags, mummy bags, and hoods. I'm quite fond of the items at http://www.marquis.de/ and http://www.demask.com/, but i'm sure i'm not telling you anything you don't already know
Vacuum beds - These are a must-have item to properly store your toys, St. Nick. I leave you the following two illustrations that demonstrate what i mean.
Chick-wrapper - Kind of self explanatory, but i wouldn't want to deprive you of a proper image to stimulate your imagination. I thought the festive green color of the wrap was a nice touch from the folks at http://www.houseofgord.com/, don't you?
Fucking machine - i recently wrote about my passion for these here. Feel free to leave a comment if you're moved to, i love the feedback. Well, here's another photographic example of one of my favorite models, ms. mila from Insex.
This set-up is pretty close to the one i'd like, so there's no need to really go into detail when PD nearly perfected the arrangement.
The rest: (i can make just a quick list of them. I know you're busy, and i don't want to appear greedy)
a St. Andrew's Cross
a suspension frame
female chastity belt
1,000 yards of jute, hemp or cotton rope
a selection of gags, ring, inflatable, dental, etc.
2 pair of Large black leather police gloves
2 pair of Large black leather driving gloves
Oh, and one last thing, for the lass, a corset dress from Vollers.
I know it's a long list, do what you can with it. I'll make sure to leave some milk and cookies out because that's the kind of sport i am.
Happy Noel,
Deity
p.s. it's been a long year, i'm sure you're already exhausted, and it's not even December yet. Why don't you pick out something for you and Mrs. Bowl full o'jelly here. Go on, you deserve it.
*my sincerest apologies to the Marx Brothers, who i hold in the highest of esteem
I don't care for this task whenever i receive it for two succinct reasons.
The first being that i don't like to accumulate "things". I long ago abandoned my childhood hobbies of collecting stamps, business cards and fossils. A half dozen years or so ago, i relinquished my shelves of most of my CD's, books and DVD's - a near total purge of my vast collection. My bare bones media library now consists of those options i turn to regularly, with views, reads or listens in the dozens or more for each that remain. I'm loathe to fill up a list with titles of movies that i will invariably only watch once or twice just so someone can include me in their holiday shopping.
The second reason i abhor this task is that the objects i would really want to ask for would most likely trigger Mr. Claus' (notoriously sensitive) naughty alarms, which would then result in not only me not getting these gifts, but me also suffering the intense, scornful gaze from family members at the eggnog bowl due to my audacious request. Let me state what might be the obvious: the items on this list would receive exponentially more use than all of the Da Vinci Code copies i've opened with a quickly following grimace ever did.
It's for this reason and because i don't feel i'll receive the same judgmental scrutiny here on my own site that i jot down the following "If-i-could-ask-for-anything-Xmas-list".
Dear Sanity Clause*,
I've been a really decent (and by decent i mean i have actually helped more elderly ladies across the street than those i've pushed down the stairs - i'm kidding!) boy this year, and i hear you reward those of us who are on our best behavior. Please find the following list of items as gentle suggestions to what i'd like to receive as payment for my year-long decency.
At the top of my list:
Ballet boots - I'd like a pair of Mary Janes, Gwendoline knee-high's, Justine thigh-high's - all patent black leather - and one pair of white patent Wanda's. Women's size US 81/2. Most of these can be found here.
Continuing on:
Latex gear - Corsets, hobble skirts, catsuits, mitts, straightjackets, inflatable butterfly gags, mummy bags, and hoods. I'm quite fond of the items at http://www.marquis.de/ and http://www.demask.com/, but i'm sure i'm not telling you anything you don't already know
Vacuum beds - These are a must-have item to properly store your toys, St. Nick. I leave you the following two illustrations that demonstrate what i mean.
Chick-wrapper - Kind of self explanatory, but i wouldn't want to deprive you of a proper image to stimulate your imagination. I thought the festive green color of the wrap was a nice touch from the folks at http://www.houseofgord.com/, don't you?
Fucking machine - i recently wrote about my passion for these here. Feel free to leave a comment if you're moved to, i love the feedback. Well, here's another photographic example of one of my favorite models, ms. mila from Insex.
This set-up is pretty close to the one i'd like, so there's no need to really go into detail when PD nearly perfected the arrangement.
The rest: (i can make just a quick list of them. I know you're busy, and i don't want to appear greedy)
a St. Andrew's Cross
a suspension frame
female chastity belt
1,000 yards of jute, hemp or cotton rope
a selection of gags, ring, inflatable, dental, etc.
2 pair of Large black leather police gloves
2 pair of Large black leather driving gloves
Oh, and one last thing, for the lass, a corset dress from Vollers.
I know it's a long list, do what you can with it. I'll make sure to leave some milk and cookies out because that's the kind of sport i am.
Happy Noel,
Deity
p.s. it's been a long year, i'm sure you're already exhausted, and it's not even December yet. Why don't you pick out something for you and Mrs. Bowl full o'jelly here. Go on, you deserve it.
*my sincerest apologies to the Marx Brothers, who i hold in the highest of esteem
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Dom-i-Nation
When our schedules allow, we meet once a month, usually over a meal like two predators. On the surface, our appearance assumes that of two urban men who have commuted back to their neighborhood from work and are now relaxing by patronizing a local eatery. We do not have bags containing coils of rope, a collection of shackles, clamps or gags sitting at our feet, nor are there whips hanging from our belts. To look at us, you would never guess that our sexual proclivities involved the sado-masochistic actions we project onto our female partners nor that these activities made up the bulk of our discussions when we commune monthly. Luckily, our waitresses have not been in range to hear such words as "knifeplay", "breath control", "Shibari", or "nooses" to arouse suspicion.
I lose track of time when i meet with my dominant friend K. We could've just sat down, and in a flash, we will have digested three hours. One explanation for this comes from how engrossing our discussions tend to be. I have a limited number of people in my life i can stretch out a palaver over the issues arising in a power exchange. From our first conversation, i felt like i was swimming in an endless stream of water. On occasion, i needed to stick my head above the surface to breathe, otherwise, i was practicing a new form of respiration - fully submerged - one that i had not had the opportunity to try before. Most of my vanilla friends have no clue as to my sexuality, and those that do, treat it like something they'd wished never to gain more than the small inkling they possess. This has led me to filling up hundreds of notebooks with stories, fantasies, doubts, questions and one-sided dialogues in order to express the deep-seeded wellings of my psychology. With K, i not only gain the opportunity to receive experience-derived feedback, but i learn about an entirely different experience and approach to SM. And yet, there is much common ground between us, which makes our dialogue even more fulfilling.
We've recently turned our discussion to negotiating an evening of us together with our partners. I proposed the idea to K first, and him being the AMAZING sport that he is, accepted the offer. Since my girl reads this journal from time to time, i won't go into detail about what K and i have decided upon (i won't even apply the "my girl" label as i know she insists on reading those posts specifically). The negotiations themselves have been a learning process for me, bringing up all sorts of questions and uncertainties that i hadn't expected. Luckily, K has been more than forthcoming in letting me express these and respond with sincerity and understanding.
I suspect the girls (who also meet together, on their own) do not look upon these gatherings of two tops as being completely beneficial to their well-being. It's sort of tantamount to two super-powers gathering for a summit and exchanging methods (i.e. pillaging, plundering, raping) they use to carve up little nations in order to exploit their natural resources. But as K i'm sure would assert, we come in peace.
I lose track of time when i meet with my dominant friend K. We could've just sat down, and in a flash, we will have digested three hours. One explanation for this comes from how engrossing our discussions tend to be. I have a limited number of people in my life i can stretch out a palaver over the issues arising in a power exchange. From our first conversation, i felt like i was swimming in an endless stream of water. On occasion, i needed to stick my head above the surface to breathe, otherwise, i was practicing a new form of respiration - fully submerged - one that i had not had the opportunity to try before. Most of my vanilla friends have no clue as to my sexuality, and those that do, treat it like something they'd wished never to gain more than the small inkling they possess. This has led me to filling up hundreds of notebooks with stories, fantasies, doubts, questions and one-sided dialogues in order to express the deep-seeded wellings of my psychology. With K, i not only gain the opportunity to receive experience-derived feedback, but i learn about an entirely different experience and approach to SM. And yet, there is much common ground between us, which makes our dialogue even more fulfilling.
We've recently turned our discussion to negotiating an evening of us together with our partners. I proposed the idea to K first, and him being the AMAZING sport that he is, accepted the offer. Since my girl reads this journal from time to time, i won't go into detail about what K and i have decided upon (i won't even apply the "my girl" label as i know she insists on reading those posts specifically). The negotiations themselves have been a learning process for me, bringing up all sorts of questions and uncertainties that i hadn't expected. Luckily, K has been more than forthcoming in letting me express these and respond with sincerity and understanding.
I suspect the girls (who also meet together, on their own) do not look upon these gatherings of two tops as being completely beneficial to their well-being. It's sort of tantamount to two super-powers gathering for a summit and exchanging methods (i.e. pillaging, plundering, raping) they use to carve up little nations in order to exploit their natural resources. But as K i'm sure would assert, we come in peace.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sugasm #104
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 #105? 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
Awkward Sex Attempts (and Other Common Experiences)
“This put a slight damper on the “sexy” feelings I was trying to work up.”
Do You Want Me To Call You A Whore?
“Who doesn’t like having their hair pulled during sex?”
Two Fer
“Neither of us heard the front door open when Jason’s roommate came home.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Girls and Guns
Editor’s Choice
Being a Feminist in the sex industry
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Fucking machines
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Toying with her
I've been entirely obsessed with the idea of complete female immobilization and objectification. Engrossed and focused - purchased a one way ticket for the one-track mind express. Every inference of sexuality, every indulgence in a video from my collection, every plot twist/device/structure of erotica i've read involves some aspect of a girl's entrapment in extreme total bondage, and then put away for her internment, only to be used later - once her confinement has effectively altered her mind and transformed her into a willing and desirous object. Unfortunately, this pedestrian approach to providing me the necessary nutrient wasn't enough.
I took pen to paper. I started crafting a narrative involving the most convoluted story about a girl who inherits an estate, but in order to qualify for it, she must live precisely like the person who had bequeathed it to her. Of course, as was wont to happen in the Victorian era, it turns out this person lived her life as a household object, constantly confined to some body-entombing sarcophagi - as a lamp, as a table, as a statue, as a fountain, etc. The girl, in order to enjoy her outrageously vast inheritance, would have to endure similar bondage. I wrote quite extensively on the subject, going into great detail over each imprisoning contraption, and dissecting her gradual metamorphosis. All very enjoyable, but not nearly satisfying enough for me. I needed more.
I pulled out my sketch pad and drew out illustrations of the images salaciously tantalizing my mind. Contorted feminine bodies, held tightly by wicked bindings, forcing their forms into extreme curvatures and postures. Each drawing progressed the captured female towards a greater reduction of identity and autonomy. I'd stare at the page, stimulated by both the bold and shocking portrayal and the parade of ladies galloping by the windows of the cafe where i sat. I compared the two contrasting exhibitions: One had the girl restrained and manipulated, while the other was a free form of lithe limbs and flowing fabrics. Sitting there, i realized there was only one way i could find satisfaction.
------------------------------------------------------------------
She came into my study to ask a general question about my plans for the day. I smiled because it just so happened that i was about to embark on my plans for the day.
"I'm going to mummify you."
She looked at me with a precious desire to be interested in my agenda but with the body language that lacked the resolve. An embarkation of this sort was the furthest notion in her mind of what to do with her rainy weekend day. Acknowledging her reticence, i proceeded.
I arranged her on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her naked body faced me, legs hanging over the side. I told her to bend her arms closed, laying her palms against her shoulders, which held her elbows aloft and pointed out. I grabbed the readied roll of shrinkwrap and began to encase her folded limbs in tight layers of plastic. Her hands sandwiched against her sternum, giving her the appearance of wings. I rolled the shrinkwrap over her chest, making sure to carve out exposure to her tits. Soon, her upper torso, rising up to her neck was completely cocooned in plastic. I then began to apply strips of black duct tape, which immediately erased the human quality of her features seen through the sheer layers of shrinkwrap. Each strip got meticulous application, to ensure the tightest seal, but to also allow the easiest escape should an emergency arise. Her armless, winged figure sat before me, taunting me with the voluptuous white droplets of her tits, a significant counterpoint to her now, blackened flesh. On to her head.
Her head. I always tend to leave this part for last. At this point, her confinement could resemble that of one locked in a nautical life vest - incapacitating, mildly inconvenient. The step of coating her head in thick anonymizing layers always ramps up the objectification. I put between her lips a piece of one inch PVC pipe, cut two inches in length, which had a long leather chord knotted around it, when anchored to the back of her head, holds the piece of pipe in place. I methodically spread constricting layers of plastic over her cranium, which covered up every millimeter of skin. The only access to her upper body remained her mouth held open by the round plastic tube and, of course, her exposed tits.
The first strip of black duct tape went over her shrink wrap-coated eyes, which symbolically put my girl away. I made quick work of the rest of her head, smoothing the foot long segments of tape to the skin-tight plastic skullcap. I coated her entire head and her neck, joining this cocoon with the one on her upper torso. I left the final encapsulating touches to the area where her mouth lay beneath, and the breathing pipe gag jutted out. By the time that i am satisfied with the entombment, there is no visual evidence of a human girl lying beneath these multiple layers. No, what remains is my transformed fucktoy.
I left the fucktoy lie for a period of time, returning to the work that had my attention when my girl had initially interrupted. I checked on the stationary object every ten minutes, to monitor all vital signs. A half hour into this session, i carried a digital camera with me on my rounds. I took a dozen photos of the inanimate toy lying completely still, breathing a heavy gust through the black tube of a mouth. The thing i enjoyed the most about taking these photos was due to her complete sensory deprivation, my girl had no clue i was clicking away with a camera until i showed her a few hours after her release. I put the camera within a few inches of the toy's face, and it gave no indication of sensing the flash exploding all over its black duct tape epidermal. I left the toy lying there a bit longer.
No longer able nor willing to withhold myself, i re-entered the room where my toy lay, surveying the state of its immobilization. I pulled back the covers that had served to keep the toy warm, exposing its naked, glistening cunt into the open air. I ratcheted up a vibrating g-spot stimulator, touching it to the exposed flesh of my toy's tits. I moved it quickly to the folds of the moist vulva pointing up at me. Parting the thick fleshy lips, i moved the vibrating penetration deep inside, pushing it up against the thick, spongy g-spot. My fucktoy reacted, lifting its hips in the air, its winged limbs fluttering a momentary desperation. I reached for a bullet-sized vibrator, applying this to my fucktoy's blushing and engorged clitoris. I palmed the large intruder, stroking it against the hungry internal humpspot, while tracing circles around the flaming pink mound of skin with the vibrating bullet. Locating a rhythm, i rode my toy with this onslaught until it erupted into hip-thrusting convulsions. I spoke to the thing jerking in my hands, asking it if it was my hole, my fuckslut, my cunt. Gasps of exasperated accord and exclamation burst out of the plastic tube jutting out of my toy's mouth.
I withdrew all mechanical forms of stimulation off of the throbbing sex organ, watching the tape-encased form shudder beneath me with erotic confinement. I pulled out my own erect and throbbing member, and extrapolated punctuation on what was the cap of an entirely fulfilling afternoon.
I leave the reader with the following two photos that document a little of what i enjoyed this afternoon (touched up for aesthetic reasons).
I took pen to paper. I started crafting a narrative involving the most convoluted story about a girl who inherits an estate, but in order to qualify for it, she must live precisely like the person who had bequeathed it to her. Of course, as was wont to happen in the Victorian era, it turns out this person lived her life as a household object, constantly confined to some body-entombing sarcophagi - as a lamp, as a table, as a statue, as a fountain, etc. The girl, in order to enjoy her outrageously vast inheritance, would have to endure similar bondage. I wrote quite extensively on the subject, going into great detail over each imprisoning contraption, and dissecting her gradual metamorphosis. All very enjoyable, but not nearly satisfying enough for me. I needed more.
I pulled out my sketch pad and drew out illustrations of the images salaciously tantalizing my mind. Contorted feminine bodies, held tightly by wicked bindings, forcing their forms into extreme curvatures and postures. Each drawing progressed the captured female towards a greater reduction of identity and autonomy. I'd stare at the page, stimulated by both the bold and shocking portrayal and the parade of ladies galloping by the windows of the cafe where i sat. I compared the two contrasting exhibitions: One had the girl restrained and manipulated, while the other was a free form of lithe limbs and flowing fabrics. Sitting there, i realized there was only one way i could find satisfaction.
------------------------------------------------------------------
She came into my study to ask a general question about my plans for the day. I smiled because it just so happened that i was about to embark on my plans for the day.
"I'm going to mummify you."
She looked at me with a precious desire to be interested in my agenda but with the body language that lacked the resolve. An embarkation of this sort was the furthest notion in her mind of what to do with her rainy weekend day. Acknowledging her reticence, i proceeded.
I arranged her on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her naked body faced me, legs hanging over the side. I told her to bend her arms closed, laying her palms against her shoulders, which held her elbows aloft and pointed out. I grabbed the readied roll of shrinkwrap and began to encase her folded limbs in tight layers of plastic. Her hands sandwiched against her sternum, giving her the appearance of wings. I rolled the shrinkwrap over her chest, making sure to carve out exposure to her tits. Soon, her upper torso, rising up to her neck was completely cocooned in plastic. I then began to apply strips of black duct tape, which immediately erased the human quality of her features seen through the sheer layers of shrinkwrap. Each strip got meticulous application, to ensure the tightest seal, but to also allow the easiest escape should an emergency arise. Her armless, winged figure sat before me, taunting me with the voluptuous white droplets of her tits, a significant counterpoint to her now, blackened flesh. On to her head.
Her head. I always tend to leave this part for last. At this point, her confinement could resemble that of one locked in a nautical life vest - incapacitating, mildly inconvenient. The step of coating her head in thick anonymizing layers always ramps up the objectification. I put between her lips a piece of one inch PVC pipe, cut two inches in length, which had a long leather chord knotted around it, when anchored to the back of her head, holds the piece of pipe in place. I methodically spread constricting layers of plastic over her cranium, which covered up every millimeter of skin. The only access to her upper body remained her mouth held open by the round plastic tube and, of course, her exposed tits.
The first strip of black duct tape went over her shrink wrap-coated eyes, which symbolically put my girl away. I made quick work of the rest of her head, smoothing the foot long segments of tape to the skin-tight plastic skullcap. I coated her entire head and her neck, joining this cocoon with the one on her upper torso. I left the final encapsulating touches to the area where her mouth lay beneath, and the breathing pipe gag jutted out. By the time that i am satisfied with the entombment, there is no visual evidence of a human girl lying beneath these multiple layers. No, what remains is my transformed fucktoy.
I left the fucktoy lie for a period of time, returning to the work that had my attention when my girl had initially interrupted. I checked on the stationary object every ten minutes, to monitor all vital signs. A half hour into this session, i carried a digital camera with me on my rounds. I took a dozen photos of the inanimate toy lying completely still, breathing a heavy gust through the black tube of a mouth. The thing i enjoyed the most about taking these photos was due to her complete sensory deprivation, my girl had no clue i was clicking away with a camera until i showed her a few hours after her release. I put the camera within a few inches of the toy's face, and it gave no indication of sensing the flash exploding all over its black duct tape epidermal. I left the toy lying there a bit longer.
No longer able nor willing to withhold myself, i re-entered the room where my toy lay, surveying the state of its immobilization. I pulled back the covers that had served to keep the toy warm, exposing its naked, glistening cunt into the open air. I ratcheted up a vibrating g-spot stimulator, touching it to the exposed flesh of my toy's tits. I moved it quickly to the folds of the moist vulva pointing up at me. Parting the thick fleshy lips, i moved the vibrating penetration deep inside, pushing it up against the thick, spongy g-spot. My fucktoy reacted, lifting its hips in the air, its winged limbs fluttering a momentary desperation. I reached for a bullet-sized vibrator, applying this to my fucktoy's blushing and engorged clitoris. I palmed the large intruder, stroking it against the hungry internal humpspot, while tracing circles around the flaming pink mound of skin with the vibrating bullet. Locating a rhythm, i rode my toy with this onslaught until it erupted into hip-thrusting convulsions. I spoke to the thing jerking in my hands, asking it if it was my hole, my fuckslut, my cunt. Gasps of exasperated accord and exclamation burst out of the plastic tube jutting out of my toy's mouth.
I withdrew all mechanical forms of stimulation off of the throbbing sex organ, watching the tape-encased form shudder beneath me with erotic confinement. I pulled out my own erect and throbbing member, and extrapolated punctuation on what was the cap of an entirely fulfilling afternoon.
I leave the reader with the following two photos that document a little of what i enjoyed this afternoon (touched up for aesthetic reasons).
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Kiss and makeup
As i was doing my girl's eye makeup this morning, it occurred to me the oddity this would appear as to someone should they wander into my home. I don't always do her makeup, she's quite adept at it, but there are times when she's going for a particular complex effect or i get an itch to do it.
Exploring my fascination with transformation in my youth brought me to the art of makeup. I've mentioned many times how i enjoyed watching the females in my life dab their creams, powders and rouges onto their faces. It was a genuine pasttime of mine, where my mom would signal the commencement of her ritual by playing her favorite Ella Fitzgerald record, which she only listened to while getting ready. I'd hear the first few notes of "April in Paris", rush into her vanity, sit myself in the corner and just gaze. The process a female takes to enhance, diminish, and shape her features took on a metaphysical and meditative allure for me. Whenever we went to bookstores, the makeup books were always a popular destination for my thumbs to flick through. I probably read Making Faces more than 50 odd times. I soon set to memory names like Max Factor, Ben Nye, and my favorite, Joe Blasco.
When i learned that the fantastical animals, horrifying monsters, and adorable imps that fluttered throughout my favorite movies were the product of genius makeup artists like Mr. Blasco, i was ecstatic! The mere idea of exacting physical alteration from a human to a hideous creature or beast by simply applying a palette of grease paint and latex prosthetics stunned me. I read every book from my local library on the topic of special effects makeup. Needing more resources, i would walk to this store called Barnes and Noble that had just opened up. Their policy of letting customers grab a pile of materials and read through them in the comfortable chairs they provided allowed me to explore nearly every issue of Fangoria and Cinefantastique. I quickly realized that the kind of effects that infatuated me were called "creature makeup", as opposed to the gory techniques. I gobbled up all of this print information, studying and memorizing the various techniques, but i felt like i was missing something. Seeing the images of makeup transformations and reading the descriptions that guided you through the process had limits to their effectiveness as learning methods. I needed to see the process firsthand. One day, i was over at my best friend's house, he pulled out his older brother's recently purchased laser disc of Michael Jackson's Thriller. On it had the complete "making of", including the segment that detailed Jackson's transformation into a werewolf.
Seeing those red letters spelling out the word "Metamorphosis" to this day still gives me chills.
"You put this thing on, and you slowly metamorphosize into this whole other person. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you can't help but let the whole mood and the character come to life. You can see the way it should walk, the way it should react, the way it should move."
At this point, Michael Jackson roars at his reflection in the mirror and then turns to the camera, signalling that the beast has taken over. I watched this segment ten times, that night alone. Over the years, i have probably viewed it in the hundreds. With a single explosion of kinetic energy, it grabbed me in my chest, filling it with a passionate insatiable urge. I practiced the appliance of makeup on myself (when i didn't have a model) and others constantly, feeling the electricity of creation bolting from my fingertips whenever i did. For Halloween, my friends fought to have me master their transfiguration. I also did all of the cosmetics for my female friends before formal dances, and would later utilize these skills in the theatre department in college.
I considered pursuing it as a career, but i chose not to for a few reasons; the largest being my response to transformation. I had such a sexual reaction to doing someone's makeup, that i couldn't imagine it going over well with my model as she sat in the chair while i stood next to her with a raging erection bulging in my pants. I felt satisfied relegating this hobby of mine to the intimate relationships i had.
Now i get my thrills from applying my girl's false eyelashes, lacing her corset or giving her lips an overly full look. I get a kiss as thanks, but what really gratifies me is the chance to play a part in a perpetual transformation.
Exploring my fascination with transformation in my youth brought me to the art of makeup. I've mentioned many times how i enjoyed watching the females in my life dab their creams, powders and rouges onto their faces. It was a genuine pasttime of mine, where my mom would signal the commencement of her ritual by playing her favorite Ella Fitzgerald record, which she only listened to while getting ready. I'd hear the first few notes of "April in Paris", rush into her vanity, sit myself in the corner and just gaze. The process a female takes to enhance, diminish, and shape her features took on a metaphysical and meditative allure for me. Whenever we went to bookstores, the makeup books were always a popular destination for my thumbs to flick through. I probably read Making Faces more than 50 odd times. I soon set to memory names like Max Factor, Ben Nye, and my favorite, Joe Blasco.
When i learned that the fantastical animals, horrifying monsters, and adorable imps that fluttered throughout my favorite movies were the product of genius makeup artists like Mr. Blasco, i was ecstatic! The mere idea of exacting physical alteration from a human to a hideous creature or beast by simply applying a palette of grease paint and latex prosthetics stunned me. I read every book from my local library on the topic of special effects makeup. Needing more resources, i would walk to this store called Barnes and Noble that had just opened up. Their policy of letting customers grab a pile of materials and read through them in the comfortable chairs they provided allowed me to explore nearly every issue of Fangoria and Cinefantastique. I quickly realized that the kind of effects that infatuated me were called "creature makeup", as opposed to the gory techniques. I gobbled up all of this print information, studying and memorizing the various techniques, but i felt like i was missing something. Seeing the images of makeup transformations and reading the descriptions that guided you through the process had limits to their effectiveness as learning methods. I needed to see the process firsthand. One day, i was over at my best friend's house, he pulled out his older brother's recently purchased laser disc of Michael Jackson's Thriller. On it had the complete "making of", including the segment that detailed Jackson's transformation into a werewolf.
Seeing those red letters spelling out the word "Metamorphosis" to this day still gives me chills.
"You put this thing on, and you slowly metamorphosize into this whole other person. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you can't help but let the whole mood and the character come to life. You can see the way it should walk, the way it should react, the way it should move."
At this point, Michael Jackson roars at his reflection in the mirror and then turns to the camera, signalling that the beast has taken over. I watched this segment ten times, that night alone. Over the years, i have probably viewed it in the hundreds. With a single explosion of kinetic energy, it grabbed me in my chest, filling it with a passionate insatiable urge. I practiced the appliance of makeup on myself (when i didn't have a model) and others constantly, feeling the electricity of creation bolting from my fingertips whenever i did. For Halloween, my friends fought to have me master their transfiguration. I also did all of the cosmetics for my female friends before formal dances, and would later utilize these skills in the theatre department in college.
I considered pursuing it as a career, but i chose not to for a few reasons; the largest being my response to transformation. I had such a sexual reaction to doing someone's makeup, that i couldn't imagine it going over well with my model as she sat in the chair while i stood next to her with a raging erection bulging in my pants. I felt satisfied relegating this hobby of mine to the intimate relationships i had.
Now i get my thrills from applying my girl's false eyelashes, lacing her corset or giving her lips an overly full look. I get a kiss as thanks, but what really gratifies me is the chance to play a part in a perpetual transformation.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I'd like to issue a correction
I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
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