...is that of a woman and my reaction to her.
He was so politically saavy. He had to be, to have held office as long as he had. Over 40 years. I was young and brash when i decided to go up against him. I thought that i had more than those hundreds of others who'd tried to topple him but failed. He completely embarassed me. He not only embarassed me, he handicapped me for several years, undoing so much progress i'd made in my own political career, sending me back to the land of the bureaucrat.
One night, following my political defeat, i was attending a civic party just like any other. The Mayor would ask us to stand by him as he gave his remarks on whatever token issue he had chosen to highlight that evening in front of the press. Then, we would be dispersed to mingle among the crowd, spreading the good word about our faithful civil servants. I decided to bide my time as close to the East Wing open bar for as long as possible, camping there out of sight of any mayoral staffers. Out of the side of my eye, a delicious young sandy blonde caught my attention, saddling up to the bar. I noticed she asked for two drinks. I asked her if she needed help. She politely declined, adding,"My husband prefers my company solely." Point taken. I followed her disembarkment from the bar, as she slid along the floor full of the city's socialites. Her final destination stunned me into a near paralysis. I couldn't believe the fortune that my revenge had just leaned her elbows up against the polished mahogany next to me. She handed the second drink to the very man who'd gleefully wrecked my name in public.
Through various channels, i found my way to her. She knew who i was, and i knew, now, who she was. We dispensed very quickly of the need for proper protocol as recent political combatants. I set the terms of my engagement early. I wanted to use her to get at him. She indulged my desire for one, as-of-yet, unpublicized reason: the man was completely impotent. Due to a bout with cancer (also unpublicized), he had lost his ability to perform any sexual act, meaning he'd completely lost his libido. This would explain his rampant voracity for political slaughter in the later years. For her part, she was caught. She didn't want to leave him because she genuinely loved him, but she also needed satisfaction in addition to retribution for his failure to disclose his handicap before they were legally bound to eachother. The situation kept on getting sweeter and sweeter.
At first, i played with her in mildly sadistic fashions. I would call her up, insisting that she be in bed with him next to her, as she played with herself. In the early stages, i just wanted the spectre of her masturbation to hang in the air. I didn't want her to make any noises or motions to draw his attention. As time progressed, i instructed her to let out soft moans, just low enough for him to hear her. This filled me with such dastardly joy. I didn't know if it bothered him, but i had a sense that he was experiencing a level of humiliation that his young, sexpot of a bride was taking care of maintenance he was no longer equipped to manage. That sense went away pretty quickly. I came to learn that i didn't know if it was humiliating him like i'd hoped. Yet, more importantly, i didn't stop escalating the degredation with his sexy, unfulfilled wife.
If pressed, i attribute it to her incredible snottiness. She was a bitch of the highest class. I loved toppling her. I would devise scenarios where she would be forced to engage in awfully humiliating public scenes. I'd instruct her, the very public wife of the very powerfully connected senior political figure, to go to a shoe store wearing a skirt and no panties, with the objective to flash the poor, unsuspecting salesman as many times as possible. My absolute favorite was when i commanded her to travel to my offices downtown in nothing but a trenchcoat and heels, well knowing that she would have to go through the metal detectors and security checkpoints just to get past the lobby. Once on my floor, she was to slowly walk to my office with her coat lowered onto her bare shoulders, only to come inside and spend the rest of the day posed underneath my desk, with her head between my legs.
As time moved on, i realized this wasn't about revenge against the Old Man. Our's was a battle on the field of politics, and he had performed more valiantly and won. I fought a different battle with her. It stemmed from my view that the greatest inconvenience i've ever experienced is that of a woman and my reaction to her.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Holding her for ransom
Even i am a realistic man. I recognize that there are some fantasies that are not feasible. I'm someone who cringes at the statement: "Some things are best left as fantasies." I've always caustically railed against that. Speaks of laziness, fear, perhaps even self-doubt. Besides, most people who i've heard utter this remark offer fantasies that i deem tame enough to attempt (i.e none of them have the fantasy of making a bridge of foreskin across the English Channel). I believe rather than dismiss your fantasy as poison one should never consume, recognize it for the native energy and passion that it is, having been borne from your thoughts and neuroses. That being said, i am a realistic man. I have a rather intricate (read: detail-heavy) and therefore nearly impossible fantasy (read: too much propensity to spin out of my control).
I want to kidnap my girl.
I remember when i first learned of the Patty Hearst kidnapping, and the term "Stockholm syndrome", the idea of abducting someone, torturing them to the point where they would eventually offer you their allegiance and loyalty, something stirred very deep within me. I admit to feeling this same way when i've heard on the news of other females kidnapped (and thankfully not harmed). I viewed it as an exercise in absolute surrender. She, my victim, would be forced to, as a way to preserve herself, exist how i wanted her to, how i allowed her to, eventually losing what she had hoped to defend.
I recognized this was a dark, dark fantasy, but i also realized i never wanted to indulge in this without the victim's consent. It only sustained any of its stimulation at the point where i assumed all victims exhibited signs of the "Stockholm syndrome". Present a danger (the abduction, any weaponry used to enforce it), and practice heroism (spare her, show mercy, etc.) and she will gladly do your bidding. This was SM 101, as far as i was concerned.
Many obstacles exist for me to attempt in full glorious technicolor my kidnapping scenario. First of all, we live in a day and age (i.e. war on terror) where our neighbors' attentions are piqued for suspicious behavior. There have been enough times where, as a result of the heightened security, i have been put under unnecessary scrutiny by the TSA to save me and my girl from our own vacationing kinky perversions. I don't even want to test my common citizen's ability to absorb the latest crime-fighting tactics they've viewed on television. Secondly, I do not own a car. Transporting my victim would laughably be reliant upon public transportation or a hired car, which means transporting a bound, gagged and blindfolded damsel may arouse some severe alarm from even the most disinterested livery driver. Thirdly, this scenario seeps heavily with roleplay. I am not acting as my girl's dominant. Instead, i am a complete stranger, a fugitive who must create the possible fear that implies i may mean harm, and she must dissolve into this character, be it the 'bank teller, the 'school marm', the 'traffic cop' or whatever.
Accepting these limitations, i have assembled a decent collection of kidnapped-inspired sessions ranging from interrogation scenes to bouts of torture until she broke down. The most recent took place on an innocuous weekend afternoon, where my girl was lazing on the couch in the calm air of a gentle and mild day.
I snuck up behind her, and thrust a pillow case over her head, quickly securing it in place with a locking wire strap (the plastic kind cops use in place of metal handcuffs) i tightened around her neck. i pushed her over onto her belly, and held her arms above her head, as she squirmed, fighting against my aggression; shocked, uncertain, and definitely a little petrified. I ripped off her shirt, pulling it over her hooded head. I quickly removed her bra, tossing that to the floor. I lassoed her wrists down behind her back with one tight strap. I affixed another just below her elbows, squashing them together. I pulled her upto her feet, then walked her down along the hallway to the back room. I held her up as she stumbled along the way, gasping through the pillowcase, to the point where a moist oval darkened the spot where her mouth lay beneath the fabric. I threw her on top of the bed, onto her stomach, then pulled off her skirt and now completely damp panties. Bending her legs up behind her, i pulled out two more wire straps and bound her ankles to where they rested on her thighs.
I didn't say a single word to her the entire time.
I took my time retrieving a knife, letting the chain of events sink in. A period of eight minutes passed. I could hear the sweet evidence of her struggle while in the other room. The first thing i did upon my return was to lace another strap in between her lips and around the back of her head, gagging her, pulling more of the cotton pillowcase into her mouth, further heightening the stakes. I stood over her, giving space to a silence that separated her from i.
I reached out and touched her naked form. She jerked. I ran my hand up and down her side, letting my fingers trace the spectrum of her curves. I replaced my fingers with the single, thin blade of the knife, dragging the sharp surface gently across her flesh. She jerked again. Her minute gyrations told me she could tell the difference between these two implements. I turned the point into her side, pressing with a little force until she took notice and stopped. I traced the sharp metal down to her thighs, reaching the knee, then boomeranging back up to her bound ankles. I spread her legs wider, to reveal her glistening cunt and quivering fuckhole.
She could feel where i'd turned my focus, pondering the weapon in my hand, and could not contain the unwillingness to let this proceed without protest. She pleaded through her gag, straining all the muscles in her hips and thighs. I slapped her hard on her ass cheek. She froze. I drew a sinister line with the knife along her inner thigh, upto the darker flesh of her mound. She held onto any reflexes that might move her opening as i traced around it, alternating between softer and harder touches. I spread her glistening lips with the blade, looking deep into the heaving slit. With a flick of the wrist, i ran the blunt edge against her asshole and up her crack. She yelped. I slapped the flesh of her butt three times. I lubed up her asshole, then quickly forced a medium-sized buttplug inside, which appropriately did not receive any objections.
I left her again, to let her body adjust to the penetration, further sinking her into subliminal despair. I'd return shortly, pulling her open crotch to just the edge of the bed, to claim my ransom.
I want to kidnap my girl.
I remember when i first learned of the Patty Hearst kidnapping, and the term "Stockholm syndrome", the idea of abducting someone, torturing them to the point where they would eventually offer you their allegiance and loyalty, something stirred very deep within me. I admit to feeling this same way when i've heard on the news of other females kidnapped (and thankfully not harmed). I viewed it as an exercise in absolute surrender. She, my victim, would be forced to, as a way to preserve herself, exist how i wanted her to, how i allowed her to, eventually losing what she had hoped to defend.
I recognized this was a dark, dark fantasy, but i also realized i never wanted to indulge in this without the victim's consent. It only sustained any of its stimulation at the point where i assumed all victims exhibited signs of the "Stockholm syndrome". Present a danger (the abduction, any weaponry used to enforce it), and practice heroism (spare her, show mercy, etc.) and she will gladly do your bidding. This was SM 101, as far as i was concerned.
Many obstacles exist for me to attempt in full glorious technicolor my kidnapping scenario. First of all, we live in a day and age (i.e. war on terror) where our neighbors' attentions are piqued for suspicious behavior. There have been enough times where, as a result of the heightened security, i have been put under unnecessary scrutiny by the TSA to save me and my girl from our own vacationing kinky perversions. I don't even want to test my common citizen's ability to absorb the latest crime-fighting tactics they've viewed on television. Secondly, I do not own a car. Transporting my victim would laughably be reliant upon public transportation or a hired car, which means transporting a bound, gagged and blindfolded damsel may arouse some severe alarm from even the most disinterested livery driver. Thirdly, this scenario seeps heavily with roleplay. I am not acting as my girl's dominant. Instead, i am a complete stranger, a fugitive who must create the possible fear that implies i may mean harm, and she must dissolve into this character, be it the 'bank teller, the 'school marm', the 'traffic cop' or whatever.
Accepting these limitations, i have assembled a decent collection of kidnapped-inspired sessions ranging from interrogation scenes to bouts of torture until she broke down. The most recent took place on an innocuous weekend afternoon, where my girl was lazing on the couch in the calm air of a gentle and mild day.
I snuck up behind her, and thrust a pillow case over her head, quickly securing it in place with a locking wire strap (the plastic kind cops use in place of metal handcuffs) i tightened around her neck. i pushed her over onto her belly, and held her arms above her head, as she squirmed, fighting against my aggression; shocked, uncertain, and definitely a little petrified. I ripped off her shirt, pulling it over her hooded head. I quickly removed her bra, tossing that to the floor. I lassoed her wrists down behind her back with one tight strap. I affixed another just below her elbows, squashing them together. I pulled her upto her feet, then walked her down along the hallway to the back room. I held her up as she stumbled along the way, gasping through the pillowcase, to the point where a moist oval darkened the spot where her mouth lay beneath the fabric. I threw her on top of the bed, onto her stomach, then pulled off her skirt and now completely damp panties. Bending her legs up behind her, i pulled out two more wire straps and bound her ankles to where they rested on her thighs.
I didn't say a single word to her the entire time.
I took my time retrieving a knife, letting the chain of events sink in. A period of eight minutes passed. I could hear the sweet evidence of her struggle while in the other room. The first thing i did upon my return was to lace another strap in between her lips and around the back of her head, gagging her, pulling more of the cotton pillowcase into her mouth, further heightening the stakes. I stood over her, giving space to a silence that separated her from i.
I reached out and touched her naked form. She jerked. I ran my hand up and down her side, letting my fingers trace the spectrum of her curves. I replaced my fingers with the single, thin blade of the knife, dragging the sharp surface gently across her flesh. She jerked again. Her minute gyrations told me she could tell the difference between these two implements. I turned the point into her side, pressing with a little force until she took notice and stopped. I traced the sharp metal down to her thighs, reaching the knee, then boomeranging back up to her bound ankles. I spread her legs wider, to reveal her glistening cunt and quivering fuckhole.
She could feel where i'd turned my focus, pondering the weapon in my hand, and could not contain the unwillingness to let this proceed without protest. She pleaded through her gag, straining all the muscles in her hips and thighs. I slapped her hard on her ass cheek. She froze. I drew a sinister line with the knife along her inner thigh, upto the darker flesh of her mound. She held onto any reflexes that might move her opening as i traced around it, alternating between softer and harder touches. I spread her glistening lips with the blade, looking deep into the heaving slit. With a flick of the wrist, i ran the blunt edge against her asshole and up her crack. She yelped. I slapped the flesh of her butt three times. I lubed up her asshole, then quickly forced a medium-sized buttplug inside, which appropriately did not receive any objections.
I left her again, to let her body adjust to the penetration, further sinking her into subliminal despair. I'd return shortly, pulling her open crotch to just the edge of the bed, to claim my ransom.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Compromise
Most of my encounters with June followed the routine set in our first date. I'd provide guidelines for how she should dress, introducing a different hurdle each time. I would spend a few moments deriding her ineptitude, then leave in disgust. I noticed, however, over time, she was slowly starting to resemble the image i'd conjured from our initial crossing at her office.
We'd met for the very first time at the architectural firm she worked. I was there for a meeting to go over the project with the rest of the design team i was overseeing, when during the presentation of final plans, June came bursting into the conference room. She pulled the head architect out of the huddle, frantically explaining to him her "needs immediate attention" crisis. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was stunning.
Working in a field populated largely by men, it is rare to encounter a female who sits amongst the elite ranks of the highly skilled. It is even rarer that this female have obliteratingly potent looks. Upon her head sat raven black hair, which pulled tightly into a bun showed off the sleek, attractive shape of her skull. She wore a grey, wool skirt suit that spoke in a modest way about the boundless curves beneath it, with ash-colored stockings and black stiletto heels. She looked up once from her pow-wow to see me piercing her with my eyes. We didn't speak a word.
Later, after the meeting, i approached the architect she'd spoken with, asking for her name. When a week had passed, I called her. Contrasting this image with the one i'd seen put together on our dates told me the prey sought to draw out the chase. This gave me an idea for our next encounter.
"I can't dress like that."
I knew she would say this, Her modesty continued to serve as her overbearing chaperone.
"Then, there is no reason for us to see eachother again." I spoke very assuredly. A premature shriek caught in her throat. This both thrilled me and pained me to say. I felt so much desire to see her again, but i knew i had to make this gamble, "Well? I'm waiting...don't waste my time on the phone if there is no sense in this."
"Please - give me some time. I just need some time." Her words sounded rushed, abrupt.
"Will you do it?"
"...yes..." She said this with the smallest amount of breath needed to generate a sound.
"Do what?"
"What you said."
"I need you to repeat it. Exactly like i've told you to."
"God...skirt, heels. No - no....no panties." The delivery of the last word made me smile. "You're an awful, awful person."
"I know." And i did. But hearing her pronounce it made me understand her acceptance of our contract. I would make sure to get to the restaurant early, in order to pick out the perfect table for the presentation.
We'd met for the very first time at the architectural firm she worked. I was there for a meeting to go over the project with the rest of the design team i was overseeing, when during the presentation of final plans, June came bursting into the conference room. She pulled the head architect out of the huddle, frantically explaining to him her "needs immediate attention" crisis. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was stunning.
Working in a field populated largely by men, it is rare to encounter a female who sits amongst the elite ranks of the highly skilled. It is even rarer that this female have obliteratingly potent looks. Upon her head sat raven black hair, which pulled tightly into a bun showed off the sleek, attractive shape of her skull. She wore a grey, wool skirt suit that spoke in a modest way about the boundless curves beneath it, with ash-colored stockings and black stiletto heels. She looked up once from her pow-wow to see me piercing her with my eyes. We didn't speak a word.
Later, after the meeting, i approached the architect she'd spoken with, asking for her name. When a week had passed, I called her. Contrasting this image with the one i'd seen put together on our dates told me the prey sought to draw out the chase. This gave me an idea for our next encounter.
"I can't dress like that."
I knew she would say this, Her modesty continued to serve as her overbearing chaperone.
"Then, there is no reason for us to see eachother again." I spoke very assuredly. A premature shriek caught in her throat. This both thrilled me and pained me to say. I felt so much desire to see her again, but i knew i had to make this gamble, "Well? I'm waiting...don't waste my time on the phone if there is no sense in this."
"Please - give me some time. I just need some time." Her words sounded rushed, abrupt.
"Will you do it?"
"...yes..." She said this with the smallest amount of breath needed to generate a sound.
"Do what?"
"What you said."
"I need you to repeat it. Exactly like i've told you to."
"God...skirt, heels. No - no....no panties." The delivery of the last word made me smile. "You're an awful, awful person."
"I know." And i did. But hearing her pronounce it made me understand her acceptance of our contract. I would make sure to get to the restaurant early, in order to pick out the perfect table for the presentation.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Worshipping post-erior
She says she needs it. This is not her parroting a phrase I have commanded her to repeat. She offers this out of her own demented, hungry volition.
“I really need a spanking.”
There’s that tone again. She asks where I want her: At the end of the bed, standing, legs spread, holding onto the frame. Skirt raised over her hips.
I examine her delicate ass, each geodetic cheek tensely held at attention. I do not forget the voyage it took to get her here. How three years ago, she’d never once been swatted, even by her own parents. How she blushed from her southern to her northern pole when I first positioned myself behind her, slowly pulling her frilly underthings down around her knees. How numerous stern corrections were uttered, directing her to “stick it out”, “point it at me”, “bend it upward”, until she knew exactly how I wanted it displayed. How on those days where she could not maintain position, I would have to pause to bind her hands to the frame and lock a spreader bar on her ankles. I don’t forget any of this. I merely proceed to act as one who’s made careful modifications on the proper behavior of his toy, and worship her ass.
I rub my hand over her satiny skin, noting to occasionally scrape across her flesh with my blunt thumbnail. I pull apart the two backside mounds, and look at her hidden, violet bud. Coming to one knee, I kiss her right cheek, taking in the perfume of her freshly cleaned body as if it were the original purpose of my sense of smell.
Sweat, the kind found behind skin that lays against skin.
Warmth, epidermis heated by her response to this attention.
Sweetness, her unique offering that titillates the taste buds on the tip of my tongue.
I linger here. Instead of following the protocol that one does at a busy art museum, I stand right in front of the object and stare, hogging the best view for myself. I suddenly notice her breath. It comes in stutters. I touch her right cheek with my palm, then swiftly pull it off, throwing it back into the air behind me. She winces. Her ass clenches, revealing the dimples on the inner, lower half of each side. I slap my hand hard against her backside, splashing heat across her skin. I wait, making no noise, in order to hear her groaning surrender.
I then continue with fulfilling her need.
*this continues on here
“I really need a spanking.”
There’s that tone again. She asks where I want her: At the end of the bed, standing, legs spread, holding onto the frame. Skirt raised over her hips.
I examine her delicate ass, each geodetic cheek tensely held at attention. I do not forget the voyage it took to get her here. How three years ago, she’d never once been swatted, even by her own parents. How she blushed from her southern to her northern pole when I first positioned myself behind her, slowly pulling her frilly underthings down around her knees. How numerous stern corrections were uttered, directing her to “stick it out”, “point it at me”, “bend it upward”, until she knew exactly how I wanted it displayed. How on those days where she could not maintain position, I would have to pause to bind her hands to the frame and lock a spreader bar on her ankles. I don’t forget any of this. I merely proceed to act as one who’s made careful modifications on the proper behavior of his toy, and worship her ass.
I rub my hand over her satiny skin, noting to occasionally scrape across her flesh with my blunt thumbnail. I pull apart the two backside mounds, and look at her hidden, violet bud. Coming to one knee, I kiss her right cheek, taking in the perfume of her freshly cleaned body as if it were the original purpose of my sense of smell.
Sweat, the kind found behind skin that lays against skin.
Warmth, epidermis heated by her response to this attention.
Sweetness, her unique offering that titillates the taste buds on the tip of my tongue.
I linger here. Instead of following the protocol that one does at a busy art museum, I stand right in front of the object and stare, hogging the best view for myself. I suddenly notice her breath. It comes in stutters. I touch her right cheek with my palm, then swiftly pull it off, throwing it back into the air behind me. She winces. Her ass clenches, revealing the dimples on the inner, lower half of each side. I slap my hand hard against her backside, splashing heat across her skin. I wait, making no noise, in order to hear her groaning surrender.
I then continue with fulfilling her need.
*this continues on here
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exhibition
Our first date, June insisted that we meet in a very public place. The entire date was to happen as we eyed eachother while sitting on facing benches, right in the middle of the heavy rush hour traffic of the train station. When she had suggested we meet there, after asking her where she would feel safest, i grinned to myself as i held onto the phone. The obvious security she'd feel in such a venue didn't make me feel defensive or creepy. I liked that she felt the need to put up safety measures, but i wasn't certain from who she was protecting herself.
As one of my favorite pastimes, I had spent many hours in peaceful solitude anchored to a seat in the veranda of the depot, just watching people. I'd watch them walk, the way they stepped their feet down, how they shifted their bodies to avoid oncoming pedestrians. The pageantry of flowing bodies fascinated me, and i found myself thrilled to be a pebble in the midst of it as a static witness. I knew that June felt the same way, but as shy as she tried to pretend she was, she also wanted the attention and eyes of those who walked by. June was an exhibitionist.
When she finally arrived, she was wearing many more layers than the hot weather demanded. She rushed in, late, flustered and incredibly apologetic, offering both vocal and postural penance. I knew all of this was on purpose. She'd spend the next 30 minutes of our rendez-vous sweating, fidgeting, fanning her face with her hands, then eventually peeling an article or two of clothing off. She wasn't attempting a civic and pathetically clumsy striptease. She sought the endurance of being humiliated, degraded and put in severe discomfort while the hundreds of eyes that hurried by looked at her in pity. Recognizing this desire of hers, a very familiar hunger rose up inside of me. I became quite merciless.
I didn't say anything for the next ten minutes, staring at her quietly behind tersely held eyes. I watched her body give over to the abuse she was putting it through, changing right in front of me. Not one to carry a conversation on her own, June fumbled through her explanation for why she'd arrived late. Ignoring her pleas for polite forgiveness, i eyed her appearance with disgust.
I leaned forward, putting my head right at her shoulder and sniffed heavily through my nose. I let her scent take root in my nostrils for a few seconds, then whispered into her ear.
"You smell...dirty. Couldn't you even stay clean enough to last through our date? You reek like a filthy, desperate slut."
She sucked in a pocket of air through her mouth. Her face reddened as her shoulders rolled into her lap, shrinking her already minute frame. Clearly, she'd given her appearance some effort, but was it the effort of someone who only had so much to offer or that of someone who hoped to be called on her shortcomings.
I got up from the bench and left her sitting alone in the train station.
As one of my favorite pastimes, I had spent many hours in peaceful solitude anchored to a seat in the veranda of the depot, just watching people. I'd watch them walk, the way they stepped their feet down, how they shifted their bodies to avoid oncoming pedestrians. The pageantry of flowing bodies fascinated me, and i found myself thrilled to be a pebble in the midst of it as a static witness. I knew that June felt the same way, but as shy as she tried to pretend she was, she also wanted the attention and eyes of those who walked by. June was an exhibitionist.
When she finally arrived, she was wearing many more layers than the hot weather demanded. She rushed in, late, flustered and incredibly apologetic, offering both vocal and postural penance. I knew all of this was on purpose. She'd spend the next 30 minutes of our rendez-vous sweating, fidgeting, fanning her face with her hands, then eventually peeling an article or two of clothing off. She wasn't attempting a civic and pathetically clumsy striptease. She sought the endurance of being humiliated, degraded and put in severe discomfort while the hundreds of eyes that hurried by looked at her in pity. Recognizing this desire of hers, a very familiar hunger rose up inside of me. I became quite merciless.
I didn't say anything for the next ten minutes, staring at her quietly behind tersely held eyes. I watched her body give over to the abuse she was putting it through, changing right in front of me. Not one to carry a conversation on her own, June fumbled through her explanation for why she'd arrived late. Ignoring her pleas for polite forgiveness, i eyed her appearance with disgust.
I leaned forward, putting my head right at her shoulder and sniffed heavily through my nose. I let her scent take root in my nostrils for a few seconds, then whispered into her ear.
"You smell...dirty. Couldn't you even stay clean enough to last through our date? You reek like a filthy, desperate slut."
She sucked in a pocket of air through her mouth. Her face reddened as her shoulders rolled into her lap, shrinking her already minute frame. Clearly, she'd given her appearance some effort, but was it the effort of someone who only had so much to offer or that of someone who hoped to be called on her shortcomings.
I got up from the bench and left her sitting alone in the train station.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Armed and dangerous
When i discovered the art form of bondage (as opposed to merely the functional process i first identified it as), i realized i could achieve transformation with my subject in a shorter but also quicker fashion than say the permanence that body or mental modification achieved. A simple hogtie presents the female in a prone position where she can be used, transported or displayed in a dehumanizing fashion. However, a clumsily constructed tie, with haphazard knots, mismatched, unattractive rope types and sloppy joint wraps eradicated much of any interest i would have in images of bound females. Further expounding on the aesthetic craft found in shibari and Western ropework, as well as resounding with my frenetic attention to details, i resolved to pay as much attention to the precision of the bondage as i did to its rigidity. As a result, whenever i found extraneous leisure time, i drew out precise pose after pose in a notebook i perpetually carried with me. Though each pose differed, there did exist a commonality amongst most of them that demonstrated my tendency to obsess on one theme, riff, riff, repeat, and riff again. The girl's arms were bound behind her back, elbows touching in nearly every graphite sketch.
I've loved the armless look from the day i first saw it portrayed in a strappado on one of the damsels caught in the Marquis de Sade diorama of "Waxworks". The female forced on her tiptoes, lurched over, with the bulk of her weight relying on the fragile shoulders looked like a girl who had refused to show reverence, but now had no choice. I encountered "tamer" versions, and i was struck by how proud this position made the female form appear. With her arms pinned behind her back, her posture had to respond with tall erection, while her tits lifted in the air as if to say "please, take these from me". From behind, the elbows twisted in towards the spine, and the forearms neatly laid against eachother, making the optical illusion that they were designed to do exactly this. I experienced a further debaucherous epiphany upon first seeing the glorious innovation known as the armbinder achieving this same look.
The Armbinder.
I give that wonderful garment its own line just to show my admiration. Also called the mono-glove or single sleeve, i thought this was as attractive as some would think of the 1967 Mustang's front grill or the Star of India sapphire's rutile. Every photo i saw of a girl in an armbinder instantly ignited the sadistic furnaces within which meant i immediately thought only of my pleasure, and dismissed any of the model's discomfort. I soon discovered Ashley Renee, the queen of the armbinder. Photo after photo captured her venus-de-miloed in the most sumptuous way. I especially responded to those images where her eyebrows arched in high consternation at her unseen perpetrator. You could almost make out the liquid "myew" that leaked out of her tightly ball-gagged mouth. The armbinder launched to the top of my must-have list of torture devices.
I encountered a problem when i began searching for one to purchase. Those offered from both online and brick and mortar boutiques failed to pass the muster i'd demanded. They were designed primarily for the gay leather crowd, which meant big forearms, industrial buckles and almost exclusively unappealing black cowhide. These models served merely the functional side to dis-arming a submissive. What was so appealing about the version Ms. Renee wore was the delicacy it treated an incredibly strenuous feat. It accentuated the feminine tinyness of her wrists, her hands, her appendages. It extended the optical illusion that a girl's arms were meant to fold back like that, rather than appear just sloppily lumped behind her. I knew i was going to have to commission one, if i was to find satisfaction.
The search to find an outlet for my request lasted several years. When i finally took my idea to my girl's corsetiere, i didn't know if he made such a thing. You couldn't destroy the grin from my face with a battering ram once he agreed to design one for me. The following weeks, i waited impatiently for his sketch to land in my inbox.
I had the good/mis fortune of catching the movie "Waxworks" that i refer to above.
Good fortune because it was nice to see the scene that captured me at such a young age (Although, i was mistaken in my remembrance. The girl was not placed in a strappado, but merely two steel cuffs dangling from the ceiling - i might add, she placed her hands in the cuffs a little too easily for my modern-day tastes).
Misfortune because i was reminded of the crappy cinema i had to watch all the time just to get glimpses of the way i felt and thought inside. My buddies never could understand why i had to leave the room at the end of this scene (below), even though we'd seen this movie well over 20 times.
For your perusal, i present the Marquis de Sade scene from "Waxworks"
I've loved the armless look from the day i first saw it portrayed in a strappado on one of the damsels caught in the Marquis de Sade diorama of "Waxworks". The female forced on her tiptoes, lurched over, with the bulk of her weight relying on the fragile shoulders looked like a girl who had refused to show reverence, but now had no choice. I encountered "tamer" versions, and i was struck by how proud this position made the female form appear. With her arms pinned behind her back, her posture had to respond with tall erection, while her tits lifted in the air as if to say "please, take these from me". From behind, the elbows twisted in towards the spine, and the forearms neatly laid against eachother, making the optical illusion that they were designed to do exactly this. I experienced a further debaucherous epiphany upon first seeing the glorious innovation known as the armbinder achieving this same look.
The Armbinder.
I give that wonderful garment its own line just to show my admiration. Also called the mono-glove or single sleeve, i thought this was as attractive as some would think of the 1967 Mustang's front grill or the Star of India sapphire's rutile. Every photo i saw of a girl in an armbinder instantly ignited the sadistic furnaces within which meant i immediately thought only of my pleasure, and dismissed any of the model's discomfort. I soon discovered Ashley Renee, the queen of the armbinder. Photo after photo captured her venus-de-miloed in the most sumptuous way. I especially responded to those images where her eyebrows arched in high consternation at her unseen perpetrator. You could almost make out the liquid "myew" that leaked out of her tightly ball-gagged mouth. The armbinder launched to the top of my must-have list of torture devices.
I encountered a problem when i began searching for one to purchase. Those offered from both online and brick and mortar boutiques failed to pass the muster i'd demanded. They were designed primarily for the gay leather crowd, which meant big forearms, industrial buckles and almost exclusively unappealing black cowhide. These models served merely the functional side to dis-arming a submissive. What was so appealing about the version Ms. Renee wore was the delicacy it treated an incredibly strenuous feat. It accentuated the feminine tinyness of her wrists, her hands, her appendages. It extended the optical illusion that a girl's arms were meant to fold back like that, rather than appear just sloppily lumped behind her. I knew i was going to have to commission one, if i was to find satisfaction.
The search to find an outlet for my request lasted several years. When i finally took my idea to my girl's corsetiere, i didn't know if he made such a thing. You couldn't destroy the grin from my face with a battering ram once he agreed to design one for me. The following weeks, i waited impatiently for his sketch to land in my inbox.
He far exceeded my expectations. In addition to the femininity of the sheath for her arms, he incorporated a cupless bustier that would also be stringently boned, which could be removed and worn separately. I added additional straps from the bustier to her glove, another one that circumvented where her elbows would fall, and another that could be pulled around her torso, anchoring the latex device rigidly to her entire body. Through various fittings, we perfected the fit and look, and i was soon the proud father of a wickedly didactic contraption.
She has since worn it numerous times, for my sole pleasure, or for when we have company and she plays the silent barmaid. I however have to remind myself, as i buzz with supreme delight at my victory, that her arms do need to come out at some point.
Addendum 10/12/08I had the good/mis fortune of catching the movie "Waxworks" that i refer to above.
Good fortune because it was nice to see the scene that captured me at such a young age (Although, i was mistaken in my remembrance. The girl was not placed in a strappado, but merely two steel cuffs dangling from the ceiling - i might add, she placed her hands in the cuffs a little too easily for my modern-day tastes).
Misfortune because i was reminded of the crappy cinema i had to watch all the time just to get glimpses of the way i felt and thought inside. My buddies never could understand why i had to leave the room at the end of this scene (below), even though we'd seen this movie well over 20 times.
For your perusal, i present the Marquis de Sade scene from "Waxworks"
Monday, June 11, 2007
Internal affairs
Every summer, the Director of HR comes down to tell me that i've (mysteriously) qualified once again for the annual Regents Internship Program, and that in the next few weeks, i'm to interview the list of candidates whose profiles met my seasonal needs. She will shyly wink at me as i inquire into the "quality" of the crop this year, assuring me that i will find several qualified applicants.
The following two weeks, my secretary will arrange interviews every afternoon from 2-4, wherein i will meet the various candidates who've among all of them, never had experience in an office or department like mine. My secretary, who i would know not what to do with my daily industry were it not for her diligent inspection and filtration of anyone who would try to get a moment of my time, has further whittled down the list to ensure that the right fit will be among them.
Every single person i interview, it should come as no shock, is female.
During each screening, I see a complete spectrum of red tones flushing their cheeks, a display of the various acrobatic skills their fingers have as they nervously twirl them on the conference table, but almost never the whites of their eyes. Out of the handful that i interview, one or two will stand out. They are the ones who tilt their head as they softly but with some grip to it, shake my hand, offering a smile that lifts my gravity up from my ankles. They laugh at my dry humor, and appropriately stifle a forced chuckle when i'm being absurd. They are the ones that stick in my mind, leaving me with an excitement at the idea that they might flit around my office all summer.
Once i've selected the one i want, i have my secretary draft letters to all who came in. Polite dismissals to those who didn't earn the position, and a detailed list of guidelines and expectations to the one who did. And yes, there is a run-down of the dress code i expect.
I do not mention the dress code at all beyond the correspondance they receive in the form of an offer letter, but, not a single intern in the last seven years has failed to comply. There have been those incidents where i know for a fact that the intern was testing my resolve, and i have had to send them home for the day as a result. Some have even gone home crying. But, they've always returned, and by the end of the summer, we've developed quite a deep and sincere rapport. A good handful of my past interns keep in touch with me even to this day (one flattered me two years ago by asking me to walk her down the aisle).
I provide them with an exposure to an office environment, especially one that deals with as diverse a cross-section as government officials, union representatives, stodgy accountants, and high-level management. But something tells me, that's not why i continue to have success with the interns i've selected over the years. There are those days where i will call her into my office, ask her to close the door and just sit in the chair as i work.
She knows why she's there, and so do i.
*this continues on here
The following two weeks, my secretary will arrange interviews every afternoon from 2-4, wherein i will meet the various candidates who've among all of them, never had experience in an office or department like mine. My secretary, who i would know not what to do with my daily industry were it not for her diligent inspection and filtration of anyone who would try to get a moment of my time, has further whittled down the list to ensure that the right fit will be among them.
Every single person i interview, it should come as no shock, is female.
During each screening, I see a complete spectrum of red tones flushing their cheeks, a display of the various acrobatic skills their fingers have as they nervously twirl them on the conference table, but almost never the whites of their eyes. Out of the handful that i interview, one or two will stand out. They are the ones who tilt their head as they softly but with some grip to it, shake my hand, offering a smile that lifts my gravity up from my ankles. They laugh at my dry humor, and appropriately stifle a forced chuckle when i'm being absurd. They are the ones that stick in my mind, leaving me with an excitement at the idea that they might flit around my office all summer.
Once i've selected the one i want, i have my secretary draft letters to all who came in. Polite dismissals to those who didn't earn the position, and a detailed list of guidelines and expectations to the one who did. And yes, there is a run-down of the dress code i expect.
I do not mention the dress code at all beyond the correspondance they receive in the form of an offer letter, but, not a single intern in the last seven years has failed to comply. There have been those incidents where i know for a fact that the intern was testing my resolve, and i have had to send them home for the day as a result. Some have even gone home crying. But, they've always returned, and by the end of the summer, we've developed quite a deep and sincere rapport. A good handful of my past interns keep in touch with me even to this day (one flattered me two years ago by asking me to walk her down the aisle).
I provide them with an exposure to an office environment, especially one that deals with as diverse a cross-section as government officials, union representatives, stodgy accountants, and high-level management. But something tells me, that's not why i continue to have success with the interns i've selected over the years. There are those days where i will call her into my office, ask her to close the door and just sit in the chair as i work.
She knows why she's there, and so do i.
*this continues on here
Friday, June 8, 2007
Making sense of it all
Much of what we do with our submissives involves hands on treatment. Whether it is by our hands or those objects (collars, shackles, canes, insertions, piercings, etc.) that serve as extensions of our hands, the activity usually involves manipulating them to create some level of stimulation. That being said, there are those of us who truly enjoy the process of also "putting away" our toys.
As children, we all heard, i'm sure, the oft-spoken command to tidy up our playpen. I quickly learned that i enjoyed installing my individual toys into their carrying cases as much as i enjoyed extracting them. In later years, i expressed a similar exuberance, taking much care in putting my submissive toys back, in the precise condition and place that i found them.
One of the earliest restrictions with my girl involved me binding her up in a rigorous hogtie, while she was trussed beautifully in stockings, lingerie and gloves. I sat in the next room for 15 minutes, then came back and checked to see if she felt she could manage this position for a longer duration. Securing a confident affirmative, I left her bound and immobilized while i ventured out to a social bar-b-q next door. I loved this. I was nervous as i always am about safety, but i also tingled as i was feasting on bratwursts and skirt steak while thinking of her with her wrists yanked behind her back, anchored to her ankles which were firmly tethered to the steel frame of my bed. Basically, she was put away. At one point, a friend asked me why she hadn't come with me, and not willing to miss the opportunity to unknowingly put the joke on him, i responded "Oh, she's tied up with something." I kept a clear eye on the passage of time, and once a few hours rolled by, i decided to retreat home, and rescue my damsel from her strict bonds.
Conducting my post-bondage interview, it became clear that opportunities for further behavior modification could be pursued by exploiting my girl's attraction to sensory deprivation. She owns enough scuba certifications to qualify her as part marine mammal and often discusses the complete shift in her mind from her terrestrial existence as she's floating in the warm waters, surviving on a synthetic blend of oxygen. I've discussed my fascination with extreme objectification. In those times, i've enjoyed removing the human qualities of my girl, but then using what remained. This internment would serve a different purpose.
I've read so many erotic stories on sites like mcstories.com where a girl was (by choice or coercion) put into a state of suspended animation and then subjected to a multimedia barrage of sounds, sights and scents depicting another girl's slow diminishment into sluthood. These contraptions employed by the (mostly not good) authors are quite elaborate, having devices that provide physical stimulation that is meant to positively (clitoral, vaginal and anal stimulation) and negatively (shocks, pinches or thwacks) reinforce. Now, i'm not one who believes you could sit someone in a chair for hours making her watch trashy bimbos sucking and fucking in the hopes that she would soon develop similar desires. As i expressed earlier, the desires you want someone to act on for the most part have to exist in order for their behavior to be instinctual. Nonetheless, i spent many hours contemplating the rigmarole i could devise to perform the mental transformation of a bitchy brat to a compliant slut.
The first exercise in submerging my girl into a tight, world-vanquishing cocoon served as the basic model for every inducement since. "Why mess with what works" is in full operation here. She is stripped, then each of her limbs, her torso and head are encased in shrinkwrap. The only things that are left exposed to the air are her ears and her mouth. Everything else is confined. She is further encapsulated in a layer of duct tape, and occasionally i'll wrap her in latex sheeting. Sometimes i elect to remove her sense of hearing with earplugs, to completely shut her out. Other times, i'll hook her up to an iPod. I'll feed into that white noise, Bach or on a few occasions, i've had her listen to these mp3s i found on the internet a long time ago that have this guy repeating sexual suggestions over and over (i consider these mostly as a joke. my girl considers them torture because she can't stand his voice and she finds their attempts at subliminal hypnotic techniques ridiculous). I've fiddled with the use of respiration but have not taken the plunge and have her use her regulator and tanks. I'm aching to advance to this. At some point, i will want to submerge her in liquid. One of my biggest fantasies is to have her suspended in gelatin. The "re-birthing" as she is extracted from that makes my chest throb.
All of this is an incredibly arduous and labor-intensive process to achieve behavior modification, when i could just instruct her on how i'd like her to behave. However, the process is part of the modifying, not to mention i get off by transforming my girl into a capsule. Her mind thinks at a thousand microns a second, and quite frequently i want her to escape into nothingness to relieve herself of her massive mental calculations. For these periods where she is entombed, since there is no sexual stimulation going on, her mind reverts to a point of utter, uninhibited pre-natal bliss. She's in storage, existing only as a biological system with no need to think.
As children, we all heard, i'm sure, the oft-spoken command to tidy up our playpen. I quickly learned that i enjoyed installing my individual toys into their carrying cases as much as i enjoyed extracting them. In later years, i expressed a similar exuberance, taking much care in putting my submissive toys back, in the precise condition and place that i found them.
One of the earliest restrictions with my girl involved me binding her up in a rigorous hogtie, while she was trussed beautifully in stockings, lingerie and gloves. I sat in the next room for 15 minutes, then came back and checked to see if she felt she could manage this position for a longer duration. Securing a confident affirmative, I left her bound and immobilized while i ventured out to a social bar-b-q next door. I loved this. I was nervous as i always am about safety, but i also tingled as i was feasting on bratwursts and skirt steak while thinking of her with her wrists yanked behind her back, anchored to her ankles which were firmly tethered to the steel frame of my bed. Basically, she was put away. At one point, a friend asked me why she hadn't come with me, and not willing to miss the opportunity to unknowingly put the joke on him, i responded "Oh, she's tied up with something." I kept a clear eye on the passage of time, and once a few hours rolled by, i decided to retreat home, and rescue my damsel from her strict bonds.
Conducting my post-bondage interview, it became clear that opportunities for further behavior modification could be pursued by exploiting my girl's attraction to sensory deprivation. She owns enough scuba certifications to qualify her as part marine mammal and often discusses the complete shift in her mind from her terrestrial existence as she's floating in the warm waters, surviving on a synthetic blend of oxygen. I've discussed my fascination with extreme objectification. In those times, i've enjoyed removing the human qualities of my girl, but then using what remained. This internment would serve a different purpose.
I've read so many erotic stories on sites like mcstories.com where a girl was (by choice or coercion) put into a state of suspended animation and then subjected to a multimedia barrage of sounds, sights and scents depicting another girl's slow diminishment into sluthood. These contraptions employed by the (mostly not good) authors are quite elaborate, having devices that provide physical stimulation that is meant to positively (clitoral, vaginal and anal stimulation) and negatively (shocks, pinches or thwacks) reinforce. Now, i'm not one who believes you could sit someone in a chair for hours making her watch trashy bimbos sucking and fucking in the hopes that she would soon develop similar desires. As i expressed earlier, the desires you want someone to act on for the most part have to exist in order for their behavior to be instinctual. Nonetheless, i spent many hours contemplating the rigmarole i could devise to perform the mental transformation of a bitchy brat to a compliant slut.
The first exercise in submerging my girl into a tight, world-vanquishing cocoon served as the basic model for every inducement since. "Why mess with what works" is in full operation here. She is stripped, then each of her limbs, her torso and head are encased in shrinkwrap. The only things that are left exposed to the air are her ears and her mouth. Everything else is confined. She is further encapsulated in a layer of duct tape, and occasionally i'll wrap her in latex sheeting. Sometimes i elect to remove her sense of hearing with earplugs, to completely shut her out. Other times, i'll hook her up to an iPod. I'll feed into that white noise, Bach or on a few occasions, i've had her listen to these mp3s i found on the internet a long time ago that have this guy repeating sexual suggestions over and over (i consider these mostly as a joke. my girl considers them torture because she can't stand his voice and she finds their attempts at subliminal hypnotic techniques ridiculous). I've fiddled with the use of respiration but have not taken the plunge and have her use her regulator and tanks. I'm aching to advance to this. At some point, i will want to submerge her in liquid. One of my biggest fantasies is to have her suspended in gelatin. The "re-birthing" as she is extracted from that makes my chest throb.
All of this is an incredibly arduous and labor-intensive process to achieve behavior modification, when i could just instruct her on how i'd like her to behave. However, the process is part of the modifying, not to mention i get off by transforming my girl into a capsule. Her mind thinks at a thousand microns a second, and quite frequently i want her to escape into nothingness to relieve herself of her massive mental calculations. For these periods where she is entombed, since there is no sexual stimulation going on, her mind reverts to a point of utter, uninhibited pre-natal bliss. She's in storage, existing only as a biological system with no need to think.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Motivations
The understanding of one's erotic reaction to things is sometimes tantamount to eating a bowl of soup with a spoon attached to the end of a pool cue. It's messy. It's clumsy. It's cold by the time you taste it. It's largely inefficient, and you don't really get an immediate satisfaction of understanding. The work it has taken to comprehend my own sexual stimuli has precluded that it's not easy to understand someone elses.
Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.
Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.
Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.
Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.
We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.
I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.
You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.
One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.
I was shocked.
"Burlesque?"
"Yeah. I'm inspired."
"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."
As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.
Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.
Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.
Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.
Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.
Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.
We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.
I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.
You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.
One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.
I was shocked.
"Burlesque?"
"Yeah. I'm inspired."
"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."
As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.
Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.
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