Playing with my Barbie

I had the worst hobby as a young boy. The kind that no "lettered in Football", Special Forces in Vietnam, self-made rags-to-riches father would ever want his son to have.

I played with dolls.

I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.

Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.

As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.

Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.

I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.

The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.

And then, i go further.

I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.

"barbie likes"

At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.

My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.

Sugasm #90

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 #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”

Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”

Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine

Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.


BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark

Work and home

Inspired, I thought it good to write down my most recent SM interaction, this time taking it to a little more personal place than my previous blogs. My friend Deity returns today. It's been a pleasure filling in during his absence and I look forward to welcoming him back as normal service is resumed.

The question I get asked most is this: am I able to retain a passion for my own fetishes while working in it each and every day? The short answer is yes and no. As you might expect, I find my personal fetish life to be irregular and subject to change. I am currently having a on/off, what word can I even call this... 'thing' with a friend. Thing seems the best word. It's not a relationship. Fuckbuddy might do the descriptive trick. We have been playing for nearly 2 years.

He is a sub with me but not with his girlfriend. I should say ex-girlfriend because they split last week after 18 months together. We have been friends for many years and he is a joy to look at - an English born, Mauritian descended biker, a burly, musclebound gentleman with a tremendously erotic voice, deep in cadence. The first half of the evening is always jovial and chatty. Fortunately, my flat mate was out so we had full access to the apartment. With his back towards me, I allowed myself a smile as I forced him to stand by the living room window wearing only a transparent sheer thong and hood with inbuilt blindfold as I turned his ass cheeks red with my crop (I prefer a flogger but seem to have temporarily mislaid my red plastic, with metal handle, German-made implement. I like it best because it hurts the most!) As you'd imagine, he's aroused by the thought of passersby looking up to see him standing in the window. He posed for me in underwear, he is servant to his thong fetish and has hundreds of pairs.

When it was time to leave I plugged him (with a too small plug I thought, next time a larger one will be used) to signify my ownership and mentioned that we had not yet used my triangular stainless steel plug. His eyes lit up at the very idea. He drove home with it still inside of course.

What all this signifies is that I am able to retain a frisson of excitement for private SM life, despite my job. I find that if these occasions are sparingly used then I will keep my interest in such things. Were he and I to do this every week I'm sure I would become quickly bored. As it was, it was a satisfying evening.

Lazy dressers and underground collectives

The most recent comment on my Passenger post got me thinking about dress. I do not have the body for rubber and even if I did it only interests me when I see it clinging to the body of a gorgeous girl. The same goes for pvc though I don't mind leather so much. Fetish events of the standard of the Rubber Ball have to be the highest quality in terms of who attends, who exhibits, who performs, who photographs and who controls. I've been to fetish clubs in Los Angeles and, while fun enough, the lack of an enforced dress code encourages laziness in the attendees.

As you might imagine, since I work in fetish every day, the last thing I am interested in is fetish at the weekends. Imagine working in a chocolate factory. It sounds fantastic and might well be for a couple of years but even the most rabid chocolate lover would get quite sick of it after a while. So, it's almost as if I save up all my passion, all my kink for the Rubber Ball Weekend. My personal turn on is uniforms. I love them on men and I love them on women. I have had a thing for uniforms since I was a teenager and I gladly and proudly wear one at the Ball and related events. It's a pleasure to slip into the pressed trousers, white shirt with starched collar and fix my tie. It might be hot and heavy but the dress jackets are a joy to wear. I look good and it encourages an air of authority. It could be army, navy or police but it's always an officer uniform.

During the first Ball I attended, many years ago, it became apparent that I needed an assistant. Most of the weekend is spent rushing around and I would often forget to eat or drink or simply have no time to think about it. I met an American outside Torture Garden one year. He was high on X, very friendly and kind and we got on famously. It turned out that, when he was not high, he was just the same and he became my assistant and friend. There is an element of the slave relationship about it since he serves me at the Ball events. He anticipates my needs. He gets food and drink, he lights my cigarettes, he runs errands, gives massages and, being a man who is passionate about feet, he happily complies when I loan him out for some foot massages. He's an obliging and charming southern gentleman.

The private parties have become legend. A group of Ball attendees, from out of town, will rent a house together and it will become *the* place to be after all the events. We're all friends, there's no modesty there so everyone feels free to let their hair down. I remember a few years ago, after a first night event, sitting in the living room with half a dozen other people while we all chatted and watched two ever so hot models have sex on the sofa. As with any private party, there is no limit on the amount of drugs & drink taken though I am always careful not to overdo it while the events are taking place. After all, I must work all day and night. Once the last event closes its doors that vow is certainly broken. Among other things, the wonderfully American pastime of nitrous has recently become popular in the UK. There's a reason why it's better to imbibe such things seldom, not often.

What I do find is that everyone is happy to be there. People are kind and courteous to each other. And there's always fun to be had in the dungeon. As a voyeur, I make sure to take trips into the darkened dungeons at all the events. Much of the play is what you'd call typical. Of the type I'm sure you've seen before. Every so often you get a jolt when a particularly good play scene gets going and a person who actually knows what they're doing takes part. It was a pleasure watching a renowned BDSM educator guesting in a dungeon. I very much enjoyed watching her tease and torture a famous model until she could no longer move, let alone sit. The horizontal welts were as wide as both cheeks, raised, crimson and lasted for weeks.

I've never played in these dungeons as I don't like to play publicly. But such evenings are a voyeur's paradise. There's a Caligula aspect to proceedings. One year we had a taxi slave, which was ever so useful. A mistress friend of mine was involved and brought one of her clients, a London cab driver, along to ferry us all around, for free, to each event. He would set a velvet stool in the back of the cab and help each of us, courteously, into the seat. If he was very lucky he would be allowed a few moments of foot worship before he drove to the venue. That would have been welcome last year, when dreadful London traffic caused my boss and I to park a mile away from the first venue. I relished the looks on the faces of tourists and families as we strode purposefully down the streets of central London, both clad in military uniforms.

If there's one thing that marks out the events it's the ass kissing. People who would not give me the time of day but for my position bend over backwards to please me. I have visited America many times and find it to be a fascinating, fucked up, wonderful, welcoming, endlessly fun country. Those from the east coast are genuine, no bullshit. Those from the south and midwest are unfailingly polite. But no-one kisses ass like west coast Americans, they are masters of the art. You would not be amazed to find out that my position leaves me open to a great amount of sucking up. Not that I mind. It's good for the ego.

I am the passenger

It’s a pleasure to be asked, by my good friend Deity, to guest host this blog. I have always wanted to blog anonymously as I am fortunate enough to be in a privileged position in the fetish world. I see the best and worst of fetishists, designers, photographers, models and store owners. I’m sure you understand that I must be quite careful in my writings for not only do I not wish to give away my identity but I am not willing to name names. I’m not Fetish Gossip (now defunct site) and I don’t have scores to settle.

Well, ok, that last part isn’t true. Of course I do. Who doesn’t love a little schadenfreude? I could speak about the shoe manufacturer with a Napoleon complex who has, without exception, been the biggest pain in my ass since I began on the fetish scene. The New York fetish store that refuses to pay its bills. I could expound on the pretentious, needy, arrogant male doms who have neither the class nor the intelligence of this blog’s owner. Then there’s the female doms who insist you call them by their mistress name. I refuse to because I can’t keep a straight face. Try the dom act with me and you’ll get short shrift, I have enough power to make you beg for it. I could talk about the photographer who assaults his models and the fetish models who are only happy when they are being abused by men.

The only thing I’m sure I won’t talk about is my work colleagues, present or former - that is out of bounds. Loose lips sink ships and I’d like to have a workplace in the morning. So let’s start with that subject everyone is familiar with – the fetish event. I have attended several Rubber Ball’s in London and have been behind the scenes at each one. The panic, the chaos, the DJs snorting coke under their turntables. It still amazes me how many people try to pull the wool over the eyes of the hardy souls working the door, as if we are all fetish virgins who don’t see deception and liberty taking coming a mile off. There is very little I haven’t seen. I am one of many on the inside and I relish the power at my fingertips. A unique chance to be a complete bitch to people and have them cower in front of you and take it – whether they get off on it or not.

I recall one of my first ever fetish events several years ago. A group entered the venue and all but one was immaculately dressed, clad in rubber from head to toe. Very impressive but the odd one out was going to be a problem. I smirk inwardly as I think of what punishment I am able to dole out to him, what hoops I can make him jump through before I allow him in the door. There’s no limit to my imagination so there’s no limit to the time I can take making him squirm. He is wearing a fishnet shirt, leather jacket and jeans and it just isn’t good enough. The tickets are clearly marked with correct dress code; he is thinking that he will be fine in dull clothes because his friends are well dressed. He is wrong. He starts to look a little frightened at being singled out but he must have known this was coming. While I am one of dozens of people who work on the inside the decision of who comes in and who stays outside is often mine. I ponder for a moment on his punishment and while in mid thought I notice that one of his female colleagues is wearing a thong. I can see it outlining under her rubber skirt. I decide the only option is to ask his friend to remove her underwear and make him wear it. He thinks I’m kidding but I assure him I am not. His friends are giggling, they had warned him jeans would set off the red flag. His lady friend removes her skimpy undergarments. I never smile throughout a process like this; I am dead serious. He removes his jeans and puts on her underwear. He looks like he should be seeing the Rocky Horror Show. I am satisfied and let the party in – not before saying that if I catch him with his jeans back on he will be ejected.

I revel in this power and have no care about the misery I put fetish partygoers through. The Rubber Ball and related events are prestigious and people travel worldwide to see them. If you can’t dress correctly you stay outside with no ticket refund. On average at the Rubber Ball itself I would deal with around 20 issues of dress code out of thousands of people. 99% dress beautifully I must say. At other smaller events it’s probably around 5 issues to deal with but there’s always something. I would prefer to solve the problem than refuse entry – but I need something to work with and it’s been said that my fellow door bitches and I can create a suitable fetish outfit out of almost anything. I recall turning a couple in cocktail dress and tuxedo away from Torture Garden one year. They argued with me for 45 minutes but they weren’t getting in. Sometimes you’ll know a troublemaker is on the horizon. At the Ball a few years ago a guy wearing black trousers, leather shirt and fencing mask approached the door. I eyed him up and down and spotted something poking out of his pocket. I demand to see it. He sheepishly takes it out – a Smirnoff Ice bottle with an inch of liquid in the bottom. I’m no fool, I know it’s GHB. I confiscate it and he leaves. Later in the evening while on patrol inside the venue I see him. He has snuck in through a side door unnoticed. He sees me and runs out of the building and I make sure to secure the door. There’s no limit to the amount of tricks people try to get past me and they will not succeed. One year at Torture Garden a group of frat boy types asked to be let in and I simply smiled, even when three of them stripped to their white underwear. I was tempted to charge them double and let them in to be torn apart but controlled my urge.

The no photography (except press) rule has provided many incidents over the years. All venues and tickets are covered in signs banning photography. At the Expo (a fair for selling wares) I was watching a fashion show, 2 years ago. I spotted a middle-aged man taking photos secretly on a digital camera. I approached him and told him taking photos was not allowed. He responded by saying, with a German accent, he saw others (accredited photographers) with cameras and thought it was ok. What rubbish. At least don’t lie to my face about it! I removed him from the venue, deleting his photos on the way.

Two years ago at the Ball I saw a man in a Hawaiian shirt and approached him. He arrogantly told me he was the owner of the venue and would wear whatever he liked. I responded, with politeness, that tonight this venue belonged to us and his clothing was disrespectful to us and our customers. I didn’t care who he was, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt! I didn’t see him last year. I seemed to have more dress code trouble last year than usual for some reason. I berated a couple for wearing dull clothes. The man had a normal suit on – with corset over the top. Very little effort made. He told me one of the event organisers had told him that was an acceptable outfit. I told him it wasn’t and he later complained about me to my boss. I asked the organiser if she’d said any such thing – she hadn’t. A lie comes to find you out in the end. That was the same afternoon I had taken a human dog for a little walk around the venue on a leash.

A terribly handsome couple came in. She was dressed flawlessly. He was in leather coat and jeans. No good I said. Remove your trousers. He tried to argue with me and I said it was no bother to me to leave him on the street. His girl urged him to do as he was told and he did. Not a great outfit but he needed the lesson in humiliation.

Behave yourself, treat others with respect and you will have a great night. Test me and you will find that the door won’t even hit you on the ass on your way out.

While i'm away...

I'm taking leave for the next week or so (i know, i've been talking about it long enough). In my absence, i have recruited my very dear friend to look after my little site.

I hand the helm over to Fetish Insider. She has promised me she would play nice with all of you who regularly plant their virtual selves in front of my journal. I invite you to comment on anything she has to say. She has quite the wicked side. And she has seen and have had access to things many of us would slay our neighbors to be near (well, let's not hope literally). I promise you a very entertaining read. I myself look forward to taking in what she posts. I most likely will not have the opportunity to see them until after i return.

Alas, most of my time will be spent decompressing and finding out how thin the walls are at our hotel.

Red alert

I'm preparing to leave on my vacation - my much needed vacation. In my preparation, i must think of the items i'll need for the duration of my trip. Having never been to my destination before, i don't know what i'll need to bring and what i'll be able to pick up remotely.

I've travelled hundreds of times whilst engaging in SM-based activities (and with the intention of transporting those activities). It goes without saying that travel before 9/11 came with much less scrutiny of my personal belongings. Since the events and repercussions of that day, i've been subjected to over 40 different bag searches, a dozen private screenings (with my girl having to endure just as many herself because the steel boning of her corset triggers the metal detectors), and numerous times i've found "Just Looking" messages from the TSA in my checked baggage. Steeling myself for this invasion of privacy, i have resolutely refused to let this ridiculous reduction in civil liberties hamper my personal life. I have hauled in my carry-on baggage, at one point or another, the following:

Spools of leather strips
Rattan cane
Nipple clamps
Butt plug(s)
Locking leather cuffs
Spreader bar
Latex corset, hood, panties, sheeting
Leather harness with bit-gag
Cat-o-nine tails
Bondage tape
Armbinder
Ballgag
Electrical tape
Various lengths of rope, Kevlar line, and nylon strapping
Mini-flogger (a gift, courtesy of Fetish Insider, my gracious guest contributor while i'm away)

I find the security personnel working the examination lines to be much more lax in my city than those of my destinations. I'm not really sure why that is. I'm able to sneak things by the hometown crew that the away squad gives me the biggest pain over. I enjoy playing with them, acting dumb, but i also enjoy taking the opportunity to embarrass my girl a little. I make sure she goes in front of me (which isn't necessarily a walk in the park. I swear, they never saw a custom-made corset before???). Then, when i know my bag is going to flag one of the inspectors, i make sure to call my girl's name out loud:

"OH, honey! Wait!"

The unknowing guard will hold up her leather head harness and inquire as to what that is. Now, by this point, as she eyes this device that just the previous night had been strapped to her head, forcing her mouth to be held unwillingly open, my girl's cheeks have changed nine shades of red. To let her off the hook (plus, for some reason, i'm spooked into thinking that being kinky is somehow aiding the terrorists. Thank you Dick Cheney), i'll simply explain that it's bridle gear for a horse, which easily passes muster. On our merry way they let us, to infect the general populace with our very dangerous and national security-threatening power exchange.

This vacation presents a different scenario than others as i am not travelling with my girl. She has left already, having business to deal with before my arrival. As a result of this, i felt the need to leave her with something that she could look after, tending to it until i arrive at her side. Hours before she left for the airport, i had her strip down to just her bra, and proceeded to lash her well-primed ass with three magnificent welts. Should anyone see fit to examine her undercarriage, they would find these trademarks - a calling card, if you will - which would certainly lead to her embarrassment.

It's unlikely that any TSA personnel would ask for that kind of access, which leaves me the task of picking the right apparatus to stuff into my bag, just to ensure the appropriate amount of shame occurs on our return trip.

Sugasm #88

Sugasm #88

Mon 16th Jul, 07
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks

Kinky To Vanilla
“Now, each time we play with others, it’s a gift that further cements our closeness and shows us the value of our love.”

One For The Guys
“Get into the habit of building your sexual pleasure and indulging in it fully.”

When A Client Dies-Part 2
“As I drank my morning coffee I googled his name and “obit”. Up popped his obituary.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
A Porn Store Clerk Speaks

Editor’s Choice
Love at First Sight

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

BDSM & Fetish
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exchange

Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark

I honestly hadn't given the subject too much thought before i decided to write about it. Of course, as is my way, i sought to cram it into the "transformation" mold which is the baseline for all my thinking, leading me to break the process of swatting my girl down into metamorphic stages.

Surprising her:
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.

"OH!"

Swatting her:
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.

Do i want her standing or over my knee?

If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.

If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.

This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.

Marking her:
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.

"36"

Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.

In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.

Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.

Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.

All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.

Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.

The Circle

In the early stages of my career, i was quite fortunate for two specific reasons:

Firstly, due to my inexperience, i felt the need to alter, stretch or even fabricate what knowledge i had in order to get me in the door.

Secondly, i had the luck of encountering potential employers who couldn't tell i did this or didn't care.

Either way, my early jobs, as a result of my embellishments, were often more fantastic than i probably deserved. I travelled all over, spending long spans of time going from one locale to the next. I remember one notable 20 day period had me dashing through no less than 15 different cities. It was exhausting, but for a young man my age, equally exhilirating. Over time, i learned how to find the basic comforts and needs in any town that i'd grown accustomed to having back at home. Except one thing: companionship.

Unfortunately, the kind of female company i sought wasn't outfitted by calling a local escort service. For several reasons, you just can't hire a submissive girl. This unique problem sent me on the difficult course of finding a submissive in as many of my ports of call as possible. In retrospect, as i type this now, i can see how arrogant and mostly unpragmatic this pursuit was.

In all, i had a girl i could call on in Chicago, Tampa, Philly, San Antone, Toronto, New York and Nawlins. When i knew far enough in advance that i would be visiting, i'd call up my host and arrange some time with her. Usual protocol would be for her to begin wearing a buttplug that i had given her early on in our exchange, at least a day before i arrived. I wanted to make my unique impression on her. There is something about meeting with a girl who's been plugging her ass for you for a period of hours that just builds this insane level of anticipation. She knew i had put so much thought and energy into her stationed this way, and i knew she felt the constant pressure. Most visits were rather calm, and would not have filled the shelves of the erotica section of your local bookstore, especially since i usually just wanted her to serve as company. When you are in a city all by yourself, peace comes in a familiar face. Very often, i would have her sitting near me as i drank a cocktail to unwind, her beauty and grace serving as a shield against the day's stress.

My favorite girl was my Toronto hostess. We connected on so many levels, but she also served as the most mysterious. She would ask me to pick her up in the most random of spots. A busstop out on Dundas. In front of a vegetable vendor in St. Lawrence. I didn't ask. Well, until it got in the way of being served. After she stood me up once, i insisted on knowing why. What she told me i still haven't fully grasped.

I know i risk exposing myself to a kind of unwelcome attention by merely having the title i've chosen for this post. Should i speak of this subject as if it were false and it proves not to be, i've put myself in an unfortunate position.

She told me that she was a member of a society known as "The Circle". This was a collection of incredibly wealthy men who have their various representatives approach incredibly gorgeous young women proposing them the opportunity to live very comfortably in exchange for their liberty. These young, consenting women are then taken to a remote location, drilled in the rudiments of sexual service, and then traded amongst the spokes of "The Circle".

I know, preposterous. But, why did i want to believe it? I remember asking her only one question about it. Why was i able to enjoy her company if she was essentially a slave to this group? She said it was part of her ongoing training. That satisfied me. I didn't want to know more because i didn't believe her, and her company was a luxurious oasis in a desert of hostile faces that i was unwilling to do without. I also felt myself wanting to believe her. I wanted to believe that an organization such as this existed. It was incredibly arousing to think about. The powerful feasting on hand-selected and made toys.

Years later, after i'd relinquished my claim on these girls, i found myself coming back to the idea of "The Circle". I'd grown tired of my local SM scene. It was overrun by social rejects and folks who believed that kinky=freaky. I realized that the biggest problem behind these clubs and parties i would occasionally frequent was that there was no screening process. Anyone who wanted to explore could come and clog up the floorspace. I understood that not everyone raced along inside their deviant behavior at the speed i did, but i grew tired of having to share the same racing track with the beginners and finding few attractive submissives in the largely male-dominated chapters. I longed for some covert fellowship, where an intense, highly scrutinizing review took place for potential newcomers. I sent out feelers to various contacts within the lifestyle, asking them to *wink-wink* level with me. I got no nibbles. And then it hit me, "they" would not want you to look for them. They'll find you when they want to.

I've always said patience is one of my best characteristics.

The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exchange

When i arrived at the restaurant, i purposely asked for the table up on the ledge, which looked out over the rest of the dining patrons. I took the chair that pointed me right at the entrance. When the waiter came, i ordered a double bourbon. I waited. Looking at my watch, i could see she was already ten minutes late. I finished my drink, trying to stretch it as long as possible, allowing the amber flood to lighten with the melting ice. She didn't arrive. I ordered another.

An entire half hour past our agreed meeting time, and she still hadn't shown. She'd never been this late before. Despite this, i didn't grow angry. I patiently waited, stunting my nerves with the alcohol.

A rush of cold air suddenly ruffled the tablecloth. I lifted my head to see the front door had opened. I saw her speaking with the girl at the front, looking around the restaurant as she did. The disinterested hostess limply pointed in my direction. June walked around her, and with long, overly pronounced strides, sauntered back to the table. I rose from my seat, drink still in my hand, caught in a mild sweat of anticipation. The small tip of a white garter strap peaked out beneath the hem of her skirt. I smiled as she stood before me. I leaned forward, lightly kissed her cheek and said,"You're late."

She grinned, then sat down. I joined her. My nose gobbled every note that came in the symphony of her perfume. She'd wrapped a cream white cashmere scarf around her neck, which gave her face the softness and enticement of a delicate pastry in a glass case.

"Thank you for coming," I immediately located our waiter, ordering another drink for myself and a small one for her. I laid my hands on the table, just inches away from hers. She turned her palms upward right as i did this, but she could not bring her eyes to mine.

We pedalled through a few laps of innane conversation, ignoring mention of why we'd met. I didn't have a strong desire to turn the subject to a topic i knew would clam her up. I enjoyed listening to her voice, which when given room sang quite nicely against the chorus of background activity and noise. Before too long, i felt an urge to assert.

I pulled my right hand off the table, and plunged it under the short tablecloth. I followed the line of my thigh out to my knee. I paused, exhaling a single breath. I made sure her gaze was on me. I reached across the blind space to her knee, feeling a tingle of pleasurable electricity conduct up through my fingers. Her mouth puckered open, giving out a soft cry. My hand snaked up her leg, the silky texture of her stockings spoke to my fingertips in a brief dialogue, escorting me to the top, where they met the naked frontier of her flesh. The waiter returned with our drink order, causing me to pause.

"Would you care to order?" He eyed her untouched menu.

"Certainly." I lifted it from the table, reaching across my body with my left arm. I handed both of the menus to him, holding them out in the air as our waiter hesitated a moment.

"I'll have the steak au poivre. Medium rare. She will have the duck confit, but instead of fries, fresh greens."

He nodded at me, collected the menus, then turned and stepped down into the main dining room.

I pushed my hand further up her thigh, sliding under the canopy of her skirt. A steamy warmth met my hand. The pliant tickle of a few pubic hairs graced my touch. I looked at her eyes which looked down at the edge of the table in front of her. She held her mouth open, rocking subtly back and forth, respiring in small heaves. I extended a finger, lightly caressing the moist flesh of her cunt lips, completely, as commanded, uninhibited by any undergarment.

Securing the evidence i sought, my arm retreated rapidly back to the topside of the table. I rubbed the glistening nectar i'd gathered between my finger and thumb in plain view. It was at that time the selection of the table - high, exposed, isolated - occured to her. The looks of the other patrons suddenly became clear, even the devilish smirk of our waiter when he delivered our meal.

I found the steak to be much, much too bloody.

Internal affairs - tweaking

The Summer has gone very well so far. The new intern, despite showing some signs of incompatibility in the early stages, has come around quite nicely. She has broken the dress code once, but has amazed me in other areas.

While i do require well-manicured hands, i do not insist that the nails be of any set length. I have felt that would prove too messy of an ordeal by actually having her set her hand on my desk as i measure each nail. Under different circumstances, i would require 1/2" at the least, flat-tipped, french manicure, but for my intern, i settle for cleanliness. Having never even mentioned that i prefer this look on females, i was quite surprised when one day my intern came in with a full set of 1/2" acrylic extensions.

She had to have noticed the way my eyes lit up the instant i caught sight of her new ornamentation. I immediately complimented her, told her that they made her fingers long and stunning. Later on that day, i went out to tell my secretary that i'd like some of the typing and filing i had given her to go to my intern, but she had anticipated that i would when she saw the nails, and had already given her some of it to do. She spoils me. I found reasons to linger by my intern's desk, telling her about projects i may involve her in, recounting some of the stupid questions i've been asked by journalists - all just so i could watch her struggle with the keyboard, and to hear the click of the acrylic on the keys.

One day soon after, she came into my office with tears in her eyes, holding her right hand by the wrist. I asked her what was wrong.

"I was filing...and...i closed the file - *sniff* - on my hand."

She held up the wounded appendage to show me that the nail on her middle finger had popped off in the ordeal. I wanted to get up from my chair, walk around the desk and scoop her up, kiss her finger, and tell her it will be "okay". But, i'm her boss. Even i know that wouldn't be appropriate in this day and age of over prescient human resource stiffs. I showed my concern with my eyes, and let her go home for the day so she could get her nail fixed.

Another recent episode reminded me that sometimes i don't fully comprehend the messages i'm capable of sending with just a look. I hadn't stepped out of my office all morning. Finally, i took a much needed break to very quickly jog to get me some water. I have a habit, as i walk, of rapidly snapping through all fingers, on both hands, in a cascade of rattling pops. To many people, it signals that i'm coming. I could see my intern's lounging legs (who sits right near the pantry) stiffen when their owner obviously heard my impending approach. I looked at her very briefly - 5 seconds tops - before i turned the corner. She was wearing a very unflattering yellow top that looked like it belonged in a "No Doubt" music video instead of my office. Since it didn't officially break my dress code, i decided not to say anything. I got my water, and headed back to my office. As i passed her desk, i didn't look at her at all.

About midday, i realized i hadn't heard or seen from her for a few hours. I called my secretary,"Have you seen K?"

"Not since about 10:30." It was a quarter after 1.

"Let me know when you see her again."

At 1:30, my secretary called. "She's back. She wants to see you." I can hear a sarcastic smile in her voice on the phone.

"...okay, tell her to come on in." Mind you, i do not require that she go through my secretary first in order to see me. I wait for the rap on my door. It is unusually soft.

"Come on in."

She peeks her head through the slight crack of the door she's opened.

"Am i in trouble?"

I scan my brain to locate any transgressions that i'd catalogued. Nothing. The only thing i can think of is the unannounced absence, but even then, i usually wait to hear the story behind those sort of things.

"Trouble for what?"

"You looked very angry this morning."

"Angry, no. Come in all the way, would you?"

She enters my office and i immediately see why she had been gone for so long. She is now wearing a very fetching maroon top, that outlines her curvy torso perfectly.

"Am i in trouble for being out of the office for so long?"

"Why were you gone for over 3 hours?"

"I went home to change my top."

This girl had taken my earlier glance at her blouse and the expression on my face as a statement, and decided to travel the hour and a half - one way - to her parent's house in order to fix the situation. I looked at her as she stood in front of me, her eyes were training on anything else but mine. I knew the silent air building was mine to dismiss. She subtly adjusted her skirt, and tugged a couple of times on her newly improved shirt.

"No," I said. "You're not in trouble, anymore."

The first transformation

Sadly, it doesn't involve another female. It focuses solely on me (yes, as if an entire journal dedicated to me wasn't enough). Well, on when i first discovered the indefensible tug the process of metamorphosis has over me.

I was 12 years old, plopped on my couch in front of the television on a Saturday morning (my how that device fed my development), watching one of my favorite programs which retold contemporary young adult books in a half hour cartoon format. The narrative of that day's featured story showcased a young boy who was constantly pushed around by a bully, and, losing his ability to tolerate it, sought a way to address it (i immediately could relate to this situation because i had long suffered at the hands of bullies throughout the years). It opens with him trying to escape yet another incident where he is chased and harassed. He stumbles upon a magic store that he hadn't seen before, down an alley he never knew existed. He wanders inside to be met by an eccentric shopkeeper who offers him a solution. Rushing home, he tries out the device that will eventually lead him to solve his bullying problem.

The Monster's Ring

This is an excerpt i found of the author, Bruce Coville narrating his tale. I invite you, the readers, to listen to the whole 15 minute clip. It is how i remember it when i first read it (i would subsequently, after seeing the cartoon, check out the book from the library well over 40 times). For those of you who'd just like to hear the important part, you can fast forward to the 10 minute and 10 second mark. This is my first attempt at a sort of multimedia journal entry, so you'll need realplayer to hear the excerpt in order to fully understand what i'm referring to.

I felt a strange sensation like young Russell as i watched this tale, but it wasn't in my forehead. As i watched his physical features morph into a beast, and then more incredibly his appetites and his instincts become ruled by the monster he was changing into, i felt an incredible surge of lust and arousal. His change filled him with the power to take control of the situation. As he gave over to the rising monster, he was able to use it to eradicate the bully in his life. Witnessing the ecstasy he experienced in letting out his most hideous, ravenously evil side obviously stirred an innate desire in me to harness the same force. For many years following, i was easily aroused when i dreamt up transformations that happened to me. Most of my energy in fact focused on this aspect: auto-metamorphoses.

Something, however, trumped this. It first appeared in literature and movies, where i came across instances of a woman undertaking a conversion at the hands of a male "master" (Lucy Wisterna in 'Dracula', Princess Lily in 'Legend'). It overpowered my interest in turning the transformation on myself when i then encountered females who would willingly hand over the future of their mental and physical state to someone else. I wanted to embrace the power of becoming the Creator in their world. I wanted to tackle the hunger that wells up inside of me whenever i encounter the feminine creature by making her completely mine.