I've heard of dominants who approach their power exchange with the same flow and energy as a river rushing over the rocks in its riverbed. Their hunger or gravity pulls them forward and they encounter obstacles, but do not bear them any mind, just roll over them, continuing with the downward force that will empty them into the sea. They act on impulse, and consequences, should any arise, they ignore for they are already miles downstream. This to me is quite chaotic.
I prefer order. I prefer the pace of the tortoise who steadily triumphs over a hastened rodent. I am too obsessed with detail to not take my time. I have often stated to many a female who was curious as to why i didn't scream at their shortcomings at meeting my demands:
I am a very patient man.
I believe patience is not a virtue. It is a requirement. A man seeking to engage in a power exchange with a modern-day female must practice absolute zen-like mindfullness on the kind of journey and spasm her psyche will undergo as she slowly relinquishes control and transforms into the kind of submissive he desires. There will be thrashing, stuttering, doubting, and even contemplation of quitting. Having the ability to calmly slow the knee-jerk reaction to these responses will exponentially benefit both.
Insisting that patience serve prominently in this exchange most likely comes off as intuitive and not something all that surprising. There is, however, something about this patience that most times does not get mention from the dominant perspective.
It must involve restraint.
Restraint is not always just applied to submissives. In fact, the responsible dominant will put several restraints upon himself. I am not offering that the dominant bind himself with straps or rope, gag himself or even lace in a corset. Those are physical restraints. I speak of those that are applied mentally.
I love rewarding my girl. I love giving her compliments, praise, trinkets, preference. I love her reaction to these things, but, i have a responsibility to not offer them without reflection. Just because i love doing it, and because i'm the one in charge, doesn't mean i can abuse this. Rewards need spacing, interruption, in order for them to remain meaningful and important.
In the early stages of our relationship, i wanted to expose her to so many awful, lewd, twisted images and scenarios. I wanted to shove her in positions, situations, tortures. My lust to have her strewn in the most strict postures often overwhelmed me, and even in some situations, i became very greedy. I pushed her too far, before she was ready, which caused her to shut down. I took one liberty too many, not paying attention to her signs: her breathing, her skin tone, her perspiration, even her smell. This results in the exact opposite of what i'd wanted.
As a dominant, the submissive relies on you to know what is best - not universally, and not endlessly, but they expect you to have a better sense of the river's edge than they do. In fact, you engage in a power exchange because you want to be in charge of precisely that.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Internal affairs - saying goodbye
Those who know me, understand my abject distaste for the heat, mugginess and sweating that arrives with the Solstice. Thankfully, i do not feel as though the dog day's ever arrived because the weather has not been arduous or unendurable. The fact that we've had a rather mild hot season out east, makes me considerably less irritated (and irritating). But, i would be remiss if i didn't also attribute the ease and comfort i've had during this most recent summer to the service provided me from, easily, the best intern in my entire tenure.
Her last week having just passed, i feel compelled to address her progress as a tribute to her. But i also face, which i tend to not remember when, in the spring, my cheeks fill with the ruddy excitement of beginning another internship program, the reality of saying goodbye to someone who had once served you. To others who do not relish this commodity, it may miss notice. For me, the corners of my mouth curl in a Seussian splendor when i feel that i am the focus of someone's labor.
*this continues on here
She delighted me nearly everyday, slithering more and more under my skin. What i saw as rigidity in the interview process, i was privileged to see soften as she grew more and more comfortable around me. AND...the girl could wear a skirt. Not like some ladies who toss them on as nods to their office protocol, or like mannequins stationed in a window whose immobile anatomies never warm the fabric and give it shape. She wore them like a flag wrapped around its pole in a summer breeze. She wore them like a ballet dancer wears a tour jete - flawlessly, effortlessly.
I take pride in the little impact i had on her overall prowess. I gave her a place where she could comport herself a certain way, and have an excuse for her reasons why. I enjoyed thinking of the social hours spent back at her local pub engaging her gaggle of twentysomething sex-in-the-cityers who demand to know why her hands were now a constant pageant of manicured art. She would roll her eyes and confess "It's a requirement for work." I removed her of a rather tragic habit of referring to herself or an action of hers as "stupid" - at my insistence, she was never allowed to use the word around me. I gave her the strength to enjoy her state of apprenticeship. So many moments of youth are spent anxious and impatient for growing up and excelling. I gave her an environment where she had plenty of opportunity to learn, but also a sense of accountability for when she made a mistake.
Of course, this reared its rather humorous, but unfortunately pungent side one time when she needed something from me at the end of the day. She had a habit of relying on the phone to communicate with me, rather than face-to-face. I was on a conference call for the better part of an hour, and several times throughout the call, i saw on my call-waiting that she was trying to get a hold of me. I ignored it. About a quarter to four in the afternoon, i heard a light rap on my door. Again, i ignored it. Shortly following, i saw on my call waiting that my secretary was trying to get through. These i never ignored.
"Yes?"
"K needs to speak with you for a moment."
*sigh* "Fine."
The door creaks open and in walks what looks like a brow-beaten version of my usually perky and adorable intern. She carries with her a folded piece of paper. I hold out my hand and she delicately places it in my palm. I unfold it as i let the chatter of my conference call go on in the background. What i read must've been easily the third or fourth draft of her message, because the wording is impeccable.
"Mr. D,
My mother has requested that i go and collect my younger brother from day camp. Would you be at all open to me leaving a tad early in order to do so?
"yes"___ or "no"___
Regards,
K
p.s. please do not widen your eyes or yell."
I chuckled as i held onto the note, waving her out of my office. The next day, i would, of course, commend her for asking first, but tell her that she could've asked my secretary, instead of trying to get through to me. This level of attempting to please i have not seen in an intern for several years. I know i will miss this energy.
I've said goodbye to several interns. I seldomly enjoy it. When i've taken on a soul i perceive as submissive, it is not an easy thing to release them back into the wild after such a short and specifically constrained period of time. I feel each of them has taken a part of me with them. Yes, part of that is my impact on them, but also their impact on me. I grow very attached, and knowing that tomorrow morning i will not see her eruditely cherubic face as i go trudging down the hallway or will not again get to hear her creative pronunciations of words (for example, at her farewell lunch, she proudly ordered the "Sall-mun"), it makes me a bit sad.
Right before she left on Friday, she came running into my office to say farewell and share with me some exciting news she learned from our HR department. She's been invited back for next summer's program, which means, as she puts it, i'll have her as an intern again.
"Lucky for you", i told her.
We hugged eachother goodbye, holding on longer than perhaps boss and employee should. I looked her in the eyes and told her she'll be fine.
I know she will be.
*this continues on here
Her last week having just passed, i feel compelled to address her progress as a tribute to her. But i also face, which i tend to not remember when, in the spring, my cheeks fill with the ruddy excitement of beginning another internship program, the reality of saying goodbye to someone who had once served you. To others who do not relish this commodity, it may miss notice. For me, the corners of my mouth curl in a Seussian splendor when i feel that i am the focus of someone's labor.
*this continues on here
She delighted me nearly everyday, slithering more and more under my skin. What i saw as rigidity in the interview process, i was privileged to see soften as she grew more and more comfortable around me. AND...the girl could wear a skirt. Not like some ladies who toss them on as nods to their office protocol, or like mannequins stationed in a window whose immobile anatomies never warm the fabric and give it shape. She wore them like a flag wrapped around its pole in a summer breeze. She wore them like a ballet dancer wears a tour jete - flawlessly, effortlessly.
I take pride in the little impact i had on her overall prowess. I gave her a place where she could comport herself a certain way, and have an excuse for her reasons why. I enjoyed thinking of the social hours spent back at her local pub engaging her gaggle of twentysomething sex-in-the-cityers who demand to know why her hands were now a constant pageant of manicured art. She would roll her eyes and confess "It's a requirement for work." I removed her of a rather tragic habit of referring to herself or an action of hers as "stupid" - at my insistence, she was never allowed to use the word around me. I gave her the strength to enjoy her state of apprenticeship. So many moments of youth are spent anxious and impatient for growing up and excelling. I gave her an environment where she had plenty of opportunity to learn, but also a sense of accountability for when she made a mistake.
Of course, this reared its rather humorous, but unfortunately pungent side one time when she needed something from me at the end of the day. She had a habit of relying on the phone to communicate with me, rather than face-to-face. I was on a conference call for the better part of an hour, and several times throughout the call, i saw on my call-waiting that she was trying to get a hold of me. I ignored it. About a quarter to four in the afternoon, i heard a light rap on my door. Again, i ignored it. Shortly following, i saw on my call waiting that my secretary was trying to get through. These i never ignored.
"Yes?"
"K needs to speak with you for a moment."
*sigh* "Fine."
The door creaks open and in walks what looks like a brow-beaten version of my usually perky and adorable intern. She carries with her a folded piece of paper. I hold out my hand and she delicately places it in my palm. I unfold it as i let the chatter of my conference call go on in the background. What i read must've been easily the third or fourth draft of her message, because the wording is impeccable.
"Mr. D,
My mother has requested that i go and collect my younger brother from day camp. Would you be at all open to me leaving a tad early in order to do so?
"yes"___ or "no"___
Regards,
K
p.s. please do not widen your eyes or yell."
I chuckled as i held onto the note, waving her out of my office. The next day, i would, of course, commend her for asking first, but tell her that she could've asked my secretary, instead of trying to get through to me. This level of attempting to please i have not seen in an intern for several years. I know i will miss this energy.
I've said goodbye to several interns. I seldomly enjoy it. When i've taken on a soul i perceive as submissive, it is not an easy thing to release them back into the wild after such a short and specifically constrained period of time. I feel each of them has taken a part of me with them. Yes, part of that is my impact on them, but also their impact on me. I grow very attached, and knowing that tomorrow morning i will not see her eruditely cherubic face as i go trudging down the hallway or will not again get to hear her creative pronunciations of words (for example, at her farewell lunch, she proudly ordered the "Sall-mun"), it makes me a bit sad.
Right before she left on Friday, she came running into my office to say farewell and share with me some exciting news she learned from our HR department. She's been invited back for next summer's program, which means, as she puts it, i'll have her as an intern again.
"Lucky for you", i told her.
We hugged eachother goodbye, holding on longer than perhaps boss and employee should. I looked her in the eyes and told her she'll be fine.
I know she will be.
*this continues on here
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Letting go
***THIS POST CONTAINS VERY EXPLICIT DEPICTIONS. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO SUCH MATTER***
A great deal of my experience in exploring my sexuality has come from straddling a very thin line between the acceptable and the outrageous. Consider my kink a simple rowboat floating on open waters. I started out rowing in shallow pools encountering sights and sensations that got me so much more excited than those i saw walking as a pedestrian on land. Eventually, i rowed out away from the shore, where the sea floor began to descend beneath me, and the crystal clear surf gave way to dark, murky ocean. Yet, i stayed afloat. The further i moved away from the land, the deeper the sea grew, and yet, i found my appetites for the freakish, haunting and unknown shadows growing, keeping my head just above the surface. At some point, i may make landfall again, but for now, my home is the mighty sea.
One way of analyzing this character evolution could have someone say that i sought one shocking and challenging experience after another, that it was an addiction to the next, increasingly stronger hit. I won't dismiss this view, but what i have come to understand is the deeper, more meaningful operant. Each successive level of deviousness allowed me to release my hold on the world; essentially, to let go.
It is an interesting concept to ponder for a dominant to pursue the relinquishing of control, but i cannot express it any other way. As the extremity of my play increased, as i whipped her harder, bound her tits longer, immobilized and dehumanized her more and more, i found tranquility from the demons of the secular world that pound upon my hull. More surprising, however, is what i have learned about my motivation; that what drives this passion to push more and more is to seek, accomplish and witness the same sensation of my own submissive letting go.
As i was thinking about this recently, the most vivid example of it came to me from one of my favorite videos in my (overly) vast collection. The folks over at Torture Galaxy (talk about living upto a name) crafted this specific thrill ride involving some rather serious tit torture. I'm not an avid fan of tit torture. If i could eat only one cuisine, it would most likely be stringent bondage (with a little dehumanization/objectification tossed in). But there are certainly scenes that involve a girl and her delicious tits getting the full brunt of her dominant's sadism that hit the spot. This was one of them. And OH what a spot it hit.
The setup:
A shop, like one that a carpenter or a metalworker might have. Tools, both for torture and fabrication purposes, hang on the walls. The girl is seated in a chair that has a metal frame on her side and over her head. Her legs are duct-taped to the vinyl seat. Her arms are taped to armrests that sit about waist level. Her back is firmly resting on the rear of the chair. She is topless, and wearing only a garter belt and stockings on her bottom.
The first act:
In walks the dominant. He positions in front of her two blue vice grips that have had, in their flat plates, pins driven through them. They look like rectangular venus fly traps with endless rows of fangs on both their bottom and upper jaws. He places each tit in a separate vice, and squeezes the trigger, ratcheting down on the meat of her tit. She lets out a gloriously hungry moan as she feels the pins impressing on her flesh. He applies a Hitachi wand to her cunt, taping it in place, and she immediately reacts. Her eyes roll in the back of her head. A few minutes of this, he cuts her hands free, which quickly move to the same triggers he'd earlier squeezed, and she proceeds to slowly vice her tits, tighter and tighter, hungry for the pain in her chest and the fulfillment in her loins.
The second act:
He removes the vices. You see symmetrical rows of pink polka dots sprinkling along the surface of her skin. He moves quickly. He grabs a 10-inch long metal skewer, and impales her right tit, just on the inside of the bulb of flesh, piercing from underneath, through the tit, and out up through the top. He continues to move quickly. He mirrors this on the inside of the left tit. He then adds two more skewers on the outside of each mound. She shrieks, a tiny gasp, every time the sharp point punctures her flesh. Continuing to move quickly, he takes thick rubber bands and runs one from the top of each inner skewer, across her chest, to the corresponding skewer on the other side. He repeats this on the bottom. This stretches out her tits, pulling them inward toward the center. Next, he takes S-shaped, double-headed fasteners, anchors these off of the outside skewers, attaches rubber bands to these, and then pulls the thick elastic out to posts on the metal frame situated on either side of her.
For a final touch, he uses three 1/2 inch play piercing needles, and threads these under the surface of each of her nipples. At this point, you can see her starting to leave her body. Her eyes are glazed. She's not even reacting to the needles pushing through. Her mouth is hanging partially open, and goosebumps are raised all over her flesh. He feeds clear fishing line in and out of each needle, fastening these to a block hanging above her head. He ratchets this until her tit lifts up from her chest. He reapplies the Hitachi, and then hands her a manual staple gun.
The third act:
By this point, from the effect of the Hitachi and her tits being pulled in all directions, the girl has disappeared. She is no longer situated in front of the camera. Her body is there, but her mind is obliterated, floating somewhere near Jupiter. The demon occupying her body cavorts with her hands to move the staple gun to the top of her right tit, and place it against the surface of her skin.
I remember watching this the first time (i've viewed it over 45 times), and shaking my head in complete befuddlement that this girl might actually pull the trigger on the staple gun. This creature no longer occupied any mortal world i knew. Her appetites had turned into two sharp prongs: pain and pleasure. I wanted so badly to watch her wound herself. I wanted to see her desire completely invert how all of the best practices her "upbringing" had instructed her: You do not staple your body.
SNAP!*
The first staple impaled her. She yelps. Another.
*SNAP!*
Yelps again, but they are getting deeper. The demon is growing more present. She draws a line of 10 staples on the top of her tit. She moves to the left. 8 more snaps. 8 more guttoral moans.
The Hitachi continues to violently shake into her cunt. Her dominant, deliciously wicked, ups the ante. He removes the back of the chair she was resting on, so that her body is angled back, and all that is supporting her are the contrivances slung viciously through her tits. She roars in ecstasy. Her body is starting to shudder, and just when i think she has completely departed, her arms reach up, and grab ahold of the elastics stretching from the outside of her tits to the frame. Her head arches back. She's putting as much weight on these anchorings as possible, and then, she begins to yank hard on the rubberbands. She's screeching into the air, as her bound thigh muscles jerk wildly in their place. Liquid is gushing out of her pummeled cunt, until finally the last eruption occurs, and she falls limp.
What deserves immediate mention is that i do not know what stage of training this girl is at. I don't know much about her at all, in fact. I do not know how far she has come from how inexperienced she was, or whether she immediately took to this form of treatment. I know, however, that this is not her first time. That is clearly evident. What is also evident, at least in this video, is the level of care, concern and comfort her dominant offers her following this ordeal. He is soft. He strokes her face, her hair. His hands dictate his gratitude, running gracefully over her flesh, communicating with her by touch. A touch that has stepped down in magnitude from its violent, piercing statements before, and now welcomes her back, slowly, to the land of the living.
He praises her for letting go. This is a gift of endless treasure.
A great deal of my experience in exploring my sexuality has come from straddling a very thin line between the acceptable and the outrageous. Consider my kink a simple rowboat floating on open waters. I started out rowing in shallow pools encountering sights and sensations that got me so much more excited than those i saw walking as a pedestrian on land. Eventually, i rowed out away from the shore, where the sea floor began to descend beneath me, and the crystal clear surf gave way to dark, murky ocean. Yet, i stayed afloat. The further i moved away from the land, the deeper the sea grew, and yet, i found my appetites for the freakish, haunting and unknown shadows growing, keeping my head just above the surface. At some point, i may make landfall again, but for now, my home is the mighty sea.
One way of analyzing this character evolution could have someone say that i sought one shocking and challenging experience after another, that it was an addiction to the next, increasingly stronger hit. I won't dismiss this view, but what i have come to understand is the deeper, more meaningful operant. Each successive level of deviousness allowed me to release my hold on the world; essentially, to let go.
It is an interesting concept to ponder for a dominant to pursue the relinquishing of control, but i cannot express it any other way. As the extremity of my play increased, as i whipped her harder, bound her tits longer, immobilized and dehumanized her more and more, i found tranquility from the demons of the secular world that pound upon my hull. More surprising, however, is what i have learned about my motivation; that what drives this passion to push more and more is to seek, accomplish and witness the same sensation of my own submissive letting go.
As i was thinking about this recently, the most vivid example of it came to me from one of my favorite videos in my (overly) vast collection. The folks over at Torture Galaxy (talk about living upto a name) crafted this specific thrill ride involving some rather serious tit torture. I'm not an avid fan of tit torture. If i could eat only one cuisine, it would most likely be stringent bondage (with a little dehumanization/objectification tossed in). But there are certainly scenes that involve a girl and her delicious tits getting the full brunt of her dominant's sadism that hit the spot. This was one of them. And OH what a spot it hit.
The setup:
A shop, like one that a carpenter or a metalworker might have. Tools, both for torture and fabrication purposes, hang on the walls. The girl is seated in a chair that has a metal frame on her side and over her head. Her legs are duct-taped to the vinyl seat. Her arms are taped to armrests that sit about waist level. Her back is firmly resting on the rear of the chair. She is topless, and wearing only a garter belt and stockings on her bottom.
The first act:
In walks the dominant. He positions in front of her two blue vice grips that have had, in their flat plates, pins driven through them. They look like rectangular venus fly traps with endless rows of fangs on both their bottom and upper jaws. He places each tit in a separate vice, and squeezes the trigger, ratcheting down on the meat of her tit. She lets out a gloriously hungry moan as she feels the pins impressing on her flesh. He applies a Hitachi wand to her cunt, taping it in place, and she immediately reacts. Her eyes roll in the back of her head. A few minutes of this, he cuts her hands free, which quickly move to the same triggers he'd earlier squeezed, and she proceeds to slowly vice her tits, tighter and tighter, hungry for the pain in her chest and the fulfillment in her loins.
The second act:
He removes the vices. You see symmetrical rows of pink polka dots sprinkling along the surface of her skin. He moves quickly. He grabs a 10-inch long metal skewer, and impales her right tit, just on the inside of the bulb of flesh, piercing from underneath, through the tit, and out up through the top. He continues to move quickly. He mirrors this on the inside of the left tit. He then adds two more skewers on the outside of each mound. She shrieks, a tiny gasp, every time the sharp point punctures her flesh. Continuing to move quickly, he takes thick rubber bands and runs one from the top of each inner skewer, across her chest, to the corresponding skewer on the other side. He repeats this on the bottom. This stretches out her tits, pulling them inward toward the center. Next, he takes S-shaped, double-headed fasteners, anchors these off of the outside skewers, attaches rubber bands to these, and then pulls the thick elastic out to posts on the metal frame situated on either side of her.
For a final touch, he uses three 1/2 inch play piercing needles, and threads these under the surface of each of her nipples. At this point, you can see her starting to leave her body. Her eyes are glazed. She's not even reacting to the needles pushing through. Her mouth is hanging partially open, and goosebumps are raised all over her flesh. He feeds clear fishing line in and out of each needle, fastening these to a block hanging above her head. He ratchets this until her tit lifts up from her chest. He reapplies the Hitachi, and then hands her a manual staple gun.
The third act:
By this point, from the effect of the Hitachi and her tits being pulled in all directions, the girl has disappeared. She is no longer situated in front of the camera. Her body is there, but her mind is obliterated, floating somewhere near Jupiter. The demon occupying her body cavorts with her hands to move the staple gun to the top of her right tit, and place it against the surface of her skin.
I remember watching this the first time (i've viewed it over 45 times), and shaking my head in complete befuddlement that this girl might actually pull the trigger on the staple gun. This creature no longer occupied any mortal world i knew. Her appetites had turned into two sharp prongs: pain and pleasure. I wanted so badly to watch her wound herself. I wanted to see her desire completely invert how all of the best practices her "upbringing" had instructed her: You do not staple your body.
SNAP!*
The first staple impaled her. She yelps. Another.
*SNAP!*
Yelps again, but they are getting deeper. The demon is growing more present. She draws a line of 10 staples on the top of her tit. She moves to the left. 8 more snaps. 8 more guttoral moans.
The Hitachi continues to violently shake into her cunt. Her dominant, deliciously wicked, ups the ante. He removes the back of the chair she was resting on, so that her body is angled back, and all that is supporting her are the contrivances slung viciously through her tits. She roars in ecstasy. Her body is starting to shudder, and just when i think she has completely departed, her arms reach up, and grab ahold of the elastics stretching from the outside of her tits to the frame. Her head arches back. She's putting as much weight on these anchorings as possible, and then, she begins to yank hard on the rubberbands. She's screeching into the air, as her bound thigh muscles jerk wildly in their place. Liquid is gushing out of her pummeled cunt, until finally the last eruption occurs, and she falls limp.
What deserves immediate mention is that i do not know what stage of training this girl is at. I don't know much about her at all, in fact. I do not know how far she has come from how inexperienced she was, or whether she immediately took to this form of treatment. I know, however, that this is not her first time. That is clearly evident. What is also evident, at least in this video, is the level of care, concern and comfort her dominant offers her following this ordeal. He is soft. He strokes her face, her hair. His hands dictate his gratitude, running gracefully over her flesh, communicating with her by touch. A touch that has stepped down in magnitude from its violent, piercing statements before, and now welcomes her back, slowly, to the land of the living.
He praises her for letting go. This is a gift of endless treasure.
Monday, August 20, 2007
How to make a pin-up girl
Ms. Dita Von Teese, the poster girl of this here journal.
On any given weekday during the summer, i could be found not rummaging through the tall reeds and pussy willows of the creek that ran behind my house, but instead stationed on a stool at the liquor store my grandmother managed for over 40 years. The things that seared themselves into my memory were the constants of this kind, senior matriarch perpetually behooved in heels and the tabloid-sized illustrations of 50's pin-up girls hung all over her back office as well as adorning her boudoir. I spent many a glossamer-veiled afternoon quietly watching the intricate and ornate rituals she undertook to achieve her own ressemblance to those sex idols matting her walls. It would only be once i was an adult, and making demands that my intimate partners prepare themselves similarly that i would realize the sizzling affection i had for the pin-ups.We want to look, but we don't want to stare at gorgeous girls. That would be rude. Whereas, these girls didn't mind. In fact, they invited the stare, which for me made it much more safe, an open venue for me to gawk and gaze. I didn't need to pretend that i was or wasn't interested. My attraction could be met face-on as i studied the humorous and playful poses these girls accomplished, who in turn didn't seem turned off by the idea that someone was leering at them or turning them into a sexual object. I didn't seriously expect that any female would allow me to demand the look and feel to their appearance. I was as surprised as many of you may be that i live that reality. Yet, i can't quite put into words what it is like to create your very own, breathing, thriving pin-up, and i do know not a day passes without me blessing and praising the powers above that allow me this exquisite fantasy.
Now, let's begin.
The best place to start are to look at two of the masters at the art of pin-ups for inspiration. Mr. Gil Elvgren is one of the most famous of all pin-up illustrators and you can quickly see why. His drawings are candid, they catch their subject in a moment of surprise. But they are also flattering. They charm the girl by framing her in soft and inviting light. I've included a clever site that delves deeper into Gil's pinups and and his infatuation with celery.
Another one of my favorites is Alberto Vargas. His calendar currently hangs in my kitchen (right over the garbage can, just like my grandma used to do). His has a refinement that contrasts slightly with Gil's. His girls are almost more universal, more elegiac, and less personable. But this adds an element of class that holds these ladies on a very high and well-deserved pedestal.
Now, those of you who are looking to attain the look of a classic pin-up, i've listed a few places where you can begin to amass your wardrobe. And for those who've decided to keep reading (when instead of the nasty threesomes you'd hoped to find, you stumbled upon this thesis), i encourage you to also peruse the list. You may experience some inspiration to persuade your favorite gal to slide on some silk stockings. I assure you she'll thank you for them.
Daddy O's
One of my favorite online clothing stores. I could easily waste my bi-weekly payroll on over 40 or more of these frocks. Their cut, their lines, their skirts, the details, the shape. These dresses exude class and femininity. A girl can truly not go wrong to have at least one of these hanging in her cabana.
Agent (pronounced: Ah-jahnt)
If you have the opportunity to ever walk into one of Agent Provocateurs boutiques, the wave of scent that washes over you alone gives you a sensation of developing a crush. Everything they do at AP is about femininity. You will not see anything made of cotton here. No. Females deserve to have the finest silks and laces pressed against their skin, cradling their tushes, holding their soft tits. This is a store that believes lingerie shouldn't be just for honeymoons and anniversaries. Their stockings are durable and they come in all kinds of colors and differing constrast seams. Plus, they have a very naughty side. I adore their black silk blindfold that reads "Treat me like the whore i am" in pink cursive across the front of it
Secrets in Lace
SiL is another wonderful lingerie store. I can't emphasize enough the importance of a good pin-up girl's foundation undergarments. Countless times i've seen the change that occurs in a girl wearing a garter belt, seamed silk stockings and a pair of heels. They walk with express intent and focus. It's like they're armored. SiL carries an exclusive line of stockings designed and worn by Ms. Dita. My girl says that Secrets' stockings offer the most comfortable and divine feeling, but they do not last as long as AP's.
What Katie Did
I offer you one last site on lingerie just to demonstrate the plethora of options that exist. Katie offers vintage stockings, for those who are going for an authentic look, style and feel. Wonderful garments can be found here.
Besame Cosmetics
If you're beginning to think i'm a little overly obsessed with the way a girl looks, you're finally catching on. Besame isn't for everyone, but it is for the girl who wants to truly take on the overall appearance of a pin-up. They understand the appeal of classic beauty and provide numerous, charming options.
Staylace Updates and Pinups are well worth a look
I would be errant in my list if i didn't offer the mother of all corset sites. The Long Island Staylace Association (LISA) was my first jaw-dropping exposure to the array of corset-related media. In addition to providing you with images of females draped in corsets (and swear that they update daily), they also provide a tremendous resource list for corsetiers. I am a firm believer in the transformative and beneficial effect a well-made tightlacing device can have on a girl's attitude.
Whether you merely peek at a few of these links, or you seriously consider indulging in a purchase here or there, you have to admit that the pin-up girl has her allure and her flair. In one refined image, they capture the sighs, the throbs, the tugs and the thrills i've experienced when i've seen a pretty girl.
But, don't let me be the final thought on this. Go to the gal i see as the authority on the subject, Ms Kitty du Vert.
Sugasm #93
Sugasm #93
Mon 20th Aug, 07
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 #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Mon 20th Aug, 07
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 #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Friday, August 17, 2007
Marking what is mine
"Absolutely not!"
I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.
The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.
I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.
One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.
Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.
Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.
I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.
As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.
I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.
I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.
The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.
I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.
One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.
Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.
Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.
I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.
As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.
I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I've always liked the rain
I've been pleasantly surprised to find that the lovely Chelsea Girl has been kind enough to link me in her roundup on Fleshbot this week. I consider this a thrill for two reasons. The first being the many new eyes it has introduced to my journal. The second and more important reason being that i find her to be frankly one of the best writers out there in this erotic online realm.
I also wanted to take the opportunity with this post to mention that i'm overwhelmingly flattered by the many readers and bloggers who have commented on and linked to this page. Holding your attention has been a fulfilling and inspiring endeavor. Thank you. It is with great pleasure I share my take on "corrupting the feminine creature". It is with greater pleasure that I will continue to do so.
I also wanted to take the opportunity with this post to mention that i'm overwhelmingly flattered by the many readers and bloggers who have commented on and linked to this page. Holding your attention has been a fulfilling and inspiring endeavor. Thank you. It is with great pleasure I share my take on "corrupting the feminine creature". It is with greater pleasure that I will continue to do so.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Public identification
For many years, before this frightful beast called the internet, and once i'd grown tired of the boredom i found in vanilla-type dynamics, i embarked on a frequent search for an SM-consenting female. How, you might ask? Through a gay friend of mine, i'd learned about this thing called the handkerchief or hankey/hanky code. He introduced it to me when in response to him coming out to me about his homosexuality, i came out to him. That is, i told him that i like to spank and tie up girls and tell them how to behave. He was shocked (as are most folks who know me and i inform them of this or meet me for the first time once they've learned of my kink; i just have that sweet and angelic of a face), but not appalled. In fact, rather excited about assisting me in finding some girl i could torment.
I went and purchased a grey handkerchief and began putting it in my back left pocket. I felt silly at first because it clashed with my look. Over time the silliness turned into straight up awkwardness as i found myself on the receiving end of numerous propositions from gay male bottoms. In fact, it didn't yield me a single willing female.
I've often tried to grapple with the establishment of a system of public identification that would streamline the introduction of individuals on opposite sides of the power exchange. I have tired as much at avoiding the drole, "normal" dating world as i have with needing to use the same, few tired portals out there that exist to facilitate finding submissive girls. But, i also sometimes want to be able to publicly let others know about my sexuality, to let others know more about me. There are those days when i want a "Power Exchange" Pride parade. Or even just times when i'm walking with my girl, and someone would see us and could tell that she's submissive and i'm dominant.
Why i pursue this is not always about sex and fucking. Just like being gay isn't just about making out with the same sex. For me, i do not choose how i react to the opposite sex. It is an innate and completely fundamental response. I've tried many times to silence or ignore it, and i can't.
I'm not sure if it's just for sentimental reasons, or because i still secretly hope to see if it would've ever worked, but i still carry my grey handkerchief in my left pocket. I pull it out every once in awhile to wipe sweat off my brow, or to grab a door handle, and then look around to see if anyone's noticed.
I went and purchased a grey handkerchief and began putting it in my back left pocket. I felt silly at first because it clashed with my look. Over time the silliness turned into straight up awkwardness as i found myself on the receiving end of numerous propositions from gay male bottoms. In fact, it didn't yield me a single willing female.
I've often tried to grapple with the establishment of a system of public identification that would streamline the introduction of individuals on opposite sides of the power exchange. I have tired as much at avoiding the drole, "normal" dating world as i have with needing to use the same, few tired portals out there that exist to facilitate finding submissive girls. But, i also sometimes want to be able to publicly let others know about my sexuality, to let others know more about me. There are those days when i want a "Power Exchange" Pride parade. Or even just times when i'm walking with my girl, and someone would see us and could tell that she's submissive and i'm dominant.
Why i pursue this is not always about sex and fucking. Just like being gay isn't just about making out with the same sex. For me, i do not choose how i react to the opposite sex. It is an innate and completely fundamental response. I've tried many times to silence or ignore it, and i can't.
I'm not sure if it's just for sentimental reasons, or because i still secretly hope to see if it would've ever worked, but i still carry my grey handkerchief in my left pocket. I pull it out every once in awhile to wipe sweat off my brow, or to grab a door handle, and then look around to see if anyone's noticed.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Second skin
I credit the internet for many things.
It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.
It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).
Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.
When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.
I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.
The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.
Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:
Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll
It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.
It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).
Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.
When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.
I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.
The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.
Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:
Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Windmills
If the weather permits, i usually like to spend my lunch hour outside, sitting on a bench that positions me in a well-trafficked corridor of this bustling part of the city. I constantly scan the currents of pedestrians for the female components dressed in their flashiest, hippest urban professional wear. For some reason that i deem remarkably masochistic, these girls who do more walking than their suburban counterparts universally insist on wearing high heels. I don't complain. I've always enjoyed watching how a female's anatomy responds to the hitch an elevated heel manifests in their step. But these are mere distractions from the real psychology operating in my head.
I see a girl sitting across from me on a bench, and i feel an immediate compulsion to dominate. I want to grab her stare with my eyes, draw out a long sigh from her mouth as she feels herself slowly slip into trance. She may, in the middle of this illusion, decide to get up. It doesn't matter. The next one will come along soon. Sometimes i feel almost clinical, like i'm observing them through glass. Happy to do so, i'm taking detailed notes of their behavior, noting how similar they act as a gender, learning from their body language, recognizing patterns. I find that i can get quite lost in these examinations.
But why females? I'm very very curious as to why the dominance of the female body is so enthralling. It's not simply because they have a cunt. Or tits. I'm not even thinking of that when i glance at them and quickly commute them to a sentence of intense bondage. Rather i'm admiring their small wrists, their lithe necks, the way they can press their chins into their shoulders to indicate interest. I'm imagining the sum of all of these parts bound and pleading. And it happens a hundred times a day.
The girl behind the Starbucks counter who hands me my coffee. I smile at her. I seek to make her blush. I'll read her name off her nametag, tell her how beautiful i find it, then just grin at her. I know, as i'm doing this, i want to hold a momentary place in her day like a shudder, a tingle, a chill.
The girl i pass on the sidewalk, turning the corner instead of keeping straight like me. She'll flip around briefly to see if i've stopped shadowing her, but not out of fear. She sensed that i was observing her from behind, non-threateningly, and yet, still somewhat predatorily. She briefly considers playing the game.
I'll walk the platform of the subway. Travelling to a point where i know i need to stand, and i'll pass a girl waiting for the opposite train, going in the opposite direction. She'll turn her face towards me, see me smiling, and she'll bashfully offer me a smile back. A genuine smile. A smile that says "Alright, so you caught me this moment. So, i'll smile back, but only because i'm going in the opposite direction."
Or the girl who comes onto the train, once i've caught mine, at the next stop. She looks around before she sits. My antennae lift into the air. I sense a female presence. I peer at her, waiting for her eyes to fall upon me as she scans her immediate vicinity. I hold her gaze, until she sits down and recoils into herself. We will do this several times. I will keep my head turned at her, waiting for her to look my way, only to sustain the stare. Not letting it fizzle. Making her stand behind her glance and not back away from it. The intensity of the energy that builds here between two strangers is incredible. But it goes nowhere.
I do not want to dominate the entire female gender. Nor is my mind conjuring up these images because i want a conquest between the sheets. Yet, my body's reaction to these girls seems to betray that notion. My dominant side asserts itself as if it were the one in control, not i, the consulate. It is hard to describe, but the dominant facet of my personality doesn't want sex as prominently as it wants control. Control of the beautiful female entity. Control over me. It happens, constantly. A hundred times a day. I'm surrounded by this feminine energy that i want to, in small ways, conquer - to saturate it with my desires, my needs, my impulses.
I see a girl sitting across from me on a bench, and i feel an immediate compulsion to dominate. I want to grab her stare with my eyes, draw out a long sigh from her mouth as she feels herself slowly slip into trance. She may, in the middle of this illusion, decide to get up. It doesn't matter. The next one will come along soon. Sometimes i feel almost clinical, like i'm observing them through glass. Happy to do so, i'm taking detailed notes of their behavior, noting how similar they act as a gender, learning from their body language, recognizing patterns. I find that i can get quite lost in these examinations.
But why females? I'm very very curious as to why the dominance of the female body is so enthralling. It's not simply because they have a cunt. Or tits. I'm not even thinking of that when i glance at them and quickly commute them to a sentence of intense bondage. Rather i'm admiring their small wrists, their lithe necks, the way they can press their chins into their shoulders to indicate interest. I'm imagining the sum of all of these parts bound and pleading. And it happens a hundred times a day.
The girl behind the Starbucks counter who hands me my coffee. I smile at her. I seek to make her blush. I'll read her name off her nametag, tell her how beautiful i find it, then just grin at her. I know, as i'm doing this, i want to hold a momentary place in her day like a shudder, a tingle, a chill.
The girl i pass on the sidewalk, turning the corner instead of keeping straight like me. She'll flip around briefly to see if i've stopped shadowing her, but not out of fear. She sensed that i was observing her from behind, non-threateningly, and yet, still somewhat predatorily. She briefly considers playing the game.
I'll walk the platform of the subway. Travelling to a point where i know i need to stand, and i'll pass a girl waiting for the opposite train, going in the opposite direction. She'll turn her face towards me, see me smiling, and she'll bashfully offer me a smile back. A genuine smile. A smile that says "Alright, so you caught me this moment. So, i'll smile back, but only because i'm going in the opposite direction."
Or the girl who comes onto the train, once i've caught mine, at the next stop. She looks around before she sits. My antennae lift into the air. I sense a female presence. I peer at her, waiting for her eyes to fall upon me as she scans her immediate vicinity. I hold her gaze, until she sits down and recoils into herself. We will do this several times. I will keep my head turned at her, waiting for her to look my way, only to sustain the stare. Not letting it fizzle. Making her stand behind her glance and not back away from it. The intensity of the energy that builds here between two strangers is incredible. But it goes nowhere.
I do not want to dominate the entire female gender. Nor is my mind conjuring up these images because i want a conquest between the sheets. Yet, my body's reaction to these girls seems to betray that notion. My dominant side asserts itself as if it were the one in control, not i, the consulate. It is hard to describe, but the dominant facet of my personality doesn't want sex as prominently as it wants control. Control of the beautiful female entity. Control over me. It happens, constantly. A hundred times a day. I'm surrounded by this feminine energy that i want to, in small ways, conquer - to saturate it with my desires, my needs, my impulses.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Terms of surrender
It has come to my attention that things have changed between us. The persona you have played exclusively in the bedroom for many months has spilled out onto the floors of the rest of your life. I can view this in the ways you are dressing yourself. It is clear in the images of women that draw your attention. Your posture even assumes a difference when i come into the room. Patterns of breathing i'd seen only in your throes of passion now appear as we walk together.
Because of this, i offer you the following terms:
You will no longer view yourself as an autonomous being. From this point on, you will see yourself as owned. You are an object, to be held and monitored and cared for. Your needs exist outside of you. On a regular basis, you will submit to exercises that test, confront, challenge and ultimately shatter the once strong sense of free individuality you came to me with. You will live as my doll.
You will wear the clothes i choose, arrange your appearance by my specifications, and no longer own your physical identity. When you look in the mirror, you will see the alterations i have made, and you will know that you are my toy. You will gradually experience physical modifications that will take on greater and greater permanence, further marking you as mine.
You will submit to regular corporal discipline sessions, to enforce your status as the directed. At any moment, you will be asked to offer yourself, and expected to wait with your body positioned in preparation for a thrashing. You will submit to the pain, letting it guide you in the process of letting go. You will submit to the humiliation of being regularly spanked, letting it loosen your grip on your former, artificial ego. You will submit to the degradation you will feel when you realize you need this correction, letting it remind you of your place as my hungry, needy, desperate fucktoy.
You will be my possession, my property.
These terms are unconditional and non-negotiable.
Because of this, i offer you the following terms:
You will no longer view yourself as an autonomous being. From this point on, you will see yourself as owned. You are an object, to be held and monitored and cared for. Your needs exist outside of you. On a regular basis, you will submit to exercises that test, confront, challenge and ultimately shatter the once strong sense of free individuality you came to me with. You will live as my doll.
You will wear the clothes i choose, arrange your appearance by my specifications, and no longer own your physical identity. When you look in the mirror, you will see the alterations i have made, and you will know that you are my toy. You will gradually experience physical modifications that will take on greater and greater permanence, further marking you as mine.
You will submit to regular corporal discipline sessions, to enforce your status as the directed. At any moment, you will be asked to offer yourself, and expected to wait with your body positioned in preparation for a thrashing. You will submit to the pain, letting it guide you in the process of letting go. You will submit to the humiliation of being regularly spanked, letting it loosen your grip on your former, artificial ego. You will submit to the degradation you will feel when you realize you need this correction, letting it remind you of your place as my hungry, needy, desperate fucktoy.
You will be my possession, my property.
These terms are unconditional and non-negotiable.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball
Every opportunity i had to gather loose nickels and dimes, i took. A cousin taught me the trick of checking the coin return slot of pay phones for overlooked booty. My father instructed me on walking with my eyes trained to the sidewalk so as not to miss the orphaned pieces of silver currency. Everywhere i turned, an opportunity for treasure hunting arose. But it wasn't these doubloons i sought, rather what i could turn them into. Rubber balls.
Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.
I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.
She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.
I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.
Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.
I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.
I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.
Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.
I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.
She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.
I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.
Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.
I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.
I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.
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