A few more words from me, stormy. Deity will return soon, promise!
Robert and I have only known each other for about 2 months. He's a dominant man and I'm a submissive girl, but we are simply platonic friends. Yet that doesn't stop him from getting ideas in his head.
The other day, while I thought he was taking a moment of quiet reflection, he was apparently busy conjuring up a way to explain his own kinky idea of an Indecent Proposal.
"I had the most remarkable idea on the way home from work today," he said abruptly.
"I believe I shall win the lottery and purchase you."
Uh oh.
The terms: I would be 'acquired' for $1 million, for one year of service.
The conditions: I would receive no markings or body modifications for that first year; I would not be required to engage in any act that placed my life in danger or risked injury; and I could walk away at any time, with compensation for 'time served.'
Beyond those conditions, I would be owned in my entirety and used as he wished - and believe me, Robert has a very dark list of interesting activities he likes to indulge in.
This contract would be signed before a lawyer, the money placed in escrow, to be paid to me 365 days after signing. Then I could choose to sign a contract for a second year... but for only $1. Conditions to be renegotiated (and certainly not in my favor).
Hmmmm...
"Money isn't a big motivator for me," I said after some thought. "Why would you think I would ever agree to this?"
"Oh, because you want to," he answered.
Damn. And so now you know: Gambling really can be dangerous.
(Would you sign it? Personally, I find the idea terribly seductive... I'm just not telling Robert that.)
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Who's the Boss?
My name is 'stormy', and I was invited by Deity to share a few words while he and his girl enjoy their yuletide journey. Fear not: he'll be back soon!
There are plenty of sexual things that 'feel' right to me that others would find bizarre: being sexually subservient, emotionally dependent, mixing pain & pleasure, and more. But my kinks are my own, not something for everyone, and so I tend to keep my desires private but for a few close friends.
But even among friends, I've still found there are triggers that create a backlash. Like the language of sexuality.
The honorifics of D/s are something many people take very seriously. When you talk to your dominant, is he 'Daddy'? 'Master'? Or can he be just a guy named 'Jack'?
Are we driven to use the names we choose because we truly feel them, or because we think we're supposed to? I've often wondered what other submissives and dominants think of this whole issue.
I could be wrong, but when I read sex blogs, my overwhelming feeling is that most submissives address their dom as 'Master' because they think they 'should', because it makes them more genuine in some way. And by extension, it seems like many doms believe they're only properly respected if they're referred to as such.
And it's not that there's anything wrong with that but I often wonder if these people genuinely feel their role, or if they're simply following some script to legitimize themselves.
'Master' in particular is a term I have mixed feelings about. I've been in several serious D/s relationships, yet none of the men I ever formed a profound connection with ever demanded a constant form of address. It wasn't protocol they wanted, nor empty words to define what they were to me. They knew they were dominant; what they were more concerned with was ensuring I knew it, too. Right down to my bones.
I do value language a great deal, the subtleties of meaning and respect, but 'Master' often feels so forced and artificial, I've seldom felt the genuine desire to use it. In my limited experience, doms who expected it (especially early in a relationship) seldom deserved it, while those who did deserve it felt no need to demand the title.
I realize I'm generalizing here, but these are just my own impressions.
On the other hand, a form of respect I do enjoy without it being demanded of me, is 'Daddy.' Yet I've know many other submissives who have a serious aversion to the word.
Ironically, I'm not particularly interested in men who consider themselves "daddy doms" either, and I have no interest in age-play. But despite that, 'Daddy' is often the first word on my lips with the type of man I connect with. The title represents authority with compassion and total trust. He nurtures, disciplines and corrects, and I do what I'm told both because I want to please him, and because I fear him to some extent. He is both protector and tormentor.
But ultimately, do names like Master, or Daddy or whatever... do any of them really matter?
I'm always curious how dominants and other submissives feel about the issue. Why is it important - or not - that we use these chosen names for our dominant partners? What does it represent for you... is it part of some unseen script, or something you honestly feel inside you?
There are plenty of sexual things that 'feel' right to me that others would find bizarre: being sexually subservient, emotionally dependent, mixing pain & pleasure, and more. But my kinks are my own, not something for everyone, and so I tend to keep my desires private but for a few close friends.
But even among friends, I've still found there are triggers that create a backlash. Like the language of sexuality.
The honorifics of D/s are something many people take very seriously. When you talk to your dominant, is he 'Daddy'? 'Master'? Or can he be just a guy named 'Jack'?
Are we driven to use the names we choose because we truly feel them, or because we think we're supposed to? I've often wondered what other submissives and dominants think of this whole issue.
I could be wrong, but when I read sex blogs, my overwhelming feeling is that most submissives address their dom as 'Master' because they think they 'should', because it makes them more genuine in some way. And by extension, it seems like many doms believe they're only properly respected if they're referred to as such.
And it's not that there's anything wrong with that but I often wonder if these people genuinely feel their role, or if they're simply following some script to legitimize themselves.
'Master' in particular is a term I have mixed feelings about. I've been in several serious D/s relationships, yet none of the men I ever formed a profound connection with ever demanded a constant form of address. It wasn't protocol they wanted, nor empty words to define what they were to me. They knew they were dominant; what they were more concerned with was ensuring I knew it, too. Right down to my bones.
I do value language a great deal, the subtleties of meaning and respect, but 'Master' often feels so forced and artificial, I've seldom felt the genuine desire to use it. In my limited experience, doms who expected it (especially early in a relationship) seldom deserved it, while those who did deserve it felt no need to demand the title.
I realize I'm generalizing here, but these are just my own impressions.
On the other hand, a form of respect I do enjoy without it being demanded of me, is 'Daddy.' Yet I've know many other submissives who have a serious aversion to the word.
Ironically, I'm not particularly interested in men who consider themselves "daddy doms" either, and I have no interest in age-play. But despite that, 'Daddy' is often the first word on my lips with the type of man I connect with. The title represents authority with compassion and total trust. He nurtures, disciplines and corrects, and I do what I'm told both because I want to please him, and because I fear him to some extent. He is both protector and tormentor.
But ultimately, do names like Master, or Daddy or whatever... do any of them really matter?
I'm always curious how dominants and other submissives feel about the issue. Why is it important - or not - that we use these chosen names for our dominant partners? What does it represent for you... is it part of some unseen script, or something you honestly feel inside you?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Since when was naughty the opposite of nice?
'Tis the season where well-meaning girls are faced with spending a little time tied up beneath the christmas tree.
I'm leaving on an extended tour of the jolliest yuletide venues, and won't be back for awhile. But don't you worry, my devoted and slobbering readers, i will not leave you unattended.
I have asked a dear and beloved friend of mine to watch over the workshop for me in my absence. Those of you who drop by during the holidays are in for a treat for not only is she a devilish mind, but also an incredibly gifted writer.
When i first approached my friend 'stormy' with the idea of babysitting the site over Christmas, she balked at the idea, not sure her take on things would fit these hallowed pages. Au contraire, i told her. My first introduction to her was through her written word, and immediately, i was addicted. Her take on and passion for this realm continues to stun me, and i am honored that she would care to offer it to my audience.
To my readers and those just casually passing by, Happy Holidays. I look forward to a brand new year through which i can further explore my debauchery.
With that thought in mind, i leave the beautiful Kay O'Hara and a Vargas pin-up as my presents to all of you.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pet-rified
She used to corner me in the basement of her parent's house on holidays. I always took her forwardness as a thrill but certainly didn't show this to her, especially since she was two years my junior. Our parents had been friends for years and as a result, we were expected to socialize during whatever gatherings brought our two units together while the adults upstairs did their know-it-all adult thing. I'd enter their invitingly warm ranch-style house, wind my way down the long, dark staircase and immediately be lept upon by Muffy (yes, this was indeed her name). She'd grab me by the hand and with that signature spunky girl energy i've always been addicted to, she'd incessantly ask:
"Can we play? Can we play? Can we play?"
I knew exactly what sort of game she wanted to play, and of course i consented. She wanted to be my puppy, and i would spend the entire evening training her to perform all sorts of tricks, giving her food from a dish on the floor, scolding her when she misbehaved and taking her on walks (a "leash" attached to a "collar", of course). I'm not sure if our parents understood the thrill this exchange gave to both of us, but i remember them thinking it quaint and adorable, which acted as a tacit encouragement for us to continue to indulge in it. Years later, once Muffy and i had succumbed to the guilt and insecurity of our awkward teenage years, our interaction became a bitter and tense source of contention despite the sheer intimacy we shared during our childhood play.
I don't know where she is any more, so i have no way of finding out if our episodes had as profound an impact on her as they did on me. Speaking for myself, the idea of taking a girl and turning her into a pet sends shivers up and down my entire backside. I thrill at the opportunity to treat this girl in such a way that she consents to the idea of becoming my loyal animal companion. Starting from the innocuous female canvass, introduce a collar, add some bows and a bell, remove all of her clothing, tape her hands into the shape of paws (to negate her opposable thumbs) then direct her towards her cage. There, at the completion of this ritual, you have, on your hands, a non-human participant, stripped of her autonomy, trapped inside the obedient posture of a domesticated animal - this is different than my often sought after transformation of turning a girl into a doll. Instead of reimagining her in the way that fits my physical aesthetic as an object, as my pet she is wild, a lifeform with bombast and energy wholly realized as an inhuman creature seeking my guidance and direction.
And before some of you make the conclusion i suspect you will, let me pre-empt by saying this never entered the realm of bestiality. I am not reacting to her as if she were a natural-born canine, but in fact a person who knows she's a person but for the moment is acting animalistic. In the past when i've done this with a partner, if coitus occurred, it wasn't a man fucking a dog. That's not the kind of pet she's become. Here she's delicate, small, fragile and vulnerable, but without the ability to speak or interact on a human level. I can treat her with kindness or a firm hand, demand things from her that two humans wouldn't logically request. I could keep her and treat her as an innocent play thing, or with great exuberance and a growing fire inside of me, make her my slutty pet, my naughty puppy, my hungry little animal.
"Can we play? Can we play? Can we play?"
I knew exactly what sort of game she wanted to play, and of course i consented. She wanted to be my puppy, and i would spend the entire evening training her to perform all sorts of tricks, giving her food from a dish on the floor, scolding her when she misbehaved and taking her on walks (a "leash" attached to a "collar", of course). I'm not sure if our parents understood the thrill this exchange gave to both of us, but i remember them thinking it quaint and adorable, which acted as a tacit encouragement for us to continue to indulge in it. Years later, once Muffy and i had succumbed to the guilt and insecurity of our awkward teenage years, our interaction became a bitter and tense source of contention despite the sheer intimacy we shared during our childhood play.
I don't know where she is any more, so i have no way of finding out if our episodes had as profound an impact on her as they did on me. Speaking for myself, the idea of taking a girl and turning her into a pet sends shivers up and down my entire backside. I thrill at the opportunity to treat this girl in such a way that she consents to the idea of becoming my loyal animal companion. Starting from the innocuous female canvass, introduce a collar, add some bows and a bell, remove all of her clothing, tape her hands into the shape of paws (to negate her opposable thumbs) then direct her towards her cage. There, at the completion of this ritual, you have, on your hands, a non-human participant, stripped of her autonomy, trapped inside the obedient posture of a domesticated animal - this is different than my often sought after transformation of turning a girl into a doll. Instead of reimagining her in the way that fits my physical aesthetic as an object, as my pet she is wild, a lifeform with bombast and energy wholly realized as an inhuman creature seeking my guidance and direction.
And before some of you make the conclusion i suspect you will, let me pre-empt by saying this never entered the realm of bestiality. I am not reacting to her as if she were a natural-born canine, but in fact a person who knows she's a person but for the moment is acting animalistic. In the past when i've done this with a partner, if coitus occurred, it wasn't a man fucking a dog. That's not the kind of pet she's become. Here she's delicate, small, fragile and vulnerable, but without the ability to speak or interact on a human level. I can treat her with kindness or a firm hand, demand things from her that two humans wouldn't logically request. I could keep her and treat her as an innocent play thing, or with great exuberance and a growing fire inside of me, make her my slutty pet, my naughty puppy, my hungry little animal.
Friday, December 14, 2007
The machines are winning
I don't care to waste a post on the random nuances of different word combinations that get compiled in my site statistics. Those times i've read other scribes' attempts at making something of this cornucopia of mishmashed vocabulary, i haven't taken their efforts all that seriously; much in the same way i react to the internet quizzes that breakdown their personality or charm. As for what terms people search that bring them to "transformher.blogspot", i do keep an eye on this; out of curiosity for what luscious language lures unknowing readers, but also to analyze trends for any favoritism certain obsessions of mine get over others. Recently, when i was scanning the list, something alarming caught my eye.
Out of 425 key terms typed into a search engine that then led folks to clicking on my site's link, a full 105 of them had some reference to "fucking machines". That's at least 25% of all the internet searches attempted that have brought people to my wicked labyrinth. When i break it down even further, of the top 15 queried terms, 7 of them are a derivative of "fucking" and "machine" (someone actually found me while trying to look for the elusive "mashine"), for a whopping 987 visits of the total 1,057 visits from word searching alone.
Let me repeat this. For those of you accustomed to all sorts of insane traffic where your numbers per hour dwarf my modest number of visits, it may not sink in, but what i'm trying to say is this:
If all i wrote about were fucking machines, i'd be 700% more popular.
What is going on here?
I truthfully cannot say. Clearly, of all the themes i touch on in this little corner of the internet, the one that resonates with people from every continent, every major religion and every timezone is that of mechanized sexual contraptions. I'm not prepared to say why that is, which is one of the reasons i write this post because i cannot quell the curiosity. Perhaps those of you who have stumbled upon my obsessive journal of a man who likes to control and modify the females in his life only because you've been hot for stories, photos or (most likely) videos of rigid dildos pistoning in and out of wet, slick vaginas can enlighten me. What is it about the disconnection, the alienation or the bizarreness of a girl spreading her legs for a hopped-up Hoover that attracts so much of humanity?
As i wrote in my singular post about the subject, i'm not at all inspired by scenes of a girl (and i can only assume that the majority of the folks who typed in those two words in Google that landed them here are looking for machines fucking girls) merely propped up on a bench while a long stem attached to a rotor swings in and out of her pubus. What interests me is actually turning this heated femme into a machine by stripping her of any movement or say as to how much, how long or how hard the brainless device will pound into her flesh. But, i suspect, this is not the case with the mass majority of these throngs of "fucking machine" fans.
Is it the absence of the male protagonist that for so many (including me) is a major turn-off with most pornagraphic material? With a machine, you don't see the dude's awful hair, or his shitty fake bake, or hear his bursts of manly libretto whilst humping the maiden "real good". It's just a saucy female, ready to demonstrate how badly she wants sex by willingly hooking herself up to a tin torso on a tripod, and letting it ram into her.
I can sort of understand the thrill behind this display. That being said, i'm overwhelmed at the attention my previous post on the subject (and choice of vocabulary) brought to me, and genuinely feel surprised. I wasn't prepared for the interest those two words, when combined, would bring, and i would love to hear from those of you who pop in and read my entries.
If you would, drop me a comment. I'm not sure i will devote much space to hearings of this nature in the future, so please, indulge my curiosities.
Out of 425 key terms typed into a search engine that then led folks to clicking on my site's link, a full 105 of them had some reference to "fucking machines". That's at least 25% of all the internet searches attempted that have brought people to my wicked labyrinth. When i break it down even further, of the top 15 queried terms, 7 of them are a derivative of "fucking" and "machine" (someone actually found me while trying to look for the elusive "mashine"), for a whopping 987 visits of the total 1,057 visits from word searching alone.
Let me repeat this. For those of you accustomed to all sorts of insane traffic where your numbers per hour dwarf my modest number of visits, it may not sink in, but what i'm trying to say is this:
If all i wrote about were fucking machines, i'd be 700% more popular.
What is going on here?
I truthfully cannot say. Clearly, of all the themes i touch on in this little corner of the internet, the one that resonates with people from every continent, every major religion and every timezone is that of mechanized sexual contraptions. I'm not prepared to say why that is, which is one of the reasons i write this post because i cannot quell the curiosity. Perhaps those of you who have stumbled upon my obsessive journal of a man who likes to control and modify the females in his life only because you've been hot for stories, photos or (most likely) videos of rigid dildos pistoning in and out of wet, slick vaginas can enlighten me. What is it about the disconnection, the alienation or the bizarreness of a girl spreading her legs for a hopped-up Hoover that attracts so much of humanity?
As i wrote in my singular post about the subject, i'm not at all inspired by scenes of a girl (and i can only assume that the majority of the folks who typed in those two words in Google that landed them here are looking for machines fucking girls) merely propped up on a bench while a long stem attached to a rotor swings in and out of her pubus. What interests me is actually turning this heated femme into a machine by stripping her of any movement or say as to how much, how long or how hard the brainless device will pound into her flesh. But, i suspect, this is not the case with the mass majority of these throngs of "fucking machine" fans.
Is it the absence of the male protagonist that for so many (including me) is a major turn-off with most pornagraphic material? With a machine, you don't see the dude's awful hair, or his shitty fake bake, or hear his bursts of manly libretto whilst humping the maiden "real good". It's just a saucy female, ready to demonstrate how badly she wants sex by willingly hooking herself up to a tin torso on a tripod, and letting it ram into her.
I can sort of understand the thrill behind this display. That being said, i'm overwhelmed at the attention my previous post on the subject (and choice of vocabulary) brought to me, and genuinely feel surprised. I wasn't prepared for the interest those two words, when combined, would bring, and i would love to hear from those of you who pop in and read my entries.
If you would, drop me a comment. I'm not sure i will devote much space to hearings of this nature in the future, so please, indulge my curiosities.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The bottomless pit
I have a bountiful libido that has provided consistent drive for me to explore the limits, depths and extents of my fleshly desires. I take the pragmatic approach by saying that it hasn't always existed at the current high elevation. Occasionally, the drive for sex resembled an arid and empty desert landscape. But, mostly, it has rushed through my veins with a velocity that thins my blood and makes my head swim.
I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.
As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.
I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.
The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.
The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.
I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.
As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.
I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.
The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.
The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.
Sugasm #109
Sugasm 109
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #110? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Body Image In Art, Porn & Media
“Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do.”
The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections
“I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same.”
When Natural Doesn’t Feel Natural at All
“I’d kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn’t remember what I look like in full and natural form.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Pic(k) of the Day
Editor’s Choice
Darkroom Fantasy
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Blow-up dolls
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Head trip
Tomorrow, i get to visit my girl's corsetier to discuss and review the mock-up of my latest commission. Trying to negotiate our three very cluttered schedules has been very difficult, so finally having the chance to see his progress has me very excited. What the item is, and the occasion for which it is being built adds a great deal to my excitement.
As i've expressed, i'm deeply obsessed with neck corsets. I own three different models already, but still cannot find (if it's possible at all) satisfaction with them. The act of covering over my girl's face, features and head has also imbibed my body with an impulsive energy that i frequently act upon. I will occasionally, amidst a daydream, doodle on a notepad a binding pose, an hourglass silhouette, or even a piece of equipment that forges from the alloys of my sexual appetites. One afternoon, after an intense drawing session, i studied the left margins of my office notepad to discover a rough draft of an idea for a new device.
Every year, my girl and i exchange the traditional yuletide presents in front of family, reserving for a private gift exchange one 'naughty' item. It's funny, but as is the case with most of my material infatuations, both of our sexy cadeaus tend to be something that can be used upon or worn by her. This year is no different.
My XXXmas gift (i know, *gag*) to her:
The process of designing this began several months ago, ignited by my disgust with the lacing hoods available both in the stores and online. As is the case with most mass-produced articles of clothing, what exists has no real sexiness to their design or detail - they offer only function. Not only that, but most individuals seeking such items tend to be of the male persuasion, and knowing this, the manufacturers keep their targeted audience's blocky, sharp and usually thicker features in mind when assembling these kinky textiles. Having this problem with most of the gear i've sought for my girl's delicate frame, it forced me to seek other options.
For someone who essentially seeks the eradication of their partner's attractive physical features by submerging them under layers of thick, binding material, it may sound odd that there would be a need for such extensive customization of this covering. Cloaking and then recreating as best as possible the shapes that i study and gaze at in great lustful detail - the slope that pours down over her cheek, the ridge where her jawbone meets her neck, the ever graceful but slight roundness of the back of her head - in dark leather actually goes further towards accomplishing her objectification. I've dissected her anatomy many times, over and over in my mind, dividing her into a long list of her beautiful components. Turning her head and neck into a shiny, leather-clad bust, with no evidence of the living, breathing human trapped beneath honors the summation of this list by forming from it sculpture, a work of art.
With all of this in mind, i came to Mr. S (the corsetier) and described to him what i wanted. He sketched out a facsimile that i tweaked until we reached a serviceable template. As an aside, having a willing artisan at my beck and call who can take my visions and give them three dimensions is a recipe for danger. With him on board, i'm one step closer to achieving my maniacal quest for ultimate domination (cue hysterical laughter). There are definitely aspects of this that could be trouble as i, one who suffers from serious impulsive and compulsive obsessiveness, can attest to with past experiences. My girl reflected this concern by commenting after our previous exit from Mr. S's studio, which was a routine trip for corset maintenance until i suddenly whipped out my idea for a hood without her even aware i had been contemplating it at all.
"You know, i love having him around to craft a new corset now and then, but his ability to satisfy these device requests of yours could get dangerous."
I just grinned.
During our outing tomorrow, he'll have a complete preliminary version of both the hood and neck corset (including boning) which my girl will patiently* model as he tugs, draws out or adds material to the head gear. Even this spectacle stimulates me. During this fitting period, she must stand there (and in the case of this hood and its features - silently*) while he and i comment on how it looks on her or whether it is suitably constraining. She has no currency in this exchange. Mr. S and i will negotiate any changes that should be made to the item, while our mannequin stands there quietly awaiting her fate*.
*She's a saint.
As i've expressed, i'm deeply obsessed with neck corsets. I own three different models already, but still cannot find (if it's possible at all) satisfaction with them. The act of covering over my girl's face, features and head has also imbibed my body with an impulsive energy that i frequently act upon. I will occasionally, amidst a daydream, doodle on a notepad a binding pose, an hourglass silhouette, or even a piece of equipment that forges from the alloys of my sexual appetites. One afternoon, after an intense drawing session, i studied the left margins of my office notepad to discover a rough draft of an idea for a new device.
Every year, my girl and i exchange the traditional yuletide presents in front of family, reserving for a private gift exchange one 'naughty' item. It's funny, but as is the case with most of my material infatuations, both of our sexy cadeaus tend to be something that can be used upon or worn by her. This year is no different.
My XXXmas gift (i know, *gag*) to her:
The process of designing this began several months ago, ignited by my disgust with the lacing hoods available both in the stores and online. As is the case with most mass-produced articles of clothing, what exists has no real sexiness to their design or detail - they offer only function. Not only that, but most individuals seeking such items tend to be of the male persuasion, and knowing this, the manufacturers keep their targeted audience's blocky, sharp and usually thicker features in mind when assembling these kinky textiles. Having this problem with most of the gear i've sought for my girl's delicate frame, it forced me to seek other options.
For someone who essentially seeks the eradication of their partner's attractive physical features by submerging them under layers of thick, binding material, it may sound odd that there would be a need for such extensive customization of this covering. Cloaking and then recreating as best as possible the shapes that i study and gaze at in great lustful detail - the slope that pours down over her cheek, the ridge where her jawbone meets her neck, the ever graceful but slight roundness of the back of her head - in dark leather actually goes further towards accomplishing her objectification. I've dissected her anatomy many times, over and over in my mind, dividing her into a long list of her beautiful components. Turning her head and neck into a shiny, leather-clad bust, with no evidence of the living, breathing human trapped beneath honors the summation of this list by forming from it sculpture, a work of art.
With all of this in mind, i came to Mr. S (the corsetier) and described to him what i wanted. He sketched out a facsimile that i tweaked until we reached a serviceable template. As an aside, having a willing artisan at my beck and call who can take my visions and give them three dimensions is a recipe for danger. With him on board, i'm one step closer to achieving my maniacal quest for ultimate domination (cue hysterical laughter). There are definitely aspects of this that could be trouble as i, one who suffers from serious impulsive and compulsive obsessiveness, can attest to with past experiences. My girl reflected this concern by commenting after our previous exit from Mr. S's studio, which was a routine trip for corset maintenance until i suddenly whipped out my idea for a hood without her even aware i had been contemplating it at all.
"You know, i love having him around to craft a new corset now and then, but his ability to satisfy these device requests of yours could get dangerous."
I just grinned.
During our outing tomorrow, he'll have a complete preliminary version of both the hood and neck corset (including boning) which my girl will patiently* model as he tugs, draws out or adds material to the head gear. Even this spectacle stimulates me. During this fitting period, she must stand there (and in the case of this hood and its features - silently*) while he and i comment on how it looks on her or whether it is suitably constraining. She has no currency in this exchange. Mr. S and i will negotiate any changes that should be made to the item, while our mannequin stands there quietly awaiting her fate*.
*She's a saint.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Blow-up dolls
As a child, i used to sneak into the upstairs hall closet to fish out a handful of sterile latex gloves from the supply my mom insisted on keeping in the off-chance that one of us rambunctious kids would incur a wound and need immediate in-home surgery. Safe in my room, i'd layer these rubber mittens over my hands, then go to sleep for what was a very restless slumber. A deep desire to find my extremities somehow transformed into rubbery appendages would wake me up frequently throughout the night. Come dawn, the only thing i would find would be thirsty, pale digits with pruney fingerprints once i sloughed the gloves off.
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.
Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Burlesque, boots and booze
I took my girl on a date to a burlesque show last night at a supper club. It's something we do every month or so, and with the recent renaissance of the art form, the options and venues are growing, which means there are ample selections to choose from.
I love the idea of dressing to the nines, taking in a show, going to a supper club, drinking cocktails instead of just liquor. It feels old-fashioned and sophisticated without being elite or pretentious. And what continues to thrill me are the little customs surrounding this entire outing. I usually don a suit with my sharp, brown felt fedora, which always receives mention for its too-rare of a common stance. Last night, my girl wore her tuxedo corset with pink accents, a nice long black skirt with built-in petticoats and her tall black leather boots. I watch her get ready from start to finish, relishing the methodical manner she employs to transform from frumpy weekender to roving pin-up. The whipped-cream-AND-cherry-on-top is when she pulls her boots on.
To say that i'm a sucker for a gal in tall black leather boots would be doing a disservice to all the other well-mannered suckers out there. I anxiously await this time of year for the annual blossoming of the knee high heels, erecting tribute to the person who first invented this fashion by giving their creation my full uninterrupted attention. No matter what i'm doing at the time, my eyes get ripped away from the conversation or activity i'm engaged in and follow the ebony gams swinging gorgeously beneath the passing female pedestrian. I gush when a gal wears attractively comported heels, but my reaction to boots is entirely more aggressive. I see them as such overt sexual objects which can be viewed in their common use in Halloween costumes, and by prostitutes and dominatrices. I imagine a girl wearing boots as attempting to affect a specific erotic aura when sliding a pair up her legs, which makes the item even more potent. I adore watching my girl put them on, slowly dragging the zipper up as if to say "These are the lines you will not be able to take your eyes off the rest of the evening", all the while giving me a slight, playful peek of her lingerie because her dress is hiked a little to accommodate the tallness of the footwear. I enjoy taking her to a shoe shine kiosk in the train station and stand off in the distance, watching her boots get a shiny gleam. This activity gives the boots the appearance as being part of her body, and the person handling them with his precise strokes strengthens this illusion.
Once we arrived at the lounge, i was delighted to see that our pre-paid tickets had us sitting right near the stage, which always makes the evening more enjoyable as invariably the MC when interacting with the crowd will, at some point, comment on my girl and her elegant appearance. The evening's host was one of my favorites, a drag-king who pulls off a great rendition of a 50's showbiz ham á la Don Rickles, who ridicules and heckles the audience (or "folks" and "kids" as he refers to us) with a faux-inebriated glee. And because the host is a lesbian dressed as a man, he can interact with the females on stage and in the assemblage in a lewd and objectifying way without coming off as creepy. I was thoroughly impressed with the girls and their routines: playful, provocative, feminine and very sexy.
I enjoy sharing this activity with my girl because we have such a shared appreciation for the art form and the culture that had originally birthed it. We can indulge ourselves in the pretty, costumed and made-up girls prancing to campy music or jazz standards without a need to hide this activity from the other as seems to be the case with visits my vanilla friends covertly make to strip clubs. These evenings usually involve a considerable amount of booze due to the atmosphere and the type of crowds that attend, and by the end of the evening i end up guiding my adorably tipsy girl into a cab, making sure i've collected all of her numerous accessories.
Oh, and i was right about the host commenting on my girl. He pulled her up on stage and made her participate in a contest to "out-dance" the other dilettantes. I smiled widely as i watched her wiggle around under the spotlights, taking great delight in the enchanted gasps from those in the crowd around me as they saw, upon her turning around, the knotted laces of her corset going from the small of her neck to her lower back.
I love the idea of dressing to the nines, taking in a show, going to a supper club, drinking cocktails instead of just liquor. It feels old-fashioned and sophisticated without being elite or pretentious. And what continues to thrill me are the little customs surrounding this entire outing. I usually don a suit with my sharp, brown felt fedora, which always receives mention for its too-rare of a common stance. Last night, my girl wore her tuxedo corset with pink accents, a nice long black skirt with built-in petticoats and her tall black leather boots. I watch her get ready from start to finish, relishing the methodical manner she employs to transform from frumpy weekender to roving pin-up. The whipped-cream-AND-cherry-on-top is when she pulls her boots on.
To say that i'm a sucker for a gal in tall black leather boots would be doing a disservice to all the other well-mannered suckers out there. I anxiously await this time of year for the annual blossoming of the knee high heels, erecting tribute to the person who first invented this fashion by giving their creation my full uninterrupted attention. No matter what i'm doing at the time, my eyes get ripped away from the conversation or activity i'm engaged in and follow the ebony gams swinging gorgeously beneath the passing female pedestrian. I gush when a gal wears attractively comported heels, but my reaction to boots is entirely more aggressive. I see them as such overt sexual objects which can be viewed in their common use in Halloween costumes, and by prostitutes and dominatrices. I imagine a girl wearing boots as attempting to affect a specific erotic aura when sliding a pair up her legs, which makes the item even more potent. I adore watching my girl put them on, slowly dragging the zipper up as if to say "These are the lines you will not be able to take your eyes off the rest of the evening", all the while giving me a slight, playful peek of her lingerie because her dress is hiked a little to accommodate the tallness of the footwear. I enjoy taking her to a shoe shine kiosk in the train station and stand off in the distance, watching her boots get a shiny gleam. This activity gives the boots the appearance as being part of her body, and the person handling them with his precise strokes strengthens this illusion.
Once we arrived at the lounge, i was delighted to see that our pre-paid tickets had us sitting right near the stage, which always makes the evening more enjoyable as invariably the MC when interacting with the crowd will, at some point, comment on my girl and her elegant appearance. The evening's host was one of my favorites, a drag-king who pulls off a great rendition of a 50's showbiz ham á la Don Rickles, who ridicules and heckles the audience (or "folks" and "kids" as he refers to us) with a faux-inebriated glee. And because the host is a lesbian dressed as a man, he can interact with the females on stage and in the assemblage in a lewd and objectifying way without coming off as creepy. I was thoroughly impressed with the girls and their routines: playful, provocative, feminine and very sexy.
I enjoy sharing this activity with my girl because we have such a shared appreciation for the art form and the culture that had originally birthed it. We can indulge ourselves in the pretty, costumed and made-up girls prancing to campy music or jazz standards without a need to hide this activity from the other as seems to be the case with visits my vanilla friends covertly make to strip clubs. These evenings usually involve a considerable amount of booze due to the atmosphere and the type of crowds that attend, and by the end of the evening i end up guiding my adorably tipsy girl into a cab, making sure i've collected all of her numerous accessories.
Oh, and i was right about the host commenting on my girl. He pulled her up on stage and made her participate in a contest to "out-dance" the other dilettantes. I smiled widely as i watched her wiggle around under the spotlights, taking great delight in the enchanted gasps from those in the crowd around me as they saw, upon her turning around, the knotted laces of her corset going from the small of her neck to her lower back.
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