Since Deity will be back with you in just a day or two, this will be my last post. It has been a delight to make a contribution to this blog. I have gathered much inspiration from the pages here over time, and I have loved the opportunity to give something back.
He’s a special bloke, our Deity. When I wrote and told him how much I was enjoying writing the posts and that I found it liberating, he wrote back to say how pleased he was to hear it. He said that it had accomplished something that he had hoped when he first envisioned me writing for the blog. You see what I mean? Very special, indeed!
I’d like to leave you all with a memory. It was a very special day for me and I hold the memory dear. Now, it pleases me to share it with you...
One Saturday morning, quite early in the morning, my husband awoke me and asked if I had anything special to do that morning. Groggily, I told that I did not.
“Good. Then, have a quick shower, put on your blue skirt...that bohemian one...and the white crocheted top. No underwear. We are going to the Botanical Gardens for your punishment.”
“But, what about the children?”
“The children are old enough to be left on their own and you know it. Quickly now! No more delaying. Your punishment is well overdue.”
I prepared for our ‘outing’ with a sense of reluctance, together with a sense of heightened anticipation. I was quiet, contemplative and resigned to my fate.
There were few cars on the roads, but plenty of runners on the track that leads around the Gardens. I chose not to look into the faces of the running men. Could they know the reason the man accompanying me carried a thin piece of bamboo as one would a walking stick? In any case, I looked the other way to avoid the potential embarrassment.
As we made our way into the depths of the Gardens we travelled the paths that led past all varieties of plants, hand in hand. Neither of us spoke. When we reached ‘the thicket’, the vast planting of bamboo with an entrance that was denied to visitors (though not us), my husband searched the area for onlookers and on seeing none, beckoned me to follow him.
We passed the hundreds of bamboo plants, enough bamboo to make canes to last a lifetime, until we reached the secluded bench by the lake, deep in shade. It was a little area we had discovered and claimed our own. That is not to say that it was exclusively ours. Boys and girls from the local grammar school ventured here too, as disclosed by the cigarette packets they left behind. I reminded myself that no self-respecting teenager would venture to the Gardens this early in the morning.
“All right. I want you to tell me why you are about to be punished.”
“Because...because I didn’t fill up my car with petrol, and we ran out in the city last week.”
“Yes, that’s right. And, have you had many warnings about filling your car up well before it reaches empty on the gauge?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Yes, you certainly have. Perhaps once you’ve had a caning for it, you might decide it would be in your interest to attend to the matter earlier. All right. Now, I want you to bend over the back of the bench. Rest the palms of your hands on the seat, please.”
I did as I was asked.
He lifted the back of the light, cotton skirt over my back to reveal my bare bottom.
“There will be twelve strokes and extras if you come up. Remember, you need to be very, very quiet. Understand?”
I nodded.
He stood beside me and rested the cane across my bottom, tapping a little. Then, he lifted it up and brought it down on my bottom, hard.
“What do you say?”
“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
As each stroke created a new stripe on my bottom, I willed myself to be stoic, but the fifth stroke was searing and without a thought, I was up, and turned, with my arms around his neck and my head in his shoulder.
“Please, please no more. It really hurts. I will be good. I promise. I won’t ever do it again.”
“I’m sure you are sorry, sweetheart, but when I say there will be twelve strokes, I mean it. Now, you have been good up until now. Be a good...”
“Ohhh. There’s someone there. I can see someone with a backpack through the plants. He’s stopped. He’s listening.”
“Quiet now. Be very quiet, and he’ll go away.”
We waited, glued together, still as statues.
“Okay. He’s gone now. It’s safe. Back over the bench, little one. Be a good girl and after it is over, I will take you to breakfast.”
I let go of him, and returned to my whipping bench. I revealed my poor bottom to his cane. He proceeded on with the punishment and I willed myself to take the strokes silently. He had taken over the counting, softly declaring the number taken.
“Nine.”
“Nine!! That was number 10.”
“Oh, I see, you still have your wits about you. Yes, that was ten.”
If he was testing me to see if I would launch from the seat to hit him, he wasn’t going to win. I had come this far. I wasn’t rising without permission. My mind was settled on it.
Eleven was easy. Twelve, the final stroke, was hard. He had made a point to tell me that it would be memorable, and it was. The stroke landed on my thigh. The thick welt was immediate and I sucked in air and shook to contain the pain without sound.
He helped me to stand when I was ready and hugged me tight.
“Good girl. My good girl. I am proud of you. Come and sit with me so that I can comfort you.”
We cuddled and watched the ducks pass by in front of us for several minutes; he often caressing my thigh, as if to will the welt away.
“You must keep the car filled with petrol, now, darling, all right? It is dangerous to be so low all the time. Do you promise me you won’t do it again?”
“I promise.”
“All right, then. Let’s get some breakfast now.”
We left the thicket and made the way back along the paths to the cafe. Their seats are wooden and the sitting was anything but comfortable. But, I was happy, and proud of myself. I had never loved him more.
As this year comes to a close, we look ahead to a new year, full of the promise and hope that all beginnings bring. Our little community here knows the value of being true to ourselves, listening carefully to one another and looking out for one another. Each and every one of us, in our own way, can make a difference to the shape of this New Year around the world.
I wish you all a joyous and peaceful 2009.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
THE LITTLE MOMENTS
It’s Sunday morning. Still not quite awake, I become aware of a red dog collar being placed around my neck...and then my nipples being pinched. I can feel myself ‘drop’ as my body is manipulated into another position. It is the beginning of a morning of intense ‘pleasure’ (or pain); a morning that will see me float through the day, and even sustain me for longer than the day. This is the feast.
It’s Tuesday morning. Still not quite awake, he comes to my side of the bed and pulls the covers off; feels my body - my cunt, bottom and breasts. He returns the covers and tucks me in tight; kisses me on the lips and tells me to be a good girl while he is away. He leaves for the rest of the week. This is the famine.
But in between the feast and the famine, there must be nourishment. The little moments constitute the nourishment that sustains me from one feast to the other, without dying of starvation. The little moments reminds me of who I am and why I live this way.
I’m inclined to think that structure, rules, rituals...call them what you will...are the mainstay of our relationships. I’ve often wondered what other people’s rituals are, and I have long harboured a desire for some of my own. My mentor provides delicious moments for his girl. He puts her on an invisible ‘cunt leash’ sometimes when they are out with friends; at a party perhaps. If she breaks the leash by moving away from him, consequences await her upon their return home. So, let’s say she has moved away – by design or by mistake. And, let’s say, he notices. He says to her, “Come here”. Vanilla folk won’t pay much attention to these words, but his girl knows what they mean. She knows she’s going to bed with a bloody sore backside. I suspect it’s a heady moment, felt all the way to her cunt; bittersweet.
I have an exercise that I am required to do daily. It is not my own invention but rather one that was taught to me by a dear cyberspace friend, some time ago. He refers to it as ‘bar time’, so PH if you are reading, my heartfelt thanks. I suppose it is an extension of yoga and requires me to undress, at least below the waist. I spread my legs about three feet apart and I reach down and touch my ankles (or a bar if you happen to have one). I hold the position for fifteen minutes, not moving at all. In that time, I ruminate, and try very hard to think about my decision to submit.
If I am feeling scattered, this exercise is difficult. Three minutes can seem an eternity. But, as I hold the position, I do begin to feel more settled. Upon completion, I feel pleased with myself that I did it. (I’ve had a spot of bother maintaining consistency with this daily routine, to the chagrin of the dominants in my life!) Of course, there is a level of humiliation in the exercise too, which works nicely for me. As well, I keep an electronic journal that I must write daily.
Then, there is the permission seeking for bed time at the end of the day. I owe this last ritual completely to Deity and I sent him my thanks at the time. I just love how such a little thing created harmony between my man and me when before that, it had been something of a stalemate. I can’t keep my eyes open after midnight, and that’s when his eyes widen with all the possibilities afforded him to conjure up ideas in the silence of the early morning. Asking permission and being put to bed was the perfect solution.
It was a particularly golden day recently when I opened an email from my mentor which informed me that:
“Perhaps we need a symbol for you, some sign that you are submitting, so that when your man tells you off that it is clear to him that you are accepting his message to you and submitting to him.”
I just love the way the man reads my mind. He goes on later to say:
“I'm thinking that one way to signal your submission would be to put your hands behind your back. When a sub puts her hands behind her back, she should put each of her wrists in the small of her back, one above the other, so that they are above her waist. This way, if the dom needs to whip her then her hands are already out of the way. The sub should never put her hands over her bottom because this allows her to feel the security of possibly blocking the blows. That's strictly not allowed. So, my suggestion, off hand, would be that at least you stand and put your hands behind your back, facing him and paying attention. This will make it much easier for him to see that you are submitting, and it will also allow you to separate from whatever emotions you were having before he addressed you.”
Brilliant!
Now, if you were not a submissive type, this sort of suggestion would have you very upset. It would be a ‘How dare he make such a dreadful suggestion!’ moment. But, I’m long past pretending that such a suggestion isn’t perfect for me and the type of relationship I want.
It is rather ironic that when I can be so sure of exactly what I want, I have such trouble giving that information to my man. It is not so much that it is embarrassing, as it just doesn’t feel right to be giving your man ideas directly. So, what to do? Well, slipping the idea into the conversation surreptitiously can work; as if it is no big deal.
“Janus sent through an interesting idea today.”
“Did he?”
“Mmmm. He had this idea for me to put my hands behind my back, in the small of my back...you know...sort of one wrist crossed over the other...as a sort of symbol of submission. Go figure, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyways...fancy a cup of tea?”
And, then? Well, I wait, basically. I wait for him to put the idea into action – however long that takes.
In the meantime, I used the move in Pilates class. There is an exercise where we are required to put our hands behind our backs. There are no prizes for guessing my little variation on this. Of course, I cross my wrists, one over the other, and place my hands in the small of my back, just as Janus suggested, and I pretend that I am required to do so, or else. It’s a buzz, while I wait for the real thing.
I am happy to report that the ‘real thing’ took place last weekend. Inclined to cheekiness at a family gathering, I was sent to the corner upon our return, AND I was told to put my hands in the small of my back, with one wrist crossing the other. YES!!!! After I was given enough time to think about the consequences of my actions that day, along he came and took from around my neck the long, thin silk scarf I was wearing. He tied my wrists together. DOUBLE YES!!!! What he did then really isn’t suitable reading, but rest assured I learned my lesson.
I’m sure there are so many little rituals to discover out there. Why not write in and tell me your favourite?
Postscript: This post was written before my ‘no hinting’ rule came into force. As I re-read it, I see that it is ridiculously revealing! I think I just cooked my own goose. Again.
It’s Tuesday morning. Still not quite awake, he comes to my side of the bed and pulls the covers off; feels my body - my cunt, bottom and breasts. He returns the covers and tucks me in tight; kisses me on the lips and tells me to be a good girl while he is away. He leaves for the rest of the week. This is the famine.
But in between the feast and the famine, there must be nourishment. The little moments constitute the nourishment that sustains me from one feast to the other, without dying of starvation. The little moments reminds me of who I am and why I live this way.
I’m inclined to think that structure, rules, rituals...call them what you will...are the mainstay of our relationships. I’ve often wondered what other people’s rituals are, and I have long harboured a desire for some of my own. My mentor provides delicious moments for his girl. He puts her on an invisible ‘cunt leash’ sometimes when they are out with friends; at a party perhaps. If she breaks the leash by moving away from him, consequences await her upon their return home. So, let’s say she has moved away – by design or by mistake. And, let’s say, he notices. He says to her, “Come here”. Vanilla folk won’t pay much attention to these words, but his girl knows what they mean. She knows she’s going to bed with a bloody sore backside. I suspect it’s a heady moment, felt all the way to her cunt; bittersweet.
I have an exercise that I am required to do daily. It is not my own invention but rather one that was taught to me by a dear cyberspace friend, some time ago. He refers to it as ‘bar time’, so PH if you are reading, my heartfelt thanks. I suppose it is an extension of yoga and requires me to undress, at least below the waist. I spread my legs about three feet apart and I reach down and touch my ankles (or a bar if you happen to have one). I hold the position for fifteen minutes, not moving at all. In that time, I ruminate, and try very hard to think about my decision to submit.
If I am feeling scattered, this exercise is difficult. Three minutes can seem an eternity. But, as I hold the position, I do begin to feel more settled. Upon completion, I feel pleased with myself that I did it. (I’ve had a spot of bother maintaining consistency with this daily routine, to the chagrin of the dominants in my life!) Of course, there is a level of humiliation in the exercise too, which works nicely for me. As well, I keep an electronic journal that I must write daily.
Then, there is the permission seeking for bed time at the end of the day. I owe this last ritual completely to Deity and I sent him my thanks at the time. I just love how such a little thing created harmony between my man and me when before that, it had been something of a stalemate. I can’t keep my eyes open after midnight, and that’s when his eyes widen with all the possibilities afforded him to conjure up ideas in the silence of the early morning. Asking permission and being put to bed was the perfect solution.
It was a particularly golden day recently when I opened an email from my mentor which informed me that:
“Perhaps we need a symbol for you, some sign that you are submitting, so that when your man tells you off that it is clear to him that you are accepting his message to you and submitting to him.”
I just love the way the man reads my mind. He goes on later to say:
“I'm thinking that one way to signal your submission would be to put your hands behind your back. When a sub puts her hands behind her back, she should put each of her wrists in the small of her back, one above the other, so that they are above her waist. This way, if the dom needs to whip her then her hands are already out of the way. The sub should never put her hands over her bottom because this allows her to feel the security of possibly blocking the blows. That's strictly not allowed. So, my suggestion, off hand, would be that at least you stand and put your hands behind your back, facing him and paying attention. This will make it much easier for him to see that you are submitting, and it will also allow you to separate from whatever emotions you were having before he addressed you.”
Brilliant!
Now, if you were not a submissive type, this sort of suggestion would have you very upset. It would be a ‘How dare he make such a dreadful suggestion!’ moment. But, I’m long past pretending that such a suggestion isn’t perfect for me and the type of relationship I want.
It is rather ironic that when I can be so sure of exactly what I want, I have such trouble giving that information to my man. It is not so much that it is embarrassing, as it just doesn’t feel right to be giving your man ideas directly. So, what to do? Well, slipping the idea into the conversation surreptitiously can work; as if it is no big deal.
“Janus sent through an interesting idea today.”
“Did he?”
“Mmmm. He had this idea for me to put my hands behind my back, in the small of my back...you know...sort of one wrist crossed over the other...as a sort of symbol of submission. Go figure, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyways...fancy a cup of tea?”
And, then? Well, I wait, basically. I wait for him to put the idea into action – however long that takes.
In the meantime, I used the move in Pilates class. There is an exercise where we are required to put our hands behind our backs. There are no prizes for guessing my little variation on this. Of course, I cross my wrists, one over the other, and place my hands in the small of my back, just as Janus suggested, and I pretend that I am required to do so, or else. It’s a buzz, while I wait for the real thing.
I am happy to report that the ‘real thing’ took place last weekend. Inclined to cheekiness at a family gathering, I was sent to the corner upon our return, AND I was told to put my hands in the small of my back, with one wrist crossing the other. YES!!!! After I was given enough time to think about the consequences of my actions that day, along he came and took from around my neck the long, thin silk scarf I was wearing. He tied my wrists together. DOUBLE YES!!!! What he did then really isn’t suitable reading, but rest assured I learned my lesson.
I’m sure there are so many little rituals to discover out there. Why not write in and tell me your favourite?
Postscript: This post was written before my ‘no hinting’ rule came into force. As I re-read it, I see that it is ridiculously revealing! I think I just cooked my own goose. Again.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO WHIP ME?
Hello readers. I’m Vesta and I’m filling in for Deity while he is on holiday. Rest assured that he will be back with you very soon.
Whilst I truly do love all of Deity’s posts, one of my personal favourite topics is the Friday night disciplinary session with his girl. There is something so erotic about reading of somebody else’s punishment, don’t you think? I know that sounds a little mean, but let’s face it, it’s true.
Yet, it occurs to me that one’s reaction to these posts might depend on which end of the stick one is on. Let me give you an example. I like to write erotic stories and so does a cyberspace dominant friend of mine from England. I will send him a story, and he’ll come back with a comment like, “Yes, it’s good, but can you go into some more detail about what her bottom looked like with the marks?” After reading one of his stories I have been known to say something like, “Loved it! But, to be honest, I don’t really need to know that his balls are enlarging and so on.” This inclines me to think that men and women want different things out of erotic writing. We all want to know what happened and how the poor wretch was disciplined, but maybe women want to know a bit more about how she felt about it all, and why that nasty man who is thrashing her backside felt the need to do so.
Deity tends to relate what happened in vivid detail. That’s good. It certainly works for me. He tells us about how he positioned her, and tied her, and what implements he used. He tends to take us into his mind and detail the planning and the pleasure of the exercise, from his perspective, of course. It is better than cheesecake to read and I love every yummy detail, but almost every time, I find myself asking the same question. “But, what did she do wrong?”
Now, we all know that she didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. Quite possibly, Deity came home and advised that although she had been a perfect angel the entire week, the punishment session was going ahead because it would do her good, or he didn’t want to neglect her, or it would settle her for the weekend, or he’d been looking forward to it all week, or any such excuse as that.
But, on the other hand, it is also more than possible that his girl was indeed, quite naughty. So, what did she do? Precisely why is she about to be striped like a tiger for at least part of the coming weekend? I asked Deity this question once. He graciously informed me that she was, getting up later than she should in the mornings. Oh! I don’t know about you, but the setting of my alarm clock became a particularly poignant moment for me the evening I read that!
But, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t take the matter of ‘punishment’ seriously. In fact, I take it very seriously. I have a mentor. We have not met, and we live in different countries, but he and I correspond regularly, and he also emails my husband once a week with a ‘report’. Let’s call him Janus, since that is the God for Doorways and New Beginnings. I think he’ll approve of that. Janus believes very strongly in the teaching of ‘lessons’. Even thousands of miles away, he has a way of teaching a girl a lesson. He can rely on my husband to mete out any flagellation required, of course, but this is only one part of the punishment session. First, says Janus, the dominant talks to the sub about what she has done wrong. She needs to acknowledge all her transgressions (somehow any naughtiness of mine tends to have a good four subsets to it). She needs to apologize for her naughtiness and she needs to ask to be punished. By the time a girl gets through the speech, the acknowledgement, the apology and the request for punishment, a girl feels pretty naughty and in need of punishment, let me assure you. And, after the punishment, naturally, the girl thanks him for punishing her. Oh yes, indeed!
Not long ago, it was a very busy time for us both and Janus put a limit on the number of emails that I could write, as well as a word limit for each email. I didn’t consider this a problem until I hit a day when I found myself in a chatty mood and I blithered on, without a care in the world. Of course, Janus tends to have a tighter grip on the rules than me sometimes and it didn’t pass him by that this was a wordy email.
“I’m sorry, but this is too long. It's over the 1000 word limit by about 213 words. To make sure you're clear on this, you will need to write some lines for me. You will use your best penmanship and you will show the lines to Jove when you are finished. You will ask if he approves, and you will need to get his approval that you've done a good job or you'll need to do them again. For this, I want you to write me 213 times the line:
"I shall be concise in expressing my thoughts."
I'm sorry that you've taken on this new and boring writing assignment, but let's be very clear that the rules are not to be broken."
Damn! But, what could I say? It was my mistake. And, I had already learnt the lesson about arguing the point. I did the lines. The next day, I let Janus know that the lines had been written. He wrote back,
"I'm glad you did your lines. Hope it taught you a lesson."
There have been countless lessons. The first lesson is still the most memorable and in some ways the hardest: ‘The dom is always right.’ That took some learning, since I have spent quite a number of years considering that I am right about many, many things. You can imagine!
Another memorable lesson was, to submit. It sounds simple enough. However, what I needed to learn was that a girl should not do what she thinks will please her Dom. Rather, she should simply “obey”. Janus will say, “Vesta, just do as you are told!” It is infuriating, but arousing at the same time. Submissive readers know what I mean.
Now, isn’t it going to be interesting to see if Deity starts telling us why he does what he does on a Friday evening, and all the paraphernalia leading to the main event! I can just hear him now. “What was I thinking to give that Vesta a voice on my blog?!”
My best wishes to you for a very happy holiday season. May you find joy in the company of those you love.
Whilst I truly do love all of Deity’s posts, one of my personal favourite topics is the Friday night disciplinary session with his girl. There is something so erotic about reading of somebody else’s punishment, don’t you think? I know that sounds a little mean, but let’s face it, it’s true.
Yet, it occurs to me that one’s reaction to these posts might depend on which end of the stick one is on. Let me give you an example. I like to write erotic stories and so does a cyberspace dominant friend of mine from England. I will send him a story, and he’ll come back with a comment like, “Yes, it’s good, but can you go into some more detail about what her bottom looked like with the marks?” After reading one of his stories I have been known to say something like, “Loved it! But, to be honest, I don’t really need to know that his balls are enlarging and so on.” This inclines me to think that men and women want different things out of erotic writing. We all want to know what happened and how the poor wretch was disciplined, but maybe women want to know a bit more about how she felt about it all, and why that nasty man who is thrashing her backside felt the need to do so.
Deity tends to relate what happened in vivid detail. That’s good. It certainly works for me. He tells us about how he positioned her, and tied her, and what implements he used. He tends to take us into his mind and detail the planning and the pleasure of the exercise, from his perspective, of course. It is better than cheesecake to read and I love every yummy detail, but almost every time, I find myself asking the same question. “But, what did she do wrong?”
Now, we all know that she didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. Quite possibly, Deity came home and advised that although she had been a perfect angel the entire week, the punishment session was going ahead because it would do her good, or he didn’t want to neglect her, or it would settle her for the weekend, or he’d been looking forward to it all week, or any such excuse as that.
But, on the other hand, it is also more than possible that his girl was indeed, quite naughty. So, what did she do? Precisely why is she about to be striped like a tiger for at least part of the coming weekend? I asked Deity this question once. He graciously informed me that she was, getting up later than she should in the mornings. Oh! I don’t know about you, but the setting of my alarm clock became a particularly poignant moment for me the evening I read that!
But, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t take the matter of ‘punishment’ seriously. In fact, I take it very seriously. I have a mentor. We have not met, and we live in different countries, but he and I correspond regularly, and he also emails my husband once a week with a ‘report’. Let’s call him Janus, since that is the God for Doorways and New Beginnings. I think he’ll approve of that. Janus believes very strongly in the teaching of ‘lessons’. Even thousands of miles away, he has a way of teaching a girl a lesson. He can rely on my husband to mete out any flagellation required, of course, but this is only one part of the punishment session. First, says Janus, the dominant talks to the sub about what she has done wrong. She needs to acknowledge all her transgressions (somehow any naughtiness of mine tends to have a good four subsets to it). She needs to apologize for her naughtiness and she needs to ask to be punished. By the time a girl gets through the speech, the acknowledgement, the apology and the request for punishment, a girl feels pretty naughty and in need of punishment, let me assure you. And, after the punishment, naturally, the girl thanks him for punishing her. Oh yes, indeed!
Not long ago, it was a very busy time for us both and Janus put a limit on the number of emails that I could write, as well as a word limit for each email. I didn’t consider this a problem until I hit a day when I found myself in a chatty mood and I blithered on, without a care in the world. Of course, Janus tends to have a tighter grip on the rules than me sometimes and it didn’t pass him by that this was a wordy email.
“I’m sorry, but this is too long. It's over the 1000 word limit by about 213 words. To make sure you're clear on this, you will need to write some lines for me. You will use your best penmanship and you will show the lines to Jove when you are finished. You will ask if he approves, and you will need to get his approval that you've done a good job or you'll need to do them again. For this, I want you to write me 213 times the line:
"I shall be concise in expressing my thoughts."
I'm sorry that you've taken on this new and boring writing assignment, but let's be very clear that the rules are not to be broken."
Damn! But, what could I say? It was my mistake. And, I had already learnt the lesson about arguing the point. I did the lines. The next day, I let Janus know that the lines had been written. He wrote back,
"I'm glad you did your lines. Hope it taught you a lesson."
There have been countless lessons. The first lesson is still the most memorable and in some ways the hardest: ‘The dom is always right.’ That took some learning, since I have spent quite a number of years considering that I am right about many, many things. You can imagine!
Another memorable lesson was, to submit. It sounds simple enough. However, what I needed to learn was that a girl should not do what she thinks will please her Dom. Rather, she should simply “obey”. Janus will say, “Vesta, just do as you are told!” It is infuriating, but arousing at the same time. Submissive readers know what I mean.
Now, isn’t it going to be interesting to see if Deity starts telling us why he does what he does on a Friday evening, and all the paraphernalia leading to the main event! I can just hear him now. “What was I thinking to give that Vesta a voice on my blog?!”
My best wishes to you for a very happy holiday season. May you find joy in the company of those you love.
Monday, December 22, 2008
TAKING MY OWN SWEET TIME
Hello. I’m Vesta, and Deity has asked me to guest host his site while he is on holiday. I am delighted to have this opportunity to share some thoughts with you.
I thought I would begin by telling you something of myself. The reason I chose the name ‘Vesta’ is because she is the Goddess of the Home and Hearth. I have children myself and they keep me very busy. Readers with children will agree, I think, that living with children and living a D/s lifestyle 24/7 is challenging, and possibly worthy of a post all on its own. Deity has touched on problems associated with noise and prying eyes. You may recall that sometimes the children below his apartment will scream for an hour. My main concern is ensuring that the children do not listen to me scream for an hour. But, I digress.
My path to the life I lead now with my husband is rather long. I do envy young girls who are relatively comfortable with their submission from the outset. That is not my experience at all. I was painfully slow about recognizing my own needs and agonizingly tardy about revealing them to my husband. I wish I had those wasted years back. You know the fable about the Tortoise and the Hare? Well, I feel a bit like the Tortoise. He was very slow, but in the end, he won the race. Let me explain:
Deity has talked about the effect he has had on the odd summer intern at his work place. You might recall the girl who took three hours out of her day to change her sweater, simply because Deity looked at her in a certain way. I so related to that! In my twenties, I was Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of a financial institution. My boss was not unlike Deity in that he appreciated a well- dressed woman, and it was immediately apparent when he did not care for a piece of apparel that I wore. This happened quite rarely because such men quietly, even silently, train girls to appreciate what they appreciate. My boss liked tailored skirts and cotton shirts, and so did I. But, every woman makes a mistake when purchasing a garment every now and then. My mistake was a brightly- coloured patterned dress; expensive, but on sale. Since I knew that HE wanted me in light neutral colours, it was quite stupid of me to wear it to work. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.
As I walked in the door, he cast his eye over me and said,
“What are you wearing?”
Already feeling on shaky ground,
“I gather that you don’t like it.”
“I hate it.”
“What’s wrong with it?"
“It’s horrible, that’s what is wrong with it. Don’t ever wear it again. I will have Robert drive you home so that you can change.”
“But, I paid good money for it.”
“I don’t care. It’s horrible. Give it away.”
“But, what do you want me to wear?”
“Put on the crème skirt and the crème shirt. That looks nice.”
An hour later, upon my return,
“You see, that looks lovely!” he said.
Even now, it is difficult to explain to you the effect HE had on me, and in some ways, everyone who came into his path. There was a certain way to open a letter, and to address an envelope. There was a way to serve him coffee, and a way for me to communicate with staff. There was a way for me to wear my makeup and my hair. Every little detail of our day had rules associated with it.
It was not all smooth sailing. I am not short of an opinion myself and early on, I aired them. I can still see him, calmly explaining to me the way it was going to be:
“Vesta, there will be times when you and I will disagree as to how something should be done. Rest assured that when that time comes, we will do them MY way. Do you understand?”
I think I was expected to find him obnoxious. I found him fascinating.
Of course, I had my little rebellions. Who of us does not? But, I soon learned that it was not worth the effort. In his arsenal of weapons he owned the fiercest of all-rejection. I hated it, and avoided it like the plague. My training was complete.
At the time, I did not understand our attraction for one another. I had no control over the fact that he was intoxicating to me. I desired his company and even though he was maddeningly superior and judgemental, I sought his praise, and his affection. I knew without being told that he loved my company and our working relationship, but praise of me was rare, coming through the channel of other people, rather than directly to me. He once told me that he worried that praise would go to my head. You had to be strong to be around him, and there were moments when it was all too much for me.
One day, his caustic complaint of something I had done cut deep. On the spur of the moment, I told him I was resigning.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you aren’t happy with anything I do.”
“What can you mean? I am happy with everything that you do. Stop this nonsense immediately and get on with your work.”
With mixed emotions, I left his employ after some years and I began my family soon thereafter. I spent years trying to make sense of the experience. Why was I so attracted to his personality? Why did HE behave as he did? He was very stern, but kind; attentive, but distant; difficult, but appealing. The more I tried to make sense of those years, the more confused I became.
Then, one day, three years ago now, I decided to do some research on the internet. I was sitting there with my laptop alone in the house and I typed in the word ‘spank’. I simply can’t put into words the emotions within me when I realized for the very first time, that the thoughts that I had carried around in my head since I was a young child were shared by so many people. I must have spent hundreds of hours over the next few months reading everything I could find, from spanking blogs, to information sites, through to academic papers on the topic. On those pages, for the first time in my life was validation of my innermost thoughts. One evening, when the children were at sleepovers and we should have been at a dinner, I asked my husband if we could stay home. I had something important to discuss. I told him about my ‘research’ and I told him about my desires. I asked him if he would spank me.
My husband didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ordered me to bend into the bedroom chair and he warmed by backside well, first with his hand and then with the only implement available to him at the time – the toy plastic sword our young son had left on the stool at the end of our bed. After he iced me down, he turned me over to sit on the chair and hugged me as I cried. They were tears of joy and relief. We made love and then we went to dinner; ravenous. I sat on the edge of the seat, trying to find a way to sit that hurt a little less. It is an extraordinarily happy memory.
Over time, I came to see that I needed more. I wanted to be controlled; dominated. My ‘research’ took a different direction and one evening on the computer I happened upon Deity’s blog. I discovered his blog during the ‘senses’ series and loved what I read. He had asked his secretary to purchase a product that masked the smell of the men’s room. I laughed out loud. (Sorry, Deity) Here was a man unto my own heart. Here was a replica of my old boss; deliciously difficult! For quite some time, I was a scaredy cat. All that rope and spandex; all those bandages! But, I kept coming back for more. His affection for his girl was as evident as his need to dominate her, and I loved that. Eventually, the idea of being tied up weaved its spell on me, and I soon discovered that a night all tied up into a little bundle is heaven.
It has been a wild and wonderful ride. Naturally feisty and prone to cheekiness, I tend to equate it to the taming of the shrew. I took my own sweet time to declare my hand, but now that I have done so, I am deliciously, deliriously happy. I consider myself a very lucky girl and I’m tickled pink to be sharing this time with you.
I thought I would begin by telling you something of myself. The reason I chose the name ‘Vesta’ is because she is the Goddess of the Home and Hearth. I have children myself and they keep me very busy. Readers with children will agree, I think, that living with children and living a D/s lifestyle 24/7 is challenging, and possibly worthy of a post all on its own. Deity has touched on problems associated with noise and prying eyes. You may recall that sometimes the children below his apartment will scream for an hour. My main concern is ensuring that the children do not listen to me scream for an hour. But, I digress.
My path to the life I lead now with my husband is rather long. I do envy young girls who are relatively comfortable with their submission from the outset. That is not my experience at all. I was painfully slow about recognizing my own needs and agonizingly tardy about revealing them to my husband. I wish I had those wasted years back. You know the fable about the Tortoise and the Hare? Well, I feel a bit like the Tortoise. He was very slow, but in the end, he won the race. Let me explain:
Deity has talked about the effect he has had on the odd summer intern at his work place. You might recall the girl who took three hours out of her day to change her sweater, simply because Deity looked at her in a certain way. I so related to that! In my twenties, I was Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of a financial institution. My boss was not unlike Deity in that he appreciated a well- dressed woman, and it was immediately apparent when he did not care for a piece of apparel that I wore. This happened quite rarely because such men quietly, even silently, train girls to appreciate what they appreciate. My boss liked tailored skirts and cotton shirts, and so did I. But, every woman makes a mistake when purchasing a garment every now and then. My mistake was a brightly- coloured patterned dress; expensive, but on sale. Since I knew that HE wanted me in light neutral colours, it was quite stupid of me to wear it to work. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.
As I walked in the door, he cast his eye over me and said,
“What are you wearing?”
Already feeling on shaky ground,
“I gather that you don’t like it.”
“I hate it.”
“What’s wrong with it?"
“It’s horrible, that’s what is wrong with it. Don’t ever wear it again. I will have Robert drive you home so that you can change.”
“But, I paid good money for it.”
“I don’t care. It’s horrible. Give it away.”
“But, what do you want me to wear?”
“Put on the crème skirt and the crème shirt. That looks nice.”
An hour later, upon my return,
“You see, that looks lovely!” he said.
Even now, it is difficult to explain to you the effect HE had on me, and in some ways, everyone who came into his path. There was a certain way to open a letter, and to address an envelope. There was a way to serve him coffee, and a way for me to communicate with staff. There was a way for me to wear my makeup and my hair. Every little detail of our day had rules associated with it.
It was not all smooth sailing. I am not short of an opinion myself and early on, I aired them. I can still see him, calmly explaining to me the way it was going to be:
“Vesta, there will be times when you and I will disagree as to how something should be done. Rest assured that when that time comes, we will do them MY way. Do you understand?”
I think I was expected to find him obnoxious. I found him fascinating.
Of course, I had my little rebellions. Who of us does not? But, I soon learned that it was not worth the effort. In his arsenal of weapons he owned the fiercest of all-rejection. I hated it, and avoided it like the plague. My training was complete.
At the time, I did not understand our attraction for one another. I had no control over the fact that he was intoxicating to me. I desired his company and even though he was maddeningly superior and judgemental, I sought his praise, and his affection. I knew without being told that he loved my company and our working relationship, but praise of me was rare, coming through the channel of other people, rather than directly to me. He once told me that he worried that praise would go to my head. You had to be strong to be around him, and there were moments when it was all too much for me.
One day, his caustic complaint of something I had done cut deep. On the spur of the moment, I told him I was resigning.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you aren’t happy with anything I do.”
“What can you mean? I am happy with everything that you do. Stop this nonsense immediately and get on with your work.”
With mixed emotions, I left his employ after some years and I began my family soon thereafter. I spent years trying to make sense of the experience. Why was I so attracted to his personality? Why did HE behave as he did? He was very stern, but kind; attentive, but distant; difficult, but appealing. The more I tried to make sense of those years, the more confused I became.
Then, one day, three years ago now, I decided to do some research on the internet. I was sitting there with my laptop alone in the house and I typed in the word ‘spank’. I simply can’t put into words the emotions within me when I realized for the very first time, that the thoughts that I had carried around in my head since I was a young child were shared by so many people. I must have spent hundreds of hours over the next few months reading everything I could find, from spanking blogs, to information sites, through to academic papers on the topic. On those pages, for the first time in my life was validation of my innermost thoughts. One evening, when the children were at sleepovers and we should have been at a dinner, I asked my husband if we could stay home. I had something important to discuss. I told him about my ‘research’ and I told him about my desires. I asked him if he would spank me.
My husband didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ordered me to bend into the bedroom chair and he warmed by backside well, first with his hand and then with the only implement available to him at the time – the toy plastic sword our young son had left on the stool at the end of our bed. After he iced me down, he turned me over to sit on the chair and hugged me as I cried. They were tears of joy and relief. We made love and then we went to dinner; ravenous. I sat on the edge of the seat, trying to find a way to sit that hurt a little less. It is an extraordinarily happy memory.
Over time, I came to see that I needed more. I wanted to be controlled; dominated. My ‘research’ took a different direction and one evening on the computer I happened upon Deity’s blog. I discovered his blog during the ‘senses’ series and loved what I read. He had asked his secretary to purchase a product that masked the smell of the men’s room. I laughed out loud. (Sorry, Deity) Here was a man unto my own heart. Here was a replica of my old boss; deliciously difficult! For quite some time, I was a scaredy cat. All that rope and spandex; all those bandages! But, I kept coming back for more. His affection for his girl was as evident as his need to dominate her, and I loved that. Eventually, the idea of being tied up weaved its spell on me, and I soon discovered that a night all tied up into a little bundle is heaven.
It has been a wild and wonderful ride. Naturally feisty and prone to cheekiness, I tend to equate it to the taming of the shrew. I took my own sweet time to declare my hand, but now that I have done so, I am deliciously, deliriously happy. I consider myself a very lucky girl and I’m tickled pink to be sharing this time with you.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
You-tied wishes
This is an illustration from an artist and friend of mine (who introduced me and K ) named Carolyn Weltman (aka "sophi"). I think her work is sublime, and finding it at her sidewalk cart one winter afternoon in SoHo changed my life. So, it's quite fitting to be able to showcase a sketch of her's as my Holiday greeting.
I'm taking an extended vacation from The Lustful Quality starting in a few days. I won't be back until after the New Year. In my stead, i have solicited the titillating writing skills of my dear friend Vesta. She brings a much-needed voice to these pages (aka. she's a submissive female) that i'm touched to have. Please do me the honor of reading her entries, but don't stop there. She thrives on challenge and critiques. So i invite each of you to offer her your toughest and most critical (but engaging) comments.
It's been a fantastic year. I plan on providing a year-end summary on all of what's happened here at TransformHer when i return. I wish each of you a fantastic holiday season, and hope that you're able to be close to those you need to be.
I'll leave you with one of my favorite gals at OurNails.com, regaling us her version of "The Night Before Christmas". Oh, she's such a trooper...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
This Old House
Recently, my girl's relations paid us a pre-Holiday visit (scheduling conflicts do not allow us to share the yuletide with them). Visits like these (and any from non-kink friends, really) always result in a quick scan of the house to make sure it is properly scrubbed and sanitized of any obvious SM paraphernalia. My girl takes the conservative approach, preferring to hide and conceal for reasons of modesty but also issues she still struggles with. Whereas, i rail against hiding and feel like people should just deal with the fact that her and i practice a power exchange. How we compromise is to not go out of our way to shove everything "in the closet", but to not leave out anything that's too obvious - to which i say "define obvious".
(Humorous note: One such episode of her folks visiting had her father grabbing my hard cover edition of Steven Diet Goedde's "The Beauty of Fetish" from the lower shelf of our coffee table. This resulted in dear ole dad inquiring to my girl as to whether or not i was into 'leather'. She replied, quite affirmatively, "We both enjoy that book, Dad.")
Out of respect to her, i do not leave any toys lying about (although i have been known to conveniently forget the buttplug sitting in the dish rack after getting washed), nor do i make any real mention of our activities when her family and friends are concerned. Truthfully, one would have to be completely blind not to see the marrow of our dynamic, especially when you see my girl always in skirts or you witness her dropping everything when i summon her from the other end of the apartment. But i digress...i guess.
In order not to be faced with considerable labors of shoveling things away whenever we have company (and we have company quite frequently - i love to cook massive feasts, although, ironically, i do not like to eat massive feasts), our home has been arranged so that regular, commonplace objects appear to visitors as benign accoutrements but in fact can serve as devices of nefarious deviation.
For instance, were i able (and willing) to take each of you on a tour of the House of Deity, seeing as you are here under the kinkiest auspices, i would be able to fully boast of the ways i've been able to use everyday objects for devilish intentions.
I'd take you to the bedroom, where i would point out the black, scrolled metal bed purchased from Ikea many years ago. To the average eye, it looks like a nice, Gothic setting for nighttime slumbering, but from the deviant's perspective they could immediately see how the long bar on the top and all the curly, metallic scrolls provides this sadistic mind plenty of anchorage.
We'd continue on to the kitchen where there sits a common wooden bar stool. Nothing kinky about that, you might say. Not so fast, friend. That stool serves as a very economical spanking bench. With a little rope, my girl is appropriately fashioned to it and given no choice but to stick her cute little tushy up and out.
Traveling down the hallway, we'd come across the bathroom - or as i like to call it the "examination room". Many times, post shower, i examine my girl's parts to make sure she's properly scrubbed them. It is also here where i administer her regular enemas.
Leaving the bathroom, our next logical destination would be my bureau. Fashioned across the doorframe is my pull-up bar, which has been used frequently for devilish purposes.
Once inside the precipice of my bureau, it's not hard to find deviant use of any of the furniture that resides there. In fact, i'd be amiss if i didn't confess that was my complete intention when i designed the layout of my office. If it can't be used somehow to correct a girl or provide me with some unsavory advantage, i won't have it.
When i actually reviewed my domicile, it became quite clear that there isn't any surface, corner or piece of furniture that hadn't been sullied with my sexual agenda. This might be overreaching on my part. It might be hubris. It might be profligated arrogance. But, at least it's home.
p.s. I'm greatly saddened by the loss of Ms. Bettie Page and would like to ask that you who read me give a moment of your day - any moment you can spare - in silent reflection to how much her contribution helped those of us similarly afflicted.
(Humorous note: One such episode of her folks visiting had her father grabbing my hard cover edition of Steven Diet Goedde's "The Beauty of Fetish" from the lower shelf of our coffee table. This resulted in dear ole dad inquiring to my girl as to whether or not i was into 'leather'. She replied, quite affirmatively, "We both enjoy that book, Dad.")
Out of respect to her, i do not leave any toys lying about (although i have been known to conveniently forget the buttplug sitting in the dish rack after getting washed), nor do i make any real mention of our activities when her family and friends are concerned. Truthfully, one would have to be completely blind not to see the marrow of our dynamic, especially when you see my girl always in skirts or you witness her dropping everything when i summon her from the other end of the apartment. But i digress...i guess.
In order not to be faced with considerable labors of shoveling things away whenever we have company (and we have company quite frequently - i love to cook massive feasts, although, ironically, i do not like to eat massive feasts), our home has been arranged so that regular, commonplace objects appear to visitors as benign accoutrements but in fact can serve as devices of nefarious deviation.
For instance, were i able (and willing) to take each of you on a tour of the House of Deity, seeing as you are here under the kinkiest auspices, i would be able to fully boast of the ways i've been able to use everyday objects for devilish intentions.
I'd take you to the bedroom, where i would point out the black, scrolled metal bed purchased from Ikea many years ago. To the average eye, it looks like a nice, Gothic setting for nighttime slumbering, but from the deviant's perspective they could immediately see how the long bar on the top and all the curly, metallic scrolls provides this sadistic mind plenty of anchorage.
We'd continue on to the kitchen where there sits a common wooden bar stool. Nothing kinky about that, you might say. Not so fast, friend. That stool serves as a very economical spanking bench. With a little rope, my girl is appropriately fashioned to it and given no choice but to stick her cute little tushy up and out.
Traveling down the hallway, we'd come across the bathroom - or as i like to call it the "examination room". Many times, post shower, i examine my girl's parts to make sure she's properly scrubbed them. It is also here where i administer her regular enemas.
Leaving the bathroom, our next logical destination would be my bureau. Fashioned across the doorframe is my pull-up bar, which has been used frequently for devilish purposes.
Once inside the precipice of my bureau, it's not hard to find deviant use of any of the furniture that resides there. In fact, i'd be amiss if i didn't confess that was my complete intention when i designed the layout of my office. If it can't be used somehow to correct a girl or provide me with some unsavory advantage, i won't have it.
When i actually reviewed my domicile, it became quite clear that there isn't any surface, corner or piece of furniture that hadn't been sullied with my sexual agenda. This might be overreaching on my part. It might be hubris. It might be profligated arrogance. But, at least it's home.
p.s. I'm greatly saddened by the loss of Ms. Bettie Page and would like to ask that you who read me give a moment of your day - any moment you can spare - in silent reflection to how much her contribution helped those of us similarly afflicted.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Morsels
- Recently, my computer of 8 years kicked the bucket. I've amassed and compiled a relatively impressive and valuable amount of porn (read: obscure, sadistic kink). In order to try to recover this store, i was given the advice to purchase a "thumb drive" and manually move all necessary files onto this in order to access it from the new (as of yet purchased) computer. There is something very strange, off-putting and yet humbling holding this tiny little plastic contraption that contains 4 GigaBytes of my catalogued, compartmentalized and still sexuality-impacting life. This is what my thousands of hours culling and searching amounts to? Something the size of a stick of gum? Not sure if i should be comforted or appropriately disturbed.
- I am the lucky victim of a mystery stress fracture in my heel. One day i'm running my usual 4 miles (and later that evening taking care of some other business), the next day i can't walk home from the train station. No trauma, no blunt violence to my limbs. I have been driving this body of mine hard, and perhaps the age of it has caught up with the use. For now and the next handful of weeks, i walk wearing a plastic-reinforced, velcro-strapped boot and a wooden cane (that i picked up at a local antique store for $5). It has led me to think about my vulnerability. I'm not as mobile as i would like to be or am used to being. I must rely on the kindness of others, both strange and known. And i must re-evaluate my own impenetrability, which i frequently fancy as near super-human. Not being able to support my own body weight has had an impact on how i can properly correct my girl or address anything kink-related. It makes the hand-written phrase on the single notecard i have hanging on my wall - that i stare at every single time i sit at my desk in my bureau, like now - all the more relevant:
"what is weakness?"
What is weakness? Indeed. What does it mean to be weak? What are the fall outs from those situations where weakness is avoided at all costs? Do we know whether we profit or suffer when we are weak?
I ask these questions of myself everyday, and now, as i hobble around the city that i live in, i wonder if weakness is found in my hobbling or in my inability to accept that it is my current lot.
- Christmas approaches, and instead of doing our customary "naughty Xmas" gift exchange, my girl and i are trying to put something aside for these tough economic times ahead. It's very difficult to justify putting money towards more material and admittedly unnecessary items when what faces all of us is uncertain and unknown. I can't help but feel like a brat to be miffed we're not upholding this tradition, but there are too many uncertainties that need flexibility and patience to endure.
- I am the lucky victim of a mystery stress fracture in my heel. One day i'm running my usual 4 miles (and later that evening taking care of some other business), the next day i can't walk home from the train station. No trauma, no blunt violence to my limbs. I have been driving this body of mine hard, and perhaps the age of it has caught up with the use. For now and the next handful of weeks, i walk wearing a plastic-reinforced, velcro-strapped boot and a wooden cane (that i picked up at a local antique store for $5). It has led me to think about my vulnerability. I'm not as mobile as i would like to be or am used to being. I must rely on the kindness of others, both strange and known. And i must re-evaluate my own impenetrability, which i frequently fancy as near super-human. Not being able to support my own body weight has had an impact on how i can properly correct my girl or address anything kink-related. It makes the hand-written phrase on the single notecard i have hanging on my wall - that i stare at every single time i sit at my desk in my bureau, like now - all the more relevant:
"what is weakness?"
What is weakness? Indeed. What does it mean to be weak? What are the fall outs from those situations where weakness is avoided at all costs? Do we know whether we profit or suffer when we are weak?
I ask these questions of myself everyday, and now, as i hobble around the city that i live in, i wonder if weakness is found in my hobbling or in my inability to accept that it is my current lot.
- Christmas approaches, and instead of doing our customary "naughty Xmas" gift exchange, my girl and i are trying to put something aside for these tough economic times ahead. It's very difficult to justify putting money towards more material and admittedly unnecessary items when what faces all of us is uncertain and unknown. I can't help but feel like a brat to be miffed we're not upholding this tradition, but there are too many uncertainties that need flexibility and patience to endure.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Backside
Stripes that stretch across the rounded canvass
whose edges flare with thick crimson dimension
end suddenly
stopping as if to invite question of their origin
but, there is no doubt where these slashes
came from
in their heat, in their violence
there is no doubt
Only signals that tell the mind why their
throbbing justice lives so locally.
whose edges flare with thick crimson dimension
end suddenly
stopping as if to invite question of their origin
but, there is no doubt where these slashes
came from
in their heat, in their violence
there is no doubt
Only signals that tell the mind why their
throbbing justice lives so locally.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
What lies behind door number three?
She'd been complaining earlier that day that her breath was labored. Sometimes, she felt a sudden need to take a very big gulp of air, and when she inhaled, her lungs never felt satisfied. At one point, she stopped in mid-sentence, just to breathe in. Seeing this, i decided to alter the designs i had on the evening, tossing out revisiting the new hood or dipping into our rope supply. Instead, i decided to play a game with my girl.
I'd been out with a friend, going for a 4-mile run, then celebrating our well-winded constitutions with hot wings and a pint. I returned home to a checked-off list of completed chores, finding her seated on our couch, knitting. When i sat next to her, i noticed she'd slid on the thigh-high striped socks i'd purchased for her from American Apparel. This sent a very distinct signal that i happily received.
"What motivated you to wear those?"
"These? Oh, i was cold, and i knew you wouldn't like me wearing pants."
Grrr. Correct answer. She must've known what this was doing to me. She'd gone to the hair salon earlier where she re-dyed her hair a deep, oily black and got it fashionably styled. After such pampering, she always felt frisky. Without much internal discussion, as she purred against my chest, i decided to take the bait.
"Do you like games?"
"Absolutely."
"Would you like to play a game right now?"
"Yes. I would."
"Sit tight, i'll be right back."
I hopped up from my seat and moved to the rear of the apartment where i gathered the necessary game pieces, strewing them about strategically. Memorizing the location of all implements, i returned to the living room and my patiently purring girl.
"Congratulations! You've advanced to the final round. Come with me."
I grabbed her hand and led her into my study. I extended a finger in the direction of my closet door.
"This is Door #1."
I then pointed at the built-in drawer beneath my semi-closet.
"This is Door #2."
I shuffled us into the hallway and pointed at our closed bathroom door.
"And this is Door #3."
Walking her back to my study, i continued:
"Behind each door, there are three separate* implements with which i will use to swat your behind. Now, which door will you choose!"
She gave it some thought, pausing, letting the moment effervesce into the air.
"Well, for posterity sakes, i think i'll choose...i'll choose door number 3."
Now, before i showed my girl her fate, i knew as i was setting up this stratagem that she would choose "Door #3", so that she had fulfilled my expectations made me incredibly giddy. With great excitement, i anticipated the reaction she would provide once i swung open her chosen portal. I knew imbued with her choice was a sense of victory, but because i'd rigged the game, victory was not hers. Victory was mine.
"Are you ready to see your selection?"
"uh-huh."
I grasped the brass door knob and twisted it open to reveal the device that would be slashed across her naked flesh. The expected gasp came shortly after.
"Ahhhh! I hate that thing."
I of course knew this. Despite the fact that i'd called it a game, it really was a con, and she was the mark. I grabbed the three meter dowel rod, and moved the game's finale to the bedroom.
*I emphasize "separate". Because my girl reads this site and because i intend on engaging in this game again, i will not divulge the exact weaponry i had laid out. Just know that the deck was stacked heavily in my favor, and that she was certainly not going to 'win' no matter which door she chose. I know...at least i gave her a "choice".
I'd been out with a friend, going for a 4-mile run, then celebrating our well-winded constitutions with hot wings and a pint. I returned home to a checked-off list of completed chores, finding her seated on our couch, knitting. When i sat next to her, i noticed she'd slid on the thigh-high striped socks i'd purchased for her from American Apparel. This sent a very distinct signal that i happily received.
"What motivated you to wear those?"
"These? Oh, i was cold, and i knew you wouldn't like me wearing pants."
Grrr. Correct answer. She must've known what this was doing to me. She'd gone to the hair salon earlier where she re-dyed her hair a deep, oily black and got it fashionably styled. After such pampering, she always felt frisky. Without much internal discussion, as she purred against my chest, i decided to take the bait.
"Do you like games?"
"Absolutely."
"Would you like to play a game right now?"
"Yes. I would."
"Sit tight, i'll be right back."
I hopped up from my seat and moved to the rear of the apartment where i gathered the necessary game pieces, strewing them about strategically. Memorizing the location of all implements, i returned to the living room and my patiently purring girl.
"Congratulations! You've advanced to the final round. Come with me."
I grabbed her hand and led her into my study. I extended a finger in the direction of my closet door.
"This is Door #1."
I then pointed at the built-in drawer beneath my semi-closet.
"This is Door #2."
I shuffled us into the hallway and pointed at our closed bathroom door.
"And this is Door #3."
Walking her back to my study, i continued:
"Behind each door, there are three separate* implements with which i will use to swat your behind. Now, which door will you choose!"
She gave it some thought, pausing, letting the moment effervesce into the air.
"Well, for posterity sakes, i think i'll choose...i'll choose door number 3."
Now, before i showed my girl her fate, i knew as i was setting up this stratagem that she would choose "Door #3", so that she had fulfilled my expectations made me incredibly giddy. With great excitement, i anticipated the reaction she would provide once i swung open her chosen portal. I knew imbued with her choice was a sense of victory, but because i'd rigged the game, victory was not hers. Victory was mine.
"Are you ready to see your selection?"
"uh-huh."
I grasped the brass door knob and twisted it open to reveal the device that would be slashed across her naked flesh. The expected gasp came shortly after.
"Ahhhh! I hate that thing."
I of course knew this. Despite the fact that i'd called it a game, it really was a con, and she was the mark. I grabbed the three meter dowel rod, and moved the game's finale to the bedroom.
*I emphasize "separate". Because my girl reads this site and because i intend on engaging in this game again, i will not divulge the exact weaponry i had laid out. Just know that the deck was stacked heavily in my favor, and that she was certainly not going to 'win' no matter which door she chose. I know...at least i gave her a "choice".
Monday, December 1, 2008
Sugasm #153
Sugasm #153
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 #154? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
For tonight, we’ll forget who and what we are.
“I want to play with you all night.”
Please, please don’t
“It will hurt, but it will be fine”
Rough
“I want you on top of me.”
Sugasm Editor
Radical Vixen
Editor’s Choice
Sometimes You Find You Get What You Need
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & FetishChristmas came early…or late
Saturday, November 29, 2008
After all things must come beauty
I'm an incredibly sappy and nostalgic individual. I do not shy away from this fact here or in my everyday life. The number one edict in my home - above the establishment of stringent roles between me and my girl, and before the enforcement of rules that stem from those roles - is that at the end of everything, let the pursuit of beauty dictate the day.
So much in this world that confronts us these days serves only to break us down emotionally and psychologically. Our global financial crisis daily reveals that the search for the bottom will be difficult and uncertain. Violence rages across every continent - the kind that makes absolutely no sense when viewed either firsthand or through the lens of media. I sense a grand ennui, a heavy weight of dread and helplessness in everyone i encounter. There is little any of us individually can do to address these macro-level dilemmas, which when realized exacerbates the state of vulnerability we feel. What most people will do to avoid the continual bombardment of images and news reports of our doom is escape into fantasy, fluff and mindlessness. I understand this, but i don't believe it is the most adequate way to survive the drudgery. Seeking, pursuing, and celebrating the beauty in all things will provide the sincerest enrichment to our souls.
One of the finest examples of this that i can present to my readers is the film "Le fabuleux destin d'Amelie Poulain" (known in English as simply "Amelie"). I have myriad reasons for adoring this flick (chief among them that it is responsible for me finding my girl), and have watched it well over 30 times since i first viewed it in the theatres if just to remind me what it is like to admire the small, nuanced and often hidden beauty in everything. I share this trailer made by a fellow fan and invite those of you who have not seen it to treat yourself and give the full movie a chance.
So much in this world that confronts us these days serves only to break us down emotionally and psychologically. Our global financial crisis daily reveals that the search for the bottom will be difficult and uncertain. Violence rages across every continent - the kind that makes absolutely no sense when viewed either firsthand or through the lens of media. I sense a grand ennui, a heavy weight of dread and helplessness in everyone i encounter. There is little any of us individually can do to address these macro-level dilemmas, which when realized exacerbates the state of vulnerability we feel. What most people will do to avoid the continual bombardment of images and news reports of our doom is escape into fantasy, fluff and mindlessness. I understand this, but i don't believe it is the most adequate way to survive the drudgery. Seeking, pursuing, and celebrating the beauty in all things will provide the sincerest enrichment to our souls.
One of the finest examples of this that i can present to my readers is the film "Le fabuleux destin d'Amelie Poulain" (known in English as simply "Amelie"). I have myriad reasons for adoring this flick (chief among them that it is responsible for me finding my girl), and have watched it well over 30 times since i first viewed it in the theatres if just to remind me what it is like to admire the small, nuanced and often hidden beauty in everything. I share this trailer made by a fellow fan and invite those of you who have not seen it to treat yourself and give the full movie a chance.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The hunter and the hunted
A great deal of the internal dynamics of a power exchange can resemble that which exists between the predator and the prey. The chief difference coming from the animal under chase in Nature is not one who wants to get caught and turned into the ravenous carnivore's meal. Clearly, between a Top and a bottom, someone in this transaction wants to "get caught".
In my youth, i unknowingly mimicked the game of 'cat and mouse' everyday out on the playground. Instead of playing H-O-R-S-E with the boys on the blacktop, i instead honed in on my latest crush, only to chase her around the jungle gym for the duration of our recess. Either she let me catch her, or i finally managed to do it myself, this conversation would always result in me pinning her to the ground, a potpourri of snickering and giggling, while my victim lay beneath me struggling to get away. Again, sometimes i'd let her wiggle free, or she'd actually escape on her own (i preferred the latter over the former). Still, i never connected this game to the actual task of hunting down and taking another creature's life.
I have hunted animals before. I was raised on a ranch, and i have slaughtered livestock, even those i raised with great care and attachment from their birth. I have pulled an entire evening meal's worth of fish from the ocean, watching these creatures flail the last of their life force in a bucket of sea water. I do not grimace when i watch nature films that depict the killing of an antelope by a pack of lions, nor do i feel the need to shield myself from the notion that the food on my table came at the expense of some other lifeform's demise.
Recently, in a discussion i was having with a colleague, the notion of hunting/slaying/gathering as a dominant trait came up. I had never identified those aspects of myself as related to my dominant streak (especially since it was required of everyone on the ranch to face the fact that in order to live you must commit murder). But i wonder if others feel this way. Do most folks who identify themselves as submissives turn away from the idea of taking another creature's life for the sake of their own sustenance? Are all dominant-types able to hunt and fish without any pause? Something in me rejects this notion as a true delimiter of what makes someone submissive and dominant. I'm very interested to hear what others think.
In my youth, i unknowingly mimicked the game of 'cat and mouse' everyday out on the playground. Instead of playing H-O-R-S-E with the boys on the blacktop, i instead honed in on my latest crush, only to chase her around the jungle gym for the duration of our recess. Either she let me catch her, or i finally managed to do it myself, this conversation would always result in me pinning her to the ground, a potpourri of snickering and giggling, while my victim lay beneath me struggling to get away. Again, sometimes i'd let her wiggle free, or she'd actually escape on her own (i preferred the latter over the former). Still, i never connected this game to the actual task of hunting down and taking another creature's life.
I have hunted animals before. I was raised on a ranch, and i have slaughtered livestock, even those i raised with great care and attachment from their birth. I have pulled an entire evening meal's worth of fish from the ocean, watching these creatures flail the last of their life force in a bucket of sea water. I do not grimace when i watch nature films that depict the killing of an antelope by a pack of lions, nor do i feel the need to shield myself from the notion that the food on my table came at the expense of some other lifeform's demise.
Recently, in a discussion i was having with a colleague, the notion of hunting/slaying/gathering as a dominant trait came up. I had never identified those aspects of myself as related to my dominant streak (especially since it was required of everyone on the ranch to face the fact that in order to live you must commit murder). But i wonder if others feel this way. Do most folks who identify themselves as submissives turn away from the idea of taking another creature's life for the sake of their own sustenance? Are all dominant-types able to hunt and fish without any pause? Something in me rejects this notion as a true delimiter of what makes someone submissive and dominant. I'm very interested to hear what others think.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The third person
It all starts with words. To be more precise, it starts with the reduction of them. I slowly remove certain words from my manner of speech, she responds, following my cue. Her tongue takes to the incision, and suddenly those bits of her vocabulary are off-limits. I strip her of more verbiage, just like i strip her of her clothes, of her identity, of her freedom.
Soon, the language organically evolves into me referring to her in the third person. She is still there in front of me, but dramatically diminished. The notion of "i" or "me", the possibility of autonomy, free thought, disappears. What remains is less. Minimal. A casing.
And she responds.
Her body becomes flush with warmth, tingles spray across the surface of her skin, and her head fills with light effluvium. I see her breathing take on different labors. I see her eyes widen and yet sharpen at the same point. A crest builds between us, drawing from my chest an apparition, summoning another dimension.
That's when It takes over. I take a step back, and It controls the flow.
The presence, the existence, the pause, the stranger, the unknown, the shadow, the flame.
This third person, thing, beast rushes over the object in front of It, overwhelming the microscopic bundle that sits in wait. It will devour the tiny creature.
consume
engulf
and enjoy
Soon, the language organically evolves into me referring to her in the third person. She is still there in front of me, but dramatically diminished. The notion of "i" or "me", the possibility of autonomy, free thought, disappears. What remains is less. Minimal. A casing.
And she responds.
Her body becomes flush with warmth, tingles spray across the surface of her skin, and her head fills with light effluvium. I see her breathing take on different labors. I see her eyes widen and yet sharpen at the same point. A crest builds between us, drawing from my chest an apparition, summoning another dimension.
That's when It takes over. I take a step back, and It controls the flow.
The presence, the existence, the pause, the stranger, the unknown, the shadow, the flame.
This third person, thing, beast rushes over the object in front of It, overwhelming the microscopic bundle that sits in wait. It will devour the tiny creature.
consume
engulf
and enjoy
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
again and again
"...I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own sacred human conscience."
J.D. Salinger, Seymour: An Introduction
"That again, that she is. She is that again. All that is that, she is and will be and is expected to be, again and again. Beauty."
I walk this land, repeating this to myself. Over and over, wherever i go. One day, while walking along a country road, i encountered a farmer and his pig. This was no ordinary pig, i was to learn, unless you expect most pigs to be the kind that sing - which some of those amongst us do, however we usually expect in the end, whether they sing or not that they will end up as bacon on the farmer's plate. Not this farmer. This farmer loved this pig. True, the farmer ate pork and true he had thought of eating this pig who was juicy and round and perfect in every piggy way. But above all of this, the farmer loved the singing. He listened to the pig singing, letting the pig sing whenever it wanted to. The pig loved singing above all else.
Well, on this day, the farmer was discussing a serious matter with the pig. You see, the pig had become restless and frightened. The pig knew that the farmer would never eat it but couldn't help take notice the farmer's taste for bacon, his longing for ham, and the agitation and terror were just too much to handle. So the pig was asking the farmer if it could leave. The farmer protested and tried to reassure the pig, but the pig had made up its mind.
The pig left to go live with people who never eat pigs. This would make the pig feel more at ease because it believed it signaled a respect they had for pigs he currently lacked. The farmer felt empty as he watched the pig leave, for the song had departed from his life. I turned to continue on my way along the country road, but not before offering my condolences to the farmer.
"That again that she is. She is that again. All that is that, she is and will be and is expected to be, again and again. Beauty."
A year or two later, i happened upon this farm again. I had expected it to be under a deep shadow, but to my surprise it was as vibrant a farm as when i'd first encountered it. The pig had apparently returned. The pig's new home turned out to be a disappointment. You see, the people there didn't avoid eating pig out of a respect for the animal, but refused to eat them because they found them to be filthy animals. They would not eat our pig, thankfully, but worse, they outright rejected its song - no matter how beautiful it sounded. They called the pig "swine" and sent it away. After many months of wandering, the pig came to a conclusion. It offered it to me that day:
The only way I can truly be happy is to find other pigs that sing. But, as I found, there are so few of them in this world, I fear I shall never find them. Since I see more pigs on this farm than anywhere else, I rejoined the farmer and hope that one day, I will not be alone on the farm.
"That again that she is. She is that again. All that is that, she is and will be and is expected to be, again and again. Beauty."
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The illusion always has an explanation
The average visitor to these pages comes across "TransformHer" for the first time, having never stepped foot into my shadowy lair ( i know this because there's a reason i get so few comments but a healthy albeit humble turnstile count). As i've come to notice, most random, brand new visitors find my black and orange-hued corner through image/content searches for "venus corset" or "neck corset" (and especially these two posts: one on Venus corsets and the other on my neck corset obsession). The latter post being over a year old, and yet it still seems to snag a gigantic portion of my visitors. In fact, were it my sole goal to accumulate the largest number of visitors my particular bent could muster, i'm convinced all i'd need to do would be to post an entry filled with a run-on sentence that consisted of four words: "neck corset venus corset"
neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset
and so on...
In actuality, my number one goal has not been focused on me luring the largest number of interested readers (i.e. quantity), but rather me presenting a viewpoint that sparks dialogue, debate and conversation about topics that too frequently get treatment as pure fantasy (i.e. quality). By this i mean i want to take the "Gor" out of SM, the forced honorifics and protocols that seem to muddle up what anyone who seeks a power exchange is really looking for - a connection to a like-minded spirit (i speak out against the fakery out there in the SM world, and yet i still pen this entry under the fictional name of 'Deity'. Yes, i recognize the irony in this).
This entry really is meant for those first-timers to "The Lustful Quality" or even those semi-frequent visitors who have not lent their voice to this dialogue (i promise to be kind and encouraging to anyone who comments). Should you desire to engage in a kink relationship that takes the structure of a Male Top and a female bottom, i seek to dispel any illusions that this journey is devoid of difficulty, emotional pain or even total miscalculations. I've been pursuing this kind of power dynamic for decades, and i have yet to have still master the day in and day out, and despite what may come across in my entries, there are still struggles between me and my girl that are very human, very raw and very flawed.
I chronicle a regular correction of my girl on these pages that some of you have taken a shine to, but i don't often present the failed episodes wherein my girl does not respond to the discipline i'm dishing out. This does not make her flawed or disobedient, rather it can be chalked up to the regular ruminations of living life. It would be complete folly to expect my girl to take instruction from every single character she encounters in her life like she does from me. In fact, she is a fiery, opinionated, and intelligent creature whose voice is very often sought and relied upon - to insist that this voice be silenced would do an injustice to not only her but the world. That being said, this creature with such a tiny, feminine frame who must fight for a seat on the train ride home can't just disrobe of this armor the instance she steps foot across our threshold.
I've seen many portrayals out there of 24/7 power exchanges where the submissive is able to/expected to immediately assume the role of the bottom as soon as they come in contact with their Top. I won't declare those as being false, but i will say i've had no such similar experience. Just because i call my girl up in the middle of the day, on a day where she needs to be on top of her game, responding to others' needs, juggling others' demands, it would be completely ignorant and unreasonable for me to expect her to assume the bottomness she so beautifully accomplishes in the comfort of our home.
This is a game of psychology, and for the most part sanctuary. I'm not able to, nor should i seek it, to be a Top to everyone i encounter in my business transactions. Nor should my girl assume the role of the submissive to everyone who engages her. When we do come together, there is a considerable negotiation and a certain amount of theatrics that takes place. Sometimes i feel like i'm putting on a production with me as the Director/School Master/Boss character that creates an environment where we are able to assume the roles that slough off the masks we portray in our daily lives. What makes it all the more engaging is that we're not following a set protocol or an ideology, and in fact exploring this journey together, making it our own. Me being who i am, i would be quite disappointed should i discover that i was in fact towing some unseen party line with regards to SM. And quite personally (with all due respect to those who enjoy lines that are rift with parties and ideologies), i'm not sure that's realistically possible.
neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset
and so on...
In actuality, my number one goal has not been focused on me luring the largest number of interested readers (i.e. quantity), but rather me presenting a viewpoint that sparks dialogue, debate and conversation about topics that too frequently get treatment as pure fantasy (i.e. quality). By this i mean i want to take the "Gor" out of SM, the forced honorifics and protocols that seem to muddle up what anyone who seeks a power exchange is really looking for - a connection to a like-minded spirit (i speak out against the fakery out there in the SM world, and yet i still pen this entry under the fictional name of 'Deity'. Yes, i recognize the irony in this).
This entry really is meant for those first-timers to "The Lustful Quality" or even those semi-frequent visitors who have not lent their voice to this dialogue (i promise to be kind and encouraging to anyone who comments). Should you desire to engage in a kink relationship that takes the structure of a Male Top and a female bottom, i seek to dispel any illusions that this journey is devoid of difficulty, emotional pain or even total miscalculations. I've been pursuing this kind of power dynamic for decades, and i have yet to have still master the day in and day out, and despite what may come across in my entries, there are still struggles between me and my girl that are very human, very raw and very flawed.
I chronicle a regular correction of my girl on these pages that some of you have taken a shine to, but i don't often present the failed episodes wherein my girl does not respond to the discipline i'm dishing out. This does not make her flawed or disobedient, rather it can be chalked up to the regular ruminations of living life. It would be complete folly to expect my girl to take instruction from every single character she encounters in her life like she does from me. In fact, she is a fiery, opinionated, and intelligent creature whose voice is very often sought and relied upon - to insist that this voice be silenced would do an injustice to not only her but the world. That being said, this creature with such a tiny, feminine frame who must fight for a seat on the train ride home can't just disrobe of this armor the instance she steps foot across our threshold.
I've seen many portrayals out there of 24/7 power exchanges where the submissive is able to/expected to immediately assume the role of the bottom as soon as they come in contact with their Top. I won't declare those as being false, but i will say i've had no such similar experience. Just because i call my girl up in the middle of the day, on a day where she needs to be on top of her game, responding to others' needs, juggling others' demands, it would be completely ignorant and unreasonable for me to expect her to assume the bottomness she so beautifully accomplishes in the comfort of our home.
This is a game of psychology, and for the most part sanctuary. I'm not able to, nor should i seek it, to be a Top to everyone i encounter in my business transactions. Nor should my girl assume the role of the submissive to everyone who engages her. When we do come together, there is a considerable negotiation and a certain amount of theatrics that takes place. Sometimes i feel like i'm putting on a production with me as the Director/School Master/Boss character that creates an environment where we are able to assume the roles that slough off the masks we portray in our daily lives. What makes it all the more engaging is that we're not following a set protocol or an ideology, and in fact exploring this journey together, making it our own. Me being who i am, i would be quite disappointed should i discover that i was in fact towing some unseen party line with regards to SM. And quite personally (with all due respect to those who enjoy lines that are rift with parties and ideologies), i'm not sure that's realistically possible.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The autumn leaves me smiling
The crispness in the air that serves a pleasant note of chill to the skin has arrived, and with it comes my favorite season: boot season. In the past, i've dictated how i have a reflex reaction to the sound of heels upon the pavement. My head jerks in the direction of the click-clack percussive, for which i most certainly look odd, nonetheless my adoration for the heel-shodden female takes command at these moments. Most times, my instantaneous peek of excitement quickly turns to glib dissappointment because the chosen footwear doesn't fit my (admittedly) narrow aesthetic. However, should the shape and form match my likes, i will study them, examine how the girl's foot lays in them, the impact on her calf (if visible) and her buttocks, and how she holds her posture standing in them. If i'm truly smitten by the wearer and the worn, i've been known to take a 20 minute detour just to follow the lass so that i can witness the pedestrian pageant.
Another reason occurs to me why i enjoy this season so much. The cold weather discourages a practice that i've come to revile. It's rather tough to dress in tight, revealing, midriff-exposing rags when the windchill drops - and thank God for that! My male colleagues relish the Spring thaw because with the rising temperatures comes rising hemlines, and frankly, as i've often stated, this rush for females to sluttify their appearances greatly diminishes their power over other women, men, and sadly, themselves. They've removed the anticipation and imagination about what they might appear like in their bedroom, and paraded it around like a stripper who's only absent their pole.
I was recently reminded of this distinction and the real power a lady dressing in a classy and elegant, yet still sexy fashion has. In my office, the environment is highly male-dominant, and the few females in the ranks feel the need to dress down and minimize their femininity in order to achieve their spot in the pecking order. One, however, stands out. Since her start here six years ago, she has always presented herself with excelled beauty and dignity, taking great care in her appearance. She keeps her hair very long, easily to the base of her back. Her costume usually consists of skirts and dresses and always heels. Her hands are exquisitely manicured, and her makeup subtle but striking. She has a very devout Christian faith that she allows to quietly guide her decisions and her opinions (e.g. she won't let her son celebrate Halloween), and she tolerates absolutely zero crude or sexist remarks (which is commendable in a very high-ego, macho environment).
The other day, i was picking up my mail, and she came scooting by me with considerable velocity. She boisterously greeted me as she passed. I returned her greeting by smiling, and instinctively scanning the floor to catch a glimpse of her heels du jour. 5" stilletto heel, knee-high, black leather boots with constrast grey lacing on the sides. Very fetching. I just had to have an excuse to engage in a longer conversation where i could catch a few more glimpses of her appearance (quite honestly, she has to, by this point notice how intently i study her chosen garments). Even though my girl has become quite the pro in maneuvering in rather high heels, i decided to play up my bewilderment at how any girl could manage.
"I have to ask, but how do you manage to whip by with such agility in those things."
I pointed at the boots that extended out beneath her desk. She looked up with a smile, hearing that it was my voice behind the question.
"It's not that hard. Have you ever tried?"
"Ha ha, uhm, i may have when i was in college, i don't really remember."
"Well, ladies are built for it. We have different physiques."
This qualified for a follow-up question of clarification that my smartass mind conjured but quickly contained.
"I agree. Just this morning, my girl put on her maroon, patent leather, mary jane platforms, and i marveled at how effortlessly she could navigate our stairs."
"Exactly. With practice, it's easy enough to do. You like how she looks in them, don't you?"
"Without a doubt."
We smiled and laughed a little longer, while my eyes finished their meal. Knowing how reserved and dignified she was made this exchange even more enjoyable. I wouldn't have had nearly as much a thrill had she shoved her cleavage in my face and sold her wares with loose urgency. Her restraint, the indications she gave that her body was off-limits made her all the more attractive. I excused myself as a little hint in the back of my mind told me she had an inkling as to what portion of my appetite she'd help satiate.
Another reason occurs to me why i enjoy this season so much. The cold weather discourages a practice that i've come to revile. It's rather tough to dress in tight, revealing, midriff-exposing rags when the windchill drops - and thank God for that! My male colleagues relish the Spring thaw because with the rising temperatures comes rising hemlines, and frankly, as i've often stated, this rush for females to sluttify their appearances greatly diminishes their power over other women, men, and sadly, themselves. They've removed the anticipation and imagination about what they might appear like in their bedroom, and paraded it around like a stripper who's only absent their pole.
I was recently reminded of this distinction and the real power a lady dressing in a classy and elegant, yet still sexy fashion has. In my office, the environment is highly male-dominant, and the few females in the ranks feel the need to dress down and minimize their femininity in order to achieve their spot in the pecking order. One, however, stands out. Since her start here six years ago, she has always presented herself with excelled beauty and dignity, taking great care in her appearance. She keeps her hair very long, easily to the base of her back. Her costume usually consists of skirts and dresses and always heels. Her hands are exquisitely manicured, and her makeup subtle but striking. She has a very devout Christian faith that she allows to quietly guide her decisions and her opinions (e.g. she won't let her son celebrate Halloween), and she tolerates absolutely zero crude or sexist remarks (which is commendable in a very high-ego, macho environment).
The other day, i was picking up my mail, and she came scooting by me with considerable velocity. She boisterously greeted me as she passed. I returned her greeting by smiling, and instinctively scanning the floor to catch a glimpse of her heels du jour. 5" stilletto heel, knee-high, black leather boots with constrast grey lacing on the sides. Very fetching. I just had to have an excuse to engage in a longer conversation where i could catch a few more glimpses of her appearance (quite honestly, she has to, by this point notice how intently i study her chosen garments). Even though my girl has become quite the pro in maneuvering in rather high heels, i decided to play up my bewilderment at how any girl could manage.
"I have to ask, but how do you manage to whip by with such agility in those things."
I pointed at the boots that extended out beneath her desk. She looked up with a smile, hearing that it was my voice behind the question.
"It's not that hard. Have you ever tried?"
"Ha ha, uhm, i may have when i was in college, i don't really remember."
"Well, ladies are built for it. We have different physiques."
This qualified for a follow-up question of clarification that my smartass mind conjured but quickly contained.
"I agree. Just this morning, my girl put on her maroon, patent leather, mary jane platforms, and i marveled at how effortlessly she could navigate our stairs."
"Exactly. With practice, it's easy enough to do. You like how she looks in them, don't you?"
"Without a doubt."
We smiled and laughed a little longer, while my eyes finished their meal. Knowing how reserved and dignified she was made this exchange even more enjoyable. I wouldn't have had nearly as much a thrill had she shoved her cleavage in my face and sold her wares with loose urgency. Her restraint, the indications she gave that her body was off-limits made her all the more attractive. I excused myself as a little hint in the back of my mind told me she had an inkling as to what portion of my appetite she'd help satiate.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Garden
There lay a field, open and fertile, just over the hill and beyond the very old maple tree. One day, two individuals came upon this plot, separately and on their own. Each looked upon the earth that lay partially in the shade of the very old maple, and felt the urgency of potential emanating from beneath their feet.
In a very short time, the man found that the woman saw the land the very same way he did. She too wanted to plant and turn the dirt underneath. He discovered that much of the crops she wanted to grow were the same exact ones he wanted. She learned that some of the vegetation he specialized in very nicely complemented some of the vegetation in which she specialized. They could hardly contain their excitement underneath the tranquil shadow of the very old maple. The very next day, they began to build their garden.
He turned the earth with a shovel, and she followed behind him gently placing the various seeds of their intended crops into the terrestrial womb. After a few day's work, they'd planted every assortment of vegetable and fruit they'd chosen. Each day, they came back and watered the ground with great care, taking pleasure in the excitement of anticipation. When the first sprouts appeared, they held eachother jubilantly, humbled by the process of creation. For the next few months, each day, they tended to that garden, removing any weeds or pests that might endanger their product. They marveled at the transformation of this little piece of land with each growing stalk and bulging bulb. Occasionally, the joy of their effort would overcome them, and he would grab her and roll around in the dirt, playfully laughing and and tickling her.
Finally, the Fall arrived. Everywhere they looked, a tremendous diversity of color and shape greeted them, sounding out the full song of their harvest. The week that followed, they picked, pulled and tugged every ripe vegetable and fruit they could find, until they had a tremendous flora bounty. From this cornucopia, they were able to create great feasts for eachother and their loved ones. With each savory bite, they gave thanks for the product of their hard work and partnership.
What followed could take many paths. They could continue to put in great labor tending to this garden beneath the old maple tree that would over time not require as much labor as it did initially, and would continue to provide them with a bountiful yield year-long. Or they could dedicate themselves to the joint effort for a few years, but over time petering out, leaving the garden to fall to neglect and abandonment. Eventually, the earth would reclaim this land from them, and over time present itself to others. Regardless of what path they chose, there would be times this garden would not produce a single plant. There would be years where portions of it would need to lie dormant and fallow. But, all of these would be followed by a period where great output could be assured. As long as the two individuals who came upon this plot so many years before remained dedicated to their joint pledge to care, tend and love this garden, there existed no reason the very old maple tree wouldn't witness the continual beauty of fruit's bearing.
In a very short time, the man found that the woman saw the land the very same way he did. She too wanted to plant and turn the dirt underneath. He discovered that much of the crops she wanted to grow were the same exact ones he wanted. She learned that some of the vegetation he specialized in very nicely complemented some of the vegetation in which she specialized. They could hardly contain their excitement underneath the tranquil shadow of the very old maple. The very next day, they began to build their garden.
He turned the earth with a shovel, and she followed behind him gently placing the various seeds of their intended crops into the terrestrial womb. After a few day's work, they'd planted every assortment of vegetable and fruit they'd chosen. Each day, they came back and watered the ground with great care, taking pleasure in the excitement of anticipation. When the first sprouts appeared, they held eachother jubilantly, humbled by the process of creation. For the next few months, each day, they tended to that garden, removing any weeds or pests that might endanger their product. They marveled at the transformation of this little piece of land with each growing stalk and bulging bulb. Occasionally, the joy of their effort would overcome them, and he would grab her and roll around in the dirt, playfully laughing and and tickling her.
Finally, the Fall arrived. Everywhere they looked, a tremendous diversity of color and shape greeted them, sounding out the full song of their harvest. The week that followed, they picked, pulled and tugged every ripe vegetable and fruit they could find, until they had a tremendous flora bounty. From this cornucopia, they were able to create great feasts for eachother and their loved ones. With each savory bite, they gave thanks for the product of their hard work and partnership.
What followed could take many paths. They could continue to put in great labor tending to this garden beneath the old maple tree that would over time not require as much labor as it did initially, and would continue to provide them with a bountiful yield year-long. Or they could dedicate themselves to the joint effort for a few years, but over time petering out, leaving the garden to fall to neglect and abandonment. Eventually, the earth would reclaim this land from them, and over time present itself to others. Regardless of what path they chose, there would be times this garden would not produce a single plant. There would be years where portions of it would need to lie dormant and fallow. But, all of these would be followed by a period where great output could be assured. As long as the two individuals who came upon this plot so many years before remained dedicated to their joint pledge to care, tend and love this garden, there existed no reason the very old maple tree wouldn't witness the continual beauty of fruit's bearing.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Christmas came early...or late
Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Quite frankly like a kid on Christmas Eve night. I finally heard from him.
After months of no replies to my weekly e-mails inquiring about an update, finally, my girl's corsetier got back with me. The custom patent leather neck corset and hood was finally completed. To tantalize me, he sent me a photo of it, laced onto a mannequin to shoe its full viciousness. If i could, upon viewing this picture, i would've taken a cab up to his place immediately, but, as it was, i had a wedding to attend and was heading out of town. I'd have to wait another week longer (some may say "what's another week after all this time?" and i would reply simply "uhm, another week, that's what it is.").
For those of you who recall, this contraption was supposed to be a naughty christmas gift from me to my girl last year. Twelve visits, thirty one e-mails, and countless fittings later, he'd completed the piece. We arranged to visit the following weekend. I didn't care if a monsoon hit the city, i'd trudge my way to his studio. I was going to have my toy.
When we arrived, we quickly dispatched of the most rudimentary social niceties (largely because the corsetier is an awfully socially awkward fella), not to mention i was a little peeved that he hadn't responded for so long. I scanned his long workbench on the other side of his studio, in hopes of eyeing my treasure. No such luck. The scoundrel had hidden it away from me.
"Okay, let me see it."
He gave my girl big eyes that spoke his incredulity at my tactless cut-to-the-chase manner. Without much hesitation, he opened a closet, and wheeled out the headless dress form where laced around the stem that served as its neck lay the beautiful neck corset. If i didn't gasp, i could've very easily. He produced the hood, handing it to me. I immediately responded to the tactile quality of the slick surface of the black patent leather. This was real. This item i'd envisioned, designed in my head and commissioned was finally in my hands. The garment was thick, stiff, and had considerable rigidness to it, despite its undeniable feminine qualities.
With haste, i positioned myself behind my girl, pulling her hair into a ponytail. I then slid the hood over her head. Even without doing any of the laces, the fit was exquisite. It literally was like pulling a second skin over her face, as it clung tightly to her slender cheeks and dainty chin. The lacing was simple, much easier than a corset, but i had to remind myself not to close the gap as tight as possible. We were just here for a fitting. There would be other times where i can test its tensility.
Next came the corset. I had to solicit my girl's help with this, as positioning this device was critical to a good, constrictive fit. I asked her, once i placed the chin piece over her mouth, to hold it still with her hands. It took several tries at tweaking the way it lay over her sternum before i felt comfortable with lacing it shut. Immediately, i noticed that the patent leather of the hood would cause some difficulties with exact placement because it would stick to the patent leather of the neck corset. Even once it was fully laced, the corsetier showed me that i could pull the collar even further up her neck to achieve a higher degree of immobility. I let my girl take a peek at herself in the mirror fully sussed up, and then latched the matching black leather eye mask over her ocular cavities - locking her in darkness, robed by soft, supple layers of pink, lambskin leather.
The corsetier and i spent some time examining the fit, seeing if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. I tested my girl's ability to breathe with and without the three leather buckles hitched closed on the back. Because of the restriction, she was not able to speak, only squeeze my hand to indicate any difficulties she encountered in her respiration. I was completely satisfied. More than that, i was elated. I couldn't wait to go home and play with my toy.
Here is a view of the front of the neck corset that completely covers her mouth, ending right at the bottom of her nose. Notice the pink patent leather trim that runs along the bottom and beautiful satin brocade lining. And don't forget the attached D-ring mid-neck (there is a corresponding one not viewed in the photo)
This is a view of the back of the neck corset and the aforementioned buckles. Are they necessary? 100%.
Here is a profile view of the hood itself. The small pink slit just beneath the buckled eye mask is the only hole for her mouth.
This is a fantastic view of the interior lining of the hood. A sea of soft pink completely surrounding her.
Backside of leather eye mask that renders my girl completely blind.
I waited a few days before i pulled the whole thing out to suit up my girl. However, i could not keep myself from pawing it constantly throughout the day. It had such allure and charisma. It drew me to it whenever i happened to be in my bureau. I spent easily an hour just trying to figure out how best to store/display it while it wasn't being used. I couldn't quite place what about it made it so mesmerizing. It was just a garment, albeit a completely unique garment meant only for my girl. It entered my mind frequently leading up to the night i unwielded it.
Forgive the poor quality of the following photos. To say the least, i was incredibly excited, which made holding my hand steady at the camera quite difficult. I've manipulated the image to obscure the background.
I gleaned almost instantly what captivated me about the device before as i handled it. It was instantly transformative. It contained supreme power to alter the way i viewed my girl, and the way my girl viewed herself in it. Once on, once the last strap buckled, my girl vanished. The hood and corset made her my toy. I'd had only a glimpse of the cravings this object would well up inside of me before. Once on, my tempestuous urges exploded. Toy had no voice. Had no language. The blind object was wholly dependent upon me. For its safety and its purpose.
After months of no replies to my weekly e-mails inquiring about an update, finally, my girl's corsetier got back with me. The custom patent leather neck corset and hood was finally completed. To tantalize me, he sent me a photo of it, laced onto a mannequin to shoe its full viciousness. If i could, upon viewing this picture, i would've taken a cab up to his place immediately, but, as it was, i had a wedding to attend and was heading out of town. I'd have to wait another week longer (some may say "what's another week after all this time?" and i would reply simply "uhm, another week, that's what it is.").
For those of you who recall, this contraption was supposed to be a naughty christmas gift from me to my girl last year. Twelve visits, thirty one e-mails, and countless fittings later, he'd completed the piece. We arranged to visit the following weekend. I didn't care if a monsoon hit the city, i'd trudge my way to his studio. I was going to have my toy.
When we arrived, we quickly dispatched of the most rudimentary social niceties (largely because the corsetier is an awfully socially awkward fella), not to mention i was a little peeved that he hadn't responded for so long. I scanned his long workbench on the other side of his studio, in hopes of eyeing my treasure. No such luck. The scoundrel had hidden it away from me.
"Okay, let me see it."
He gave my girl big eyes that spoke his incredulity at my tactless cut-to-the-chase manner. Without much hesitation, he opened a closet, and wheeled out the headless dress form where laced around the stem that served as its neck lay the beautiful neck corset. If i didn't gasp, i could've very easily. He produced the hood, handing it to me. I immediately responded to the tactile quality of the slick surface of the black patent leather. This was real. This item i'd envisioned, designed in my head and commissioned was finally in my hands. The garment was thick, stiff, and had considerable rigidness to it, despite its undeniable feminine qualities.
With haste, i positioned myself behind my girl, pulling her hair into a ponytail. I then slid the hood over her head. Even without doing any of the laces, the fit was exquisite. It literally was like pulling a second skin over her face, as it clung tightly to her slender cheeks and dainty chin. The lacing was simple, much easier than a corset, but i had to remind myself not to close the gap as tight as possible. We were just here for a fitting. There would be other times where i can test its tensility.
Next came the corset. I had to solicit my girl's help with this, as positioning this device was critical to a good, constrictive fit. I asked her, once i placed the chin piece over her mouth, to hold it still with her hands. It took several tries at tweaking the way it lay over her sternum before i felt comfortable with lacing it shut. Immediately, i noticed that the patent leather of the hood would cause some difficulties with exact placement because it would stick to the patent leather of the neck corset. Even once it was fully laced, the corsetier showed me that i could pull the collar even further up her neck to achieve a higher degree of immobility. I let my girl take a peek at herself in the mirror fully sussed up, and then latched the matching black leather eye mask over her ocular cavities - locking her in darkness, robed by soft, supple layers of pink, lambskin leather.
The corsetier and i spent some time examining the fit, seeing if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. I tested my girl's ability to breathe with and without the three leather buckles hitched closed on the back. Because of the restriction, she was not able to speak, only squeeze my hand to indicate any difficulties she encountered in her respiration. I was completely satisfied. More than that, i was elated. I couldn't wait to go home and play with my toy.
Here is a view of the front of the neck corset that completely covers her mouth, ending right at the bottom of her nose. Notice the pink patent leather trim that runs along the bottom and beautiful satin brocade lining. And don't forget the attached D-ring mid-neck (there is a corresponding one not viewed in the photo)
This is a view of the back of the neck corset and the aforementioned buckles. Are they necessary? 100%.
Here is a profile view of the hood itself. The small pink slit just beneath the buckled eye mask is the only hole for her mouth.
This is a fantastic view of the interior lining of the hood. A sea of soft pink completely surrounding her.
Backside of leather eye mask that renders my girl completely blind.
I waited a few days before i pulled the whole thing out to suit up my girl. However, i could not keep myself from pawing it constantly throughout the day. It had such allure and charisma. It drew me to it whenever i happened to be in my bureau. I spent easily an hour just trying to figure out how best to store/display it while it wasn't being used. I couldn't quite place what about it made it so mesmerizing. It was just a garment, albeit a completely unique garment meant only for my girl. It entered my mind frequently leading up to the night i unwielded it.
Forgive the poor quality of the following photos. To say the least, i was incredibly excited, which made holding my hand steady at the camera quite difficult. I've manipulated the image to obscure the background.
I gleaned almost instantly what captivated me about the device before as i handled it. It was instantly transformative. It contained supreme power to alter the way i viewed my girl, and the way my girl viewed herself in it. Once on, once the last strap buckled, my girl vanished. The hood and corset made her my toy. I'd had only a glimpse of the cravings this object would well up inside of me before. Once on, my tempestuous urges exploded. Toy had no voice. Had no language. The blind object was wholly dependent upon me. For its safety and its purpose.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Duty
You won't hear from these pages, under normal circumstances, much in the terms of civic engagement, but alas, these are not normal times. I do not assume that those who visit this site in search of some bawdy or salacious material could care less about my opinion regarding the upcoming U.S. Presidential election. I won't offer who i'm supporting, for numerous reasons. But i will take this time to implore (sorry, this only refers to those readers who are registered voters in the United States of America) to those of you who can, the following:
As a result of the events culminating with the US Presidential election on November 4th, i will be taking an extended pause from these pages in order to put my labors towards matters much more important than myself and my own interests.
I hope to return shortly following the historical outcome occurring just a week away.
Vote
This is not a time for apathy
Exercise your right, to voice your choice for the next face of this nation
It is your duty to participate in this democracy
Do not forget that there are those in this world who do not have this right guaranteed to them
This is your duty
Vote, on Tuesday, November 4th.
This is not a time for apathy
Exercise your right, to voice your choice for the next face of this nation
It is your duty to participate in this democracy
Do not forget that there are those in this world who do not have this right guaranteed to them
This is your duty
Vote, on Tuesday, November 4th.
As a result of the events culminating with the US Presidential election on November 4th, i will be taking an extended pause from these pages in order to put my labors towards matters much more important than myself and my own interests.
I hope to return shortly following the historical outcome occurring just a week away.
Friday, October 24, 2008
sneaky little bugger
In the company of our home, i regularly tell my girl when it's time for her to go to bed, when she's done with her meal, and what she should wear. On a rare occasion, i'll vocalize similar things in front of others, but usually in tones low enough for just her to hear, and sometimes i'll even utilize facial signals where only she knows the message behind them. Being the little brat that she is, she'll recognize the social limitations of fully exhibiting our power exchange, and push those limits. When i've indicated that she's done with her french fries by subtly placing a hand on her wrist as it moves to her plate, she'll wait until i'm in the middle of an anecdote, occupied by my boisterous regalement, and slip one or two crispy culprits into her mouth. She always looks right at me as she does it, knowing full well i'm witnessing her commit this foul.
She'll later, under interrogation, say she was playing with me. And i do understand what she means. She enjoys the idea of the flow of our power somewhat inverted, where i, the one who is in command, has limits applied to me based on the social situation we happen to be in. It's also a way to flirt, grab my attention and speak to me in a silent dialogue only her and i are having. But, that doesn't absolve her of having transgressed a directive of mine. Correction does follow such behavior.
Recently, she and i attended the wedding of two very dear friends. The ceremony was in the evening, and prior to us walking the few short blocks from our hotel to the wedding's venue, i invited my girl to have a cocktail with me in the lounge just off the lobby. The bartender delivered us the overly rambunctious drink menu, and before even opening it, i said,"Two gin martinis, up, with olives." We enjoyed the moment of solitude. Her in her gown, me in my tuxedo, letting the stiff alcohol of the martinis wrap itself around our conversation, giving the precipice to the evening a distinct smoothness.
Once at the wedding, it became clear to me how stiff those drinks were. My girl is a charmer when sober, but she's an absolute heart sizzler when she's had a few. She seems to forget that others are around us, and her sensual arousal amplifies. She was pawing me, rubbing her hands up and down my chest as we stood amongst the chapel seats. She played little kisses along my jawline with her lips, working her way upto my ear. I loved it, but i also knew this was not the place for it. I pulled her arms-length away from me and looked in her eyes, giving her an expression that indicated 'perhaps not now'. What i saw in those brown bobbles was the earliest indication of a very pernicious bratty girl. To sway me, she wiggled back up against me, and lay her head on my chest.
"You smell soooo nice."
Throughout the ceremony, she held my hands in numerous combinations of one or the other or both at the same time. By the completion of the marital vows, i went to speak with my friends in the groom's party, thinking my girl would speak to the bridal counterparts. Not so. She'd wedged her way into linking with my arm, clinging to me as i talked "shop talk" with the boys. When we adjourned to the upstairs veranda for the cocktail hour, i suggested to her to take it slow, and just get some wine to sip. After all, it would be a shame not to enjoy (remember) the evening. At one point, we got separated, but from across the room, i occasionally looked over at her wherein she would smile and show me her glass still just half-full. By the time dinner was about to be served, we reconvened, and she proudly showed me her white wine glass as if to say "See? I'm still on my first glass." But, here's where the games began. She knew i wouldn't fall for it.
"Same glass? Why does this one not have the red scarlet imprint of your lips on the rim? Again, please take it slow."
We assumed our seats at our table, joining our eight other table-neighbors. When the waiters worked the room with wine bottles, my girl declined. Somewhere during the appetizer course, she noticed my bourbon was low and offered to get me a drink. I took her up on her offer, thanking her for it. By the time she'd returned, i'd somehow managed to gain the entire table's attention telling them a story about the groom and a creative use of bananas. She'd returned with a glass of amber whiskey, but also a cocktail of her own. I couldn't say anything in the midst of my stroll down memory lane - and she knew it.
For the rest of dinner, we engaged in a duel of sorts with me putting her contraband drink out of her reach, and her taking it back - again while i was consumed with a conversation so that i couldn't stop her. Eventually, i was able to pass it off to a waiter who was clearing dishes. Thankfully, the dance portion of the evening commenced, which served as a perfectly timed distraction. I adore dancing with my girl, she is adept at being led, which makes dancing a virtual heaven. We scooted around the floor for a few numbers, then i cut in between the groom and his new bride for a quick shimmy. Afterward, i couldn't immediately find my girl. When i did, she had a wrinkly, wry smile pulling at the side of her face.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing." She said this as she wrapped her arms around my neck and swayed her hips to the slow rhythms of the band's tune. But, i could smell exactly what she'd been upto. And she knew it. This only made her smile more. The next number, the band kicked the rhythm up, which meant much more coordination from those dancing. Within the first few bars of the song, i knew my girl wasn't up for it. She stumbled, she plodded and she most certainly didn't follow my lead.
"Okay. We're done."
"Why?"
I went and grabbed her jacket from the coat check, holding it up to help her put it on, then gave her my arm to escort her outside. We walked back to the hotel, with her leaning heavily into me. A few times, i had to catch her, as she nearly tripped to the sidewalk. By the time we reached our room, she was incapacitated. The removal of her gown and undergarments was left to me. In this state, i knew she would not be responsive to what needed to happen. Lucky for her. Her booty got a reprieve that evening, but, later, she would pay for it.
She'll later, under interrogation, say she was playing with me. And i do understand what she means. She enjoys the idea of the flow of our power somewhat inverted, where i, the one who is in command, has limits applied to me based on the social situation we happen to be in. It's also a way to flirt, grab my attention and speak to me in a silent dialogue only her and i are having. But, that doesn't absolve her of having transgressed a directive of mine. Correction does follow such behavior.
Recently, she and i attended the wedding of two very dear friends. The ceremony was in the evening, and prior to us walking the few short blocks from our hotel to the wedding's venue, i invited my girl to have a cocktail with me in the lounge just off the lobby. The bartender delivered us the overly rambunctious drink menu, and before even opening it, i said,"Two gin martinis, up, with olives." We enjoyed the moment of solitude. Her in her gown, me in my tuxedo, letting the stiff alcohol of the martinis wrap itself around our conversation, giving the precipice to the evening a distinct smoothness.
Once at the wedding, it became clear to me how stiff those drinks were. My girl is a charmer when sober, but she's an absolute heart sizzler when she's had a few. She seems to forget that others are around us, and her sensual arousal amplifies. She was pawing me, rubbing her hands up and down my chest as we stood amongst the chapel seats. She played little kisses along my jawline with her lips, working her way upto my ear. I loved it, but i also knew this was not the place for it. I pulled her arms-length away from me and looked in her eyes, giving her an expression that indicated 'perhaps not now'. What i saw in those brown bobbles was the earliest indication of a very pernicious bratty girl. To sway me, she wiggled back up against me, and lay her head on my chest.
"You smell soooo nice."
Throughout the ceremony, she held my hands in numerous combinations of one or the other or both at the same time. By the completion of the marital vows, i went to speak with my friends in the groom's party, thinking my girl would speak to the bridal counterparts. Not so. She'd wedged her way into linking with my arm, clinging to me as i talked "shop talk" with the boys. When we adjourned to the upstairs veranda for the cocktail hour, i suggested to her to take it slow, and just get some wine to sip. After all, it would be a shame not to enjoy (remember) the evening. At one point, we got separated, but from across the room, i occasionally looked over at her wherein she would smile and show me her glass still just half-full. By the time dinner was about to be served, we reconvened, and she proudly showed me her white wine glass as if to say "See? I'm still on my first glass." But, here's where the games began. She knew i wouldn't fall for it.
"Same glass? Why does this one not have the red scarlet imprint of your lips on the rim? Again, please take it slow."
We assumed our seats at our table, joining our eight other table-neighbors. When the waiters worked the room with wine bottles, my girl declined. Somewhere during the appetizer course, she noticed my bourbon was low and offered to get me a drink. I took her up on her offer, thanking her for it. By the time she'd returned, i'd somehow managed to gain the entire table's attention telling them a story about the groom and a creative use of bananas. She'd returned with a glass of amber whiskey, but also a cocktail of her own. I couldn't say anything in the midst of my stroll down memory lane - and she knew it.
For the rest of dinner, we engaged in a duel of sorts with me putting her contraband drink out of her reach, and her taking it back - again while i was consumed with a conversation so that i couldn't stop her. Eventually, i was able to pass it off to a waiter who was clearing dishes. Thankfully, the dance portion of the evening commenced, which served as a perfectly timed distraction. I adore dancing with my girl, she is adept at being led, which makes dancing a virtual heaven. We scooted around the floor for a few numbers, then i cut in between the groom and his new bride for a quick shimmy. Afterward, i couldn't immediately find my girl. When i did, she had a wrinkly, wry smile pulling at the side of her face.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing." She said this as she wrapped her arms around my neck and swayed her hips to the slow rhythms of the band's tune. But, i could smell exactly what she'd been upto. And she knew it. This only made her smile more. The next number, the band kicked the rhythm up, which meant much more coordination from those dancing. Within the first few bars of the song, i knew my girl wasn't up for it. She stumbled, she plodded and she most certainly didn't follow my lead.
"Okay. We're done."
"Why?"
I went and grabbed her jacket from the coat check, holding it up to help her put it on, then gave her my arm to escort her outside. We walked back to the hotel, with her leaning heavily into me. A few times, i had to catch her, as she nearly tripped to the sidewalk. By the time we reached our room, she was incapacitated. The removal of her gown and undergarments was left to me. In this state, i knew she would not be responsive to what needed to happen. Lucky for her. Her booty got a reprieve that evening, but, later, she would pay for it.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
used
blinded
head completely encased
breath coming from a small tube stationed in the mouth
appendages diminished to small, round, tape-covered nobs
the only exposed flesh are bulbous, succulent tits
and
a flushed, naked cunt
i make the toy sit up
i make it lie down
i make it crawl
i make it wait
then beg
i tell it to stick its bare gleaming sex in the air
and hold it there
i apply a vibrating rod to this speechless hole
driving the creature to lustful despair
i make it roll over
the thing inside taking command
rubbing its slit into the round, vibrating head
beastly nature consumes it
hips pound its crotch into the electrical wand
mechanical fucking, without thought
not even noticing the eruption
the liquid that sprays out
pooling beneath this writhing toy
if i didn't extract the stimulator
this would not end
the toy would continue to hump
but, instead, i decide its done
it stops
it crumbles into a pile
spent
and
completely used
head completely encased
breath coming from a small tube stationed in the mouth
appendages diminished to small, round, tape-covered nobs
the only exposed flesh are bulbous, succulent tits
and
a flushed, naked cunt
i make the toy sit up
i make it lie down
i make it crawl
i make it wait
then beg
i tell it to stick its bare gleaming sex in the air
and hold it there
i apply a vibrating rod to this speechless hole
driving the creature to lustful despair
i make it roll over
the thing inside taking command
rubbing its slit into the round, vibrating head
beastly nature consumes it
hips pound its crotch into the electrical wand
mechanical fucking, without thought
not even noticing the eruption
the liquid that sprays out
pooling beneath this writhing toy
if i didn't extract the stimulator
this would not end
the toy would continue to hump
but, instead, i decide its done
it stops
it crumbles into a pile
spent
and
completely used
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Putting the "shhh" in shackling
As i live in a very big city, like most urban dwellers, i reside in an apartment. My unit occupies the entire floor of our building, with a neighbor above and below sporting the exact same layout. The wood flooring that extends throughout the pad does little to insulate the pitter patter of the upstairs toddlers' amidst their play. Nor does the thinness of the ceilings - due to the 19th-century architecture of this brownstone - keep much of the constant hollering and caterwauling of those who live below confined to their own boxing ring.
Out my windows, on both ends of the apartment, i am no more than 100 feet from my closest external neighbor - both streetside and the rear of the building (think 'Rear Window') - which means at anytime, if my shades are up, a potential of over 100 eyes could be peering at the happenings of my humble abode (this is why they invented dungeons). Now, i frequently parade around my bungalow with only what the good Lord hath given me, to the dismay, i'm sure, of my neighboring eavesdroppers. Not because i'm a slob and unkempt - i'm rather well fit, i assure the reader - but because i so often flaunt my nudity to the point of overkill (there is a purpose for this). In this country that i love, it is mildly acceptable to be naked in your home without the shades drawn, however, it is not acceptable in any way to engage in the deprave acts that i pursue in mi casa.
This means that the many times i've mummified my girl, tied her up and whipped her, encased her in garish latex, or simply slipped a gag into her mouth, i've done so under considerable limitations. Shades drawn and a pledge from my girl that she try to hold in her screams (how taxing is that thought?) which usually puts an interesting dent into what we try to accomplish. We do not want to arouse the neighbors suspicions at the overflowing moans of agony pouring from these floors (but, i often wonder, how fair is it that i don't question the young parent's above on their neglect for having let their child scream bloody murder for 40 minutes?), nor do we want to interrupt our agenda.
There are times that we travel to remote locations for vacation, wherein we usually like to pick destinations that are far from anyone else, offering us seclusion and solitude. Here, we can be as loud and boisterous as we want, which reminds us of the interesting negotiation frequently entered back home with our surroundings. Silence may be golden, but for us, it's part and parcel of living in such close quarters.
Out my windows, on both ends of the apartment, i am no more than 100 feet from my closest external neighbor - both streetside and the rear of the building (think 'Rear Window') - which means at anytime, if my shades are up, a potential of over 100 eyes could be peering at the happenings of my humble abode (this is why they invented dungeons). Now, i frequently parade around my bungalow with only what the good Lord hath given me, to the dismay, i'm sure, of my neighboring eavesdroppers. Not because i'm a slob and unkempt - i'm rather well fit, i assure the reader - but because i so often flaunt my nudity to the point of overkill (there is a purpose for this). In this country that i love, it is mildly acceptable to be naked in your home without the shades drawn, however, it is not acceptable in any way to engage in the deprave acts that i pursue in mi casa.
This means that the many times i've mummified my girl, tied her up and whipped her, encased her in garish latex, or simply slipped a gag into her mouth, i've done so under considerable limitations. Shades drawn and a pledge from my girl that she try to hold in her screams (how taxing is that thought?) which usually puts an interesting dent into what we try to accomplish. We do not want to arouse the neighbors suspicions at the overflowing moans of agony pouring from these floors (but, i often wonder, how fair is it that i don't question the young parent's above on their neglect for having let their child scream bloody murder for 40 minutes?), nor do we want to interrupt our agenda.
There are times that we travel to remote locations for vacation, wherein we usually like to pick destinations that are far from anyone else, offering us seclusion and solitude. Here, we can be as loud and boisterous as we want, which reminds us of the interesting negotiation frequently entered back home with our surroundings. Silence may be golden, but for us, it's part and parcel of living in such close quarters.
Monday, October 13, 2008
My girl, the dish
I may be biased here, but from the very instant i first caught a view of my girl, i found her strikingly beautiful. Now, mind you, she looks rather dramatically different today than she did then.
There are many things about that girl that do not appear to the average on-looker (and, brother, let me tell you, on-look they do) like they used to. She no longer has her bangs cut short and uneven (or any bangs at all, for that matter). She no longer possesses jeans, or any other trousers, pantaloons or shorts. Instead of a ring on every finger, she dons only one or two in total. Instead of eyelids, both upper and lower, heavily lined with black pencil, there sits a delicate wedge drawn with liquid eyeliner on the top that extends her already bright eyes up and out. T-shirts do not make up the majority of her daily uniform. And most certainly gone are her incredibly unflattering thick-soled shoes and boots she clumped to her feet to cover up what she thought were her unattractive legs (NOT TRUE AT ALL).
Now, her hair is dyed a deep, ebony black, put into curlers she sleeps in every night before i send her to bed (i don't know how she does this, but she insists she doesn't mind). Every day, she wears either a dress or a skirt, and when the weather permits, stockings and garters (As an aside, we had some friends over, and my girl requested to take off her corset and slip into something more comfortable. Our female guest, upon my girl's return after having changed, remarked incredulously that even her comfort wear was a skirt). Dangling from every finger, having traded in her rings, are 10 beautifully french-manicured, inch-long acrylic nail tips that make her hands longer, more delicate and complement her snow white complexion. Instead of concealing and hiding her gorgeous gams, she has amassed a wonderful collection of heels that she wears (most times) of 3" or higher that showcase the sizzling stems she sashays on.
I've written extensively on my girl's appearance in my personal journals, parsing hundreds of words on each individual feature. I've focused on her lips. On her neck. On her fingers. Her tits. I've pondered through the strokes of my pen her gorgeous cunt, but i think the physical feature that signifies my execution and my resurrection are her eyes.
Her big, brown eyes speak to me of the groundedness that pronounces my girl's very essence. When you look into her shiny peepers, you get an immediate sense of goodness and safety, comfort and beneficence. Often they remind me of the corners of a child's smiling mouth, the depth of movement at the sound of a familiar and needed voice, the promise of a day after a long and difficult night. Her eyes, unlike all these other parts of her physical image, will not change over time, even if their chestnut shade fades with maturity. I look to them for my center and my reflection. And i look to them for the very thing i cannot always find in myself.
Beauty.
There are many things about that girl that do not appear to the average on-looker (and, brother, let me tell you, on-look they do) like they used to. She no longer has her bangs cut short and uneven (or any bangs at all, for that matter). She no longer possesses jeans, or any other trousers, pantaloons or shorts. Instead of a ring on every finger, she dons only one or two in total. Instead of eyelids, both upper and lower, heavily lined with black pencil, there sits a delicate wedge drawn with liquid eyeliner on the top that extends her already bright eyes up and out. T-shirts do not make up the majority of her daily uniform. And most certainly gone are her incredibly unflattering thick-soled shoes and boots she clumped to her feet to cover up what she thought were her unattractive legs (NOT TRUE AT ALL).
Now, her hair is dyed a deep, ebony black, put into curlers she sleeps in every night before i send her to bed (i don't know how she does this, but she insists she doesn't mind). Every day, she wears either a dress or a skirt, and when the weather permits, stockings and garters (As an aside, we had some friends over, and my girl requested to take off her corset and slip into something more comfortable. Our female guest, upon my girl's return after having changed, remarked incredulously that even her comfort wear was a skirt). Dangling from every finger, having traded in her rings, are 10 beautifully french-manicured, inch-long acrylic nail tips that make her hands longer, more delicate and complement her snow white complexion. Instead of concealing and hiding her gorgeous gams, she has amassed a wonderful collection of heels that she wears (most times) of 3" or higher that showcase the sizzling stems she sashays on.
I've written extensively on my girl's appearance in my personal journals, parsing hundreds of words on each individual feature. I've focused on her lips. On her neck. On her fingers. Her tits. I've pondered through the strokes of my pen her gorgeous cunt, but i think the physical feature that signifies my execution and my resurrection are her eyes.
Her big, brown eyes speak to me of the groundedness that pronounces my girl's very essence. When you look into her shiny peepers, you get an immediate sense of goodness and safety, comfort and beneficence. Often they remind me of the corners of a child's smiling mouth, the depth of movement at the sound of a familiar and needed voice, the promise of a day after a long and difficult night. Her eyes, unlike all these other parts of her physical image, will not change over time, even if their chestnut shade fades with maturity. I look to them for my center and my reflection. And i look to them for the very thing i cannot always find in myself.
Beauty.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sugasm #149
Sugasm #149
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 #150? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Art of the Cunt
“The point of the abstraction was so that they, although anatomically correct, are hidden enough in colouring and some of the external shapes to hide the image for what it is.”
Come Get Your Knife
“”Do you trust me?” I asked.”
Tangle of Limbs There is Softness
“But I know myself, I know my desire.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Sugarbutch Star: Eileen
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
Bang The Bum Harder
Fucking and Flogging
How To Train Your Slave
Ins and (Mostly) Outs of Public Displays of Kink
Like a $20 Whore
She disappears
Submission
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