She placed the wine glass into the sink, directly beneath the spigot of the fountain, summoning the liquid serpent hiding in the pipes:
Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.
From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.
The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.
Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.
He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.
"I won't need that for awhile."
She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Arms to the sky
From time to time, i will experience a period of introspection wherein i evaluate my dominance in the domestic power exchange that informs my household's operation. Lately, i have felt that i had not taken as stern a position as i could in the correction and training of my girl (of course, if you ask her, she might completely disagree with this, and rather categorize this self-criticism as a symptom of my perfectionism). Hearing the poor marks i give myself, there are those of you who visit this site and must wonder:
"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"
"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"
"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."
And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.
Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.
Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.
Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.
As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.
I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.
I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.
I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.
Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.
"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."
With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.
"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."
I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.
Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.
"Fowh."
"What?!? Are you serious?"
She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.
Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.
"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"
"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"
"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."
And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.
Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.
Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.
Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.
As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.
I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.
I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.
I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.
Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.
"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."
With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.
"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."
I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.
Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.
"Fowh."
"What?!? Are you serious?"
She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.
Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
wreck the Creation
is that a desperate cry i hear,
that sparks my hunger, coming
from the mouth of the one
who looks at me
unable to move
even one digit of her body
she looks trapped, yet
i know better
those eyes look at me free
of everything in her mind
the more she pleads with me
the more i hear her muffled moans
the more of her honest
resignation
she reveals
she knows nothing of her release
only moments, slight shifts,
to relieve the pain on one joint
only to transfer it to another
is this discomfort to her?
no sign of torture tattoos her face,
for, instead, she dangles
by the very desire her entire body
exudes
look at me dear, look at me once more
and with those eyes, speak your need,
let the exasperation of your torment
racking your body to the edge of
disturbing ecstasy
fill your cries
feel the sharp timbre of pain strike
against your tightened flesh, migrate to that
pain, embrace it
welcome it amongst its kin
oh, the more you moan,
the more i moan
such beauty suffers my eyes to view,
does God intend us to use these
bodies this way?
Does He know that His creations
provide so much joy through flagellation?
He must know, the Creator must
be aware of the measures
we will take to pound these vessels,
to toy with Him, to tell Him
we will master this parcel
I will take away His power for a
moment and mold
the Universe
to
My liking.
Such powerful forces need this
liberation
they need to serve and to be served
by the same confinement
the isolation of body from soul
i captured her body
allowing her soul to roam and soar
that sparks my hunger, coming
from the mouth of the one
who looks at me
unable to move
even one digit of her body
she looks trapped, yet
i know better
those eyes look at me free
of everything in her mind
the more she pleads with me
the more i hear her muffled moans
the more of her honest
resignation
she reveals
she knows nothing of her release
only moments, slight shifts,
to relieve the pain on one joint
only to transfer it to another
is this discomfort to her?
no sign of torture tattoos her face,
for, instead, she dangles
by the very desire her entire body
exudes
look at me dear, look at me once more
and with those eyes, speak your need,
let the exasperation of your torment
racking your body to the edge of
disturbing ecstasy
fill your cries
feel the sharp timbre of pain strike
against your tightened flesh, migrate to that
pain, embrace it
welcome it amongst its kin
oh, the more you moan,
the more i moan
such beauty suffers my eyes to view,
does God intend us to use these
bodies this way?
Does He know that His creations
provide so much joy through flagellation?
He must know, the Creator must
be aware of the measures
we will take to pound these vessels,
to toy with Him, to tell Him
we will master this parcel
I will take away His power for a
moment and mold
the Universe
to
My liking.
Such powerful forces need this
liberation
they need to serve and to be served
by the same confinement
the isolation of body from soul
i captured her body
allowing her soul to roam and soar
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sugasm #141
Sugasm #141
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 #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”
Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”
A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Road Rage
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 & FetishRoutine Maintenance, pt. 2
Monday, July 21, 2008
Further demands
Good afternoon, my dear. I know you told me that your phone was getting serviced today. That is precisely why i am calling right now. I don't want you to intercept my phone call. In fact, i want your stomach to sink as you turn your phone on for the first time, having just picked it up from the service center, and see that i called.
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Revealer
I traveled with my girl over last weekend, leaving the city to celebrate a chum's birthday with a few hundred of his friends and relatives. The interesting thing about this gentleman, as is the case with a good number of relationships in my life, is that there is no rational reason for why we have such strong camaraderie. We are polar opposites. He is the East coast to my Western Mountain boy. But, somehow, we get along incredibly well. Most of the time we spend in eachother's company occurs one on one or with our respective partners. On the occasions that either of us have a gathering that involves our autonomous and separate collection of friends, an invitation will get extended to the other. Should the person accept the invite, they will come into a situation where they are surrounded by people they don't know, and largely cannot relate to. Such is the case this past weekend.
My girl, dressed in her newest vintage red polka-dot halter dress, and i arrived at the party and realized we did not know a solitary soul, minus the birthday boy (and his wife). We mingled. We chit-chatted. We jabbed. All of it completely meaningless. Anyone could've played my head-nodding part in the conversations i partook because the subjects never rose above the level of small talk. An hour passed, and i found myself exhausted (from the effort it took for me to show i cared about the stress this person experienced from maintaining his second home in the Berkshires) , and completely disinterested in pursuing any vein of dialogue. Only until the last guests left, and i had exquisite solitude with my host, did i find my spirits fueled and firing.
On the ride back into the city, i gave this much reflection. Was it snobbery on my part? Was it elitism? I didn't think so. I've had conversations with complete strangers on the subway that washed my soul with warmth. The solitary unifier amongst all of my most profound relationships is my ability to find a comfort at revealing and living out some aspect of myself. If i am clammed up, disconnected from myself, or conceal my basic properties, i grow numb to the exchange.
This principle comes shining through in my interactions with my friend K. When we gather, i will note the commencement of our appointment, and then four hours later, i will again glance at my watch as perplexion overcomes me at the expanse of time. We converse on so many subjects (most recently his purchase of a leather hood for his girl) that draw out of me a ribbon of stimulation for me to constantly chew on, i find i lose my perception of passing time. In fact, when you establish a profound connection with someone, when you reveal and offer yourself, you momentarily slip out of the gulf stream of time. In that instant, you feel connected to the universe.
That's what "The Lustful Quality" accomplishes for me. At any moment, when i face a vapid suction of beauty that this world so frequently presents, i gain comfort in knowing, that coming here, i can allow the mechanisms that i've formed inside of me to affect my civilized reaction to the ugliness a reprieve. Instead, i'm able to express myself while tuning into the harmony that runs through all of us (and that is so frequently distorted and overshadowed by all the noise our psyches endure).
We all, at the end of our line, want to feel connected. The sensation of connectedness gives us value, like we serve a purpose in all of this screaming, dryer-tumbling chaos. Like our life isn't just a meaningless passage of time. No one, after all, wants to feel meaningless.
My girl, dressed in her newest vintage red polka-dot halter dress, and i arrived at the party and realized we did not know a solitary soul, minus the birthday boy (and his wife). We mingled. We chit-chatted. We jabbed. All of it completely meaningless. Anyone could've played my head-nodding part in the conversations i partook because the subjects never rose above the level of small talk. An hour passed, and i found myself exhausted (from the effort it took for me to show i cared about the stress this person experienced from maintaining his second home in the Berkshires) , and completely disinterested in pursuing any vein of dialogue. Only until the last guests left, and i had exquisite solitude with my host, did i find my spirits fueled and firing.
On the ride back into the city, i gave this much reflection. Was it snobbery on my part? Was it elitism? I didn't think so. I've had conversations with complete strangers on the subway that washed my soul with warmth. The solitary unifier amongst all of my most profound relationships is my ability to find a comfort at revealing and living out some aspect of myself. If i am clammed up, disconnected from myself, or conceal my basic properties, i grow numb to the exchange.
This principle comes shining through in my interactions with my friend K. When we gather, i will note the commencement of our appointment, and then four hours later, i will again glance at my watch as perplexion overcomes me at the expanse of time. We converse on so many subjects (most recently his purchase of a leather hood for his girl) that draw out of me a ribbon of stimulation for me to constantly chew on, i find i lose my perception of passing time. In fact, when you establish a profound connection with someone, when you reveal and offer yourself, you momentarily slip out of the gulf stream of time. In that instant, you feel connected to the universe.
That's what "The Lustful Quality" accomplishes for me. At any moment, when i face a vapid suction of beauty that this world so frequently presents, i gain comfort in knowing, that coming here, i can allow the mechanisms that i've formed inside of me to affect my civilized reaction to the ugliness a reprieve. Instead, i'm able to express myself while tuning into the harmony that runs through all of us (and that is so frequently distorted and overshadowed by all the noise our psyches endure).
We all, at the end of our line, want to feel connected. The sensation of connectedness gives us value, like we serve a purpose in all of this screaming, dryer-tumbling chaos. Like our life isn't just a meaningless passage of time. No one, after all, wants to feel meaningless.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Combining
Today, as i sat next to you on the train hurtling us back to our daily lives, our fingers interwoven, i pushed my palm into yours, then my forearm, then my elbow. A flash of an image came to my head.
Me.
Standing behind you in the hallway, pushing my body into yours.
Rubbing up and down, up your backside. Pinning you against the wall.
You pushing back. Your pelvis arching into my groin.
Our bodies driven by an intense magnetic force. Pushing us closer.
We move to a flat surface. Me still behind you. I want to press my very being into you.
I want to remove any physical distance that exists between us. I want to make distance small.
I want to combine us, shove into each other, stab, penetrate.
Our moans correspond. Our gasps sing in harmony.
We make ourself smaller, compact.
Combining, frantically.
One.
Me.
Standing behind you in the hallway, pushing my body into yours.
Rubbing up and down, up your backside. Pinning you against the wall.
You pushing back. Your pelvis arching into my groin.
Our bodies driven by an intense magnetic force. Pushing us closer.
We move to a flat surface. Me still behind you. I want to press my very being into you.
I want to remove any physical distance that exists between us. I want to make distance small.
I want to combine us, shove into each other, stab, penetrate.
Our moans correspond. Our gasps sing in harmony.
We make ourself smaller, compact.
Combining, frantically.
One.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Being in bimbo
It starts with a brief conversation. We've been hanging out in the same chatroom with the generic topic of "BDSM". Looking at every profile embedded in each feminine-sounding handle, i'm searching for the right combination of vulnerability and nubility, but also a wicked and intelligent streak to her. I'll usually send a private message, something playful, but not too aggressive.
"What does a 20-year old like yourself look for in a random BDSM chatroom?"
I have no idea if she's 20. I have no idea if she's a "she". Most don't respond. Those that do, reveal their personality within the first five sentences of our chat. The fiery sprite who wants to flame any and everyone will toss some choice words for me to properly fuck myself. The bored will offer merely one word answers, never ask anything in return and sound too much like, despite her obvious digital multi-tasking with twelve open message windows, the world couldn't get more dull. Five sentences are up, and i move on. There have been only a handful of girls who captured my enigmatic energy and study.
------------------------------------------------------------
There was a time i spent a great number of nights trolling chatroom after chatroom, seeking an exchange with this feminine source that invigorates and motivates me, in hopes to take it and warp it horribly. Lately, i've been thinking about this former practice of mine. I've noticed that my attention, when i've felt an aroused desire to splurge an hour on the internet, has largely been centered at erotic transformation fiction sites (one of my latest finds has many of the other stories i've poured over numerous times before, but presents these often, poorly written bits in a new and refreshing format). I've long gotten over how poorly constructed these stories are. Their language (when spelled correctly) affects an impatient tone from the writer and a feeble grasp of the proper manner of massaging the reader's anticipation. Yet, i'm still able to become impassionately turned on (why?).
For many years, my bimbo fetish has provided me with ample amounts of guilt regarding the unavoidable view of women materials touching on this interest seem to have. Mere objects, their worth arriving only in their physical undulations, brainless beauties who have few objections to their manhandling. As anyone who reads these humble pages knows, i have sheer admiration for the fairer (and i do mean the more forgiving and judicious) sex. How do i reconcile, then, my desire to achieve erotic climax by subjecting them to intense submarining of their well-deserved, hard-earned identity? Enter those lasses in my past who allowed me to explore with them my own fixation to turn them into ditzy, slutty fucktoys.
It was the recent torrid of ravished reading of a transformation tale that led me to understand what stabs me so succinctly to the core with this subject. The stories that launched me to festive erectile reverie all had one universal thing in common: the girl at the center of the tale is always an accomplished, independent, and incredibly intelligent girl. Here lies a classic example of my approach to SM. In order for me to get fulfillment, i must conquer, i must command, and i must completely rule. If, however, the girl in question offers no challenge or bounty, i may as well depart before the requisite five sentences expire. Taking the feisty, spunky girl-creature and transforming her into a perverted twist of a voracious slut-object who has no awareness of social mores and expectations indulges the basest of my hungers.
Amidst this process, another unexpected transformation occurs. When i view evidence of the transported acting on sloven desires with which i have conditioned it, i too disappear. I morph into a deduction of myself, where only senses (that are afire and sizzling) matter. I don't want her to remain a bimbo any more than i want to maintain this status of wild beast. This is a single act (depending on the duration and our endurance) that has a finite end.
I recognize why this excites me so entirely. By slipping this deep, by allowing me to guide her to the point of inhuman recognition, i am allowed to expose myself entirely and act without any dread from judgment or scorn. High-octane cylinders that fire engines of pure ecstatic bliss are driving me, and i'm merely along for the gloriously, thrilling ride.
"What does a 20-year old like yourself look for in a random BDSM chatroom?"
I have no idea if she's 20. I have no idea if she's a "she". Most don't respond. Those that do, reveal their personality within the first five sentences of our chat. The fiery sprite who wants to flame any and everyone will toss some choice words for me to properly fuck myself. The bored will offer merely one word answers, never ask anything in return and sound too much like, despite her obvious digital multi-tasking with twelve open message windows, the world couldn't get more dull. Five sentences are up, and i move on. There have been only a handful of girls who captured my enigmatic energy and study.
------------------------------------------------------------
There was a time i spent a great number of nights trolling chatroom after chatroom, seeking an exchange with this feminine source that invigorates and motivates me, in hopes to take it and warp it horribly. Lately, i've been thinking about this former practice of mine. I've noticed that my attention, when i've felt an aroused desire to splurge an hour on the internet, has largely been centered at erotic transformation fiction sites (one of my latest finds has many of the other stories i've poured over numerous times before, but presents these often, poorly written bits in a new and refreshing format). I've long gotten over how poorly constructed these stories are. Their language (when spelled correctly) affects an impatient tone from the writer and a feeble grasp of the proper manner of massaging the reader's anticipation. Yet, i'm still able to become impassionately turned on (why?).
For many years, my bimbo fetish has provided me with ample amounts of guilt regarding the unavoidable view of women materials touching on this interest seem to have. Mere objects, their worth arriving only in their physical undulations, brainless beauties who have few objections to their manhandling. As anyone who reads these humble pages knows, i have sheer admiration for the fairer (and i do mean the more forgiving and judicious) sex. How do i reconcile, then, my desire to achieve erotic climax by subjecting them to intense submarining of their well-deserved, hard-earned identity? Enter those lasses in my past who allowed me to explore with them my own fixation to turn them into ditzy, slutty fucktoys.
It was the recent torrid of ravished reading of a transformation tale that led me to understand what stabs me so succinctly to the core with this subject. The stories that launched me to festive erectile reverie all had one universal thing in common: the girl at the center of the tale is always an accomplished, independent, and incredibly intelligent girl. Here lies a classic example of my approach to SM. In order for me to get fulfillment, i must conquer, i must command, and i must completely rule. If, however, the girl in question offers no challenge or bounty, i may as well depart before the requisite five sentences expire. Taking the feisty, spunky girl-creature and transforming her into a perverted twist of a voracious slut-object who has no awareness of social mores and expectations indulges the basest of my hungers.
Amidst this process, another unexpected transformation occurs. When i view evidence of the transported acting on sloven desires with which i have conditioned it, i too disappear. I morph into a deduction of myself, where only senses (that are afire and sizzling) matter. I don't want her to remain a bimbo any more than i want to maintain this status of wild beast. This is a single act (depending on the duration and our endurance) that has a finite end.
I recognize why this excites me so entirely. By slipping this deep, by allowing me to guide her to the point of inhuman recognition, i am allowed to expose myself entirely and act without any dread from judgment or scorn. High-octane cylinders that fire engines of pure ecstatic bliss are driving me, and i'm merely along for the gloriously, thrilling ride.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Routine Maintenance, pt. 2
Over the next 18 hours, the bulbous red slashes across her buttocks yielded to a siege of violet discoloration, morphing into a bruised stigmata that spread across the lower curve of her cheeks. A thing of pure beauty. A purple cloud with yellow accents that symbolized the storm that had raged across her flesh. I examined it while she slumbered in the early dawn of morning, stirred by the transference of my emotional energy into this hemorrhage.
My desire beget
cane in my hand, which beget
strokes across her ass, which beget
crimson welts, which beget
these anamorphic bruises
She wore, branded into her skin, my need in its physical manifestation. Every time she sat, the tinge of pain articulated the fever i carry to lash her behind. Her choice of dress, and even her embarrassment over the fact that were she to swim, someone might ask her about the bruises, magnified this intense intimacy we share.
I adored - and more - i was extremely grateful for this. Recognizing my gratitude as i studied the contusion, i realized my ego had softened which made me feel confident that we could proceed with the zipper as i had originally wanted. I didn't take dictation from a greedy, horny demon, but rather, a prescient need to connect with my girl stood behind the appetite for the device.
My clothespin contraption consists of anywhere between 18 and 72 wooden fasteners (depending on her tolerance level and my willingness to prep), threaded onto a 9 meter length of brown leather chord. Because of her previous episode with the cane, we negotiated for 36 pins. I had her strip, then wrapped a silk blindfold over her eyes. With a coil of recently conditioned hemp rope, i bound her elbows behind her back until they touched, and continued to secure her wrists together. I noticed that the temperature in the room had risen, and even though she was naked, her body radiated warmth which led me to turn on the overhead fan. Standing in front of me, nude and armless, her physical self let her mental entity slip deep inside. When i began clamping the pins onto her flesh, her minuscule reaction to the pinch confirmed how deep in shadow her mind had drifted. Even her verbal response sounded little, uncertain.
"ow..."
An afterthought, a formality.
I drew a sinuous line of leather and wood starting from her left armpit, attaching a clamp every few inches. I bit into the pink epidermis on the underside of her tit, following the round suggestion of her mammary.
"ow..."
When there wasn't much skin to pinch, i plied a fold with my finger and thumb and viced onto the base of this tug. Across her belly, down her thigh, then suddenly jackknifing up towards her panting, hairless cunt. I teased her, rubbing the coarse texture of the pin along her sensitive inner groin, inches from her slit before i took purchase with a wooden nip.
"ow..."
I stamped a pin on her left cunt lip, then mirrored this on her right. Looking up at her while paying attention to the elapsed time, i saw that her face showed no sign of cognizance. I counted out the number of the pin i was at.
"24, darlin..."
I continued to dress her with the zipper, when suddenly, she took a step forward, moving herself away from her held position.
"What are you doing? Get back to where you were."
She didn't respond. She took another, less certain, wavering step. I knew something was wrong. And then...
...she collapsed.
I caught her in my arms, worried that the pressure between our bodies was stabbing the attached clothespins into her. I spoke with her.
"Baby...baby, are you okay?"
Thinking as quick as i could, i ripped off the pins that remained. This jolt brought her to the forefront. She gasped, then mumbled some inarticulate phrase. I whipped off the blindfold, then looked into her eyes. Her pupils weren't dilated, she just held the gaze of someone in extreme relaxation.
"W-w-what happened?"
"You collapsed."
"I don't even remember anything after the first clip." I brought her to the bed, and lay her down, telling her to just rest.
I've always been attracted to the image of the hero that saves the damsel in distress, and many times my girl has said she views me this way when i release her from an extended binding. It's odd but also funny that i must put my damsel in the predicaments in order to play the role of savior. However, in this instance, i wasn't saving her from some scenario i placed her in. Rather, i caught her, without any thought, as she fell. If we hadn't spent all of these years learning eachother, growing close, and developing trust, who knows if i would've made the catch.
My desire beget
cane in my hand, which beget
strokes across her ass, which beget
crimson welts, which beget
these anamorphic bruises
She wore, branded into her skin, my need in its physical manifestation. Every time she sat, the tinge of pain articulated the fever i carry to lash her behind. Her choice of dress, and even her embarrassment over the fact that were she to swim, someone might ask her about the bruises, magnified this intense intimacy we share.
I adored - and more - i was extremely grateful for this. Recognizing my gratitude as i studied the contusion, i realized my ego had softened which made me feel confident that we could proceed with the zipper as i had originally wanted. I didn't take dictation from a greedy, horny demon, but rather, a prescient need to connect with my girl stood behind the appetite for the device.
My clothespin contraption consists of anywhere between 18 and 72 wooden fasteners (depending on her tolerance level and my willingness to prep), threaded onto a 9 meter length of brown leather chord. Because of her previous episode with the cane, we negotiated for 36 pins. I had her strip, then wrapped a silk blindfold over her eyes. With a coil of recently conditioned hemp rope, i bound her elbows behind her back until they touched, and continued to secure her wrists together. I noticed that the temperature in the room had risen, and even though she was naked, her body radiated warmth which led me to turn on the overhead fan. Standing in front of me, nude and armless, her physical self let her mental entity slip deep inside. When i began clamping the pins onto her flesh, her minuscule reaction to the pinch confirmed how deep in shadow her mind had drifted. Even her verbal response sounded little, uncertain.
"ow..."
An afterthought, a formality.
I drew a sinuous line of leather and wood starting from her left armpit, attaching a clamp every few inches. I bit into the pink epidermis on the underside of her tit, following the round suggestion of her mammary.
"ow..."
When there wasn't much skin to pinch, i plied a fold with my finger and thumb and viced onto the base of this tug. Across her belly, down her thigh, then suddenly jackknifing up towards her panting, hairless cunt. I teased her, rubbing the coarse texture of the pin along her sensitive inner groin, inches from her slit before i took purchase with a wooden nip.
"ow..."
I stamped a pin on her left cunt lip, then mirrored this on her right. Looking up at her while paying attention to the elapsed time, i saw that her face showed no sign of cognizance. I counted out the number of the pin i was at.
"24, darlin..."
I continued to dress her with the zipper, when suddenly, she took a step forward, moving herself away from her held position.
"What are you doing? Get back to where you were."
She didn't respond. She took another, less certain, wavering step. I knew something was wrong. And then...
...she collapsed.
I caught her in my arms, worried that the pressure between our bodies was stabbing the attached clothespins into her. I spoke with her.
"Baby...baby, are you okay?"
Thinking as quick as i could, i ripped off the pins that remained. This jolt brought her to the forefront. She gasped, then mumbled some inarticulate phrase. I whipped off the blindfold, then looked into her eyes. Her pupils weren't dilated, she just held the gaze of someone in extreme relaxation.
"W-w-what happened?"
"You collapsed."
"I don't even remember anything after the first clip." I brought her to the bed, and lay her down, telling her to just rest.
I've always been attracted to the image of the hero that saves the damsel in distress, and many times my girl has said she views me this way when i release her from an extended binding. It's odd but also funny that i must put my damsel in the predicaments in order to play the role of savior. However, in this instance, i wasn't saving her from some scenario i placed her in. Rather, i caught her, without any thought, as she fell. If we hadn't spent all of these years learning eachother, growing close, and developing trust, who knows if i would've made the catch.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Am i a fetishist?
Ed Wood.
J. Edgar Hoover
Fyodor Dostoevski
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What do they all have in common? They are renowned fetishists. The first two being cross-dressers, while the second divided their time between revolutionizing the modern novel and worshiping the female podiatric anatomy. Obviously the former share a somewhat shamed and scarred remembrance for their kink, whereas the reputation of the latter two largely survives any notion of their sexual deviations.
Growing up, i could do little to stop my halt-in-my-place reaction to any flaunting of an ultra-female variety. If i witnessed a lady stopping mid-stride to gaze into a store window to fuss with her beehive hairdo, i could do nothing but gawk. Or should some gal struggle with her makeup compact on account of her 1" long fake nails, i most assuredly had a courtside seat for this event.
When i explored the avenues available to me to satisfy these (what i believed to be) odd appetites, i came across the word "fetish". At first, it presented itself as an exotic term, something to be embraced like "denouement" or "piece de resistance". As i read more on the term, and as i heard those around me dropping it into conversations, it gained a negative reputation with me. I remember a girlfriend of mine at the time referring to fetishes as "freaky, disgusting, and altogether unacceptable." Various definitions (depending on the context of the source) can be attached to the term. A sexual attraction to objects and materials as opposed to persons. The substitution (for social outcast reasons) of things instead of persons as sexual stimuli (Karl Marx famously referred to materialism as a hard-rooted fetish of Capitalism). I heard that someone who had a fetish (God be with them) could not get aroused unless the fetishized object were present. It became something i myself fought to deny as part of my psychosis, that i didn't need the items that struck an immediate reaction from me should i encounter them, which had me quickly leaping over to the judgmental side of the fence that chastised those who were avowed fetishists.
This punitive approach i took got further compounded when i sought out materials that would satisfy my need for sexual (non-fetishistic, i swear!) stimulus. I searched for photos or videos of the use of mummification, breath play/gasmasks/rebreather bags, full latex enclosure (as opposed to simply a pair of panties fashioned out of the pliable material), inflatable gags, head-encasing hoods or masks, chastity belts, and so on. To my horror, the vast majority of the subjects (and the seekers, i found) were male, and a good number of them were transvestites. I WAS NOT A TRANSVESTITE ("The lady doth protest too much, methinks"). I knew i didn't seek to don woman's clothes and develop a feminine side to my personality, but i could clearly see some part of me responded to the matter found in these pigeonholes. And so i pushed myself further away from the possibility that i may have my own landscape of fetishes. For many years, i put this outlet that responded so strongly to this type of stimulus away. It lay dormant. I hoped it would suffocate and die, like an appendage with a rubber band wrapped around it, choking it of any blood flow, soon to rot and fall off. However, this was not the case.
I moved to a city where they practically established cultural institutions that manufactured walking and breathing models for every fetish known to man. Pretty soon, i could no longer ignore the effect the sound of a clapping high heel had on me. Nor could i just pretend that the altered sway a girl has when wearing a pair of these clod-hoppers (what i've come to call the "Lift-Move-Drop" action of the female buttocks when compensating for the shift in her gait a pair of heels causes) didn't make me want to abandon all plans and just follow this beautiful creature.
Still to this day, i cannot get on a train and not notice every gal wearing a skirt, every well-coiffed hairdo, every pristinely manicured hand, and lord i must look ridiculous the way i crane my neck to catch a glimpse of a girl who i sense is wearing a pair of heels. Why i do this, i ultimately do not know. Am i a fetishist? Frankly, i don't care if i'm labelled as one or not, i just know that far too much has been made about it, and i no longer care to weigh in on the issue like i once did.
p.s. I leave it up to the pure psychoanalysts in the crowd to make sense of the mess that is my ultimate fetishistic fantasy, which is turning girls into objects.
J. Edgar Hoover
Fyodor Dostoevski
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What do they all have in common? They are renowned fetishists. The first two being cross-dressers, while the second divided their time between revolutionizing the modern novel and worshiping the female podiatric anatomy. Obviously the former share a somewhat shamed and scarred remembrance for their kink, whereas the reputation of the latter two largely survives any notion of their sexual deviations.
Growing up, i could do little to stop my halt-in-my-place reaction to any flaunting of an ultra-female variety. If i witnessed a lady stopping mid-stride to gaze into a store window to fuss with her beehive hairdo, i could do nothing but gawk. Or should some gal struggle with her makeup compact on account of her 1" long fake nails, i most assuredly had a courtside seat for this event.
When i explored the avenues available to me to satisfy these (what i believed to be) odd appetites, i came across the word "fetish". At first, it presented itself as an exotic term, something to be embraced like "denouement" or "piece de resistance". As i read more on the term, and as i heard those around me dropping it into conversations, it gained a negative reputation with me. I remember a girlfriend of mine at the time referring to fetishes as "freaky, disgusting, and altogether unacceptable." Various definitions (depending on the context of the source) can be attached to the term. A sexual attraction to objects and materials as opposed to persons. The substitution (for social outcast reasons) of things instead of persons as sexual stimuli (Karl Marx famously referred to materialism as a hard-rooted fetish of Capitalism). I heard that someone who had a fetish (God be with them) could not get aroused unless the fetishized object were present. It became something i myself fought to deny as part of my psychosis, that i didn't need the items that struck an immediate reaction from me should i encounter them, which had me quickly leaping over to the judgmental side of the fence that chastised those who were avowed fetishists.
This punitive approach i took got further compounded when i sought out materials that would satisfy my need for sexual (non-fetishistic, i swear!) stimulus. I searched for photos or videos of the use of mummification, breath play/gasmasks/rebreather bags, full latex enclosure (as opposed to simply a pair of panties fashioned out of the pliable material), inflatable gags, head-encasing hoods or masks, chastity belts, and so on. To my horror, the vast majority of the subjects (and the seekers, i found) were male, and a good number of them were transvestites. I WAS NOT A TRANSVESTITE ("The lady doth protest too much, methinks"). I knew i didn't seek to don woman's clothes and develop a feminine side to my personality, but i could clearly see some part of me responded to the matter found in these pigeonholes. And so i pushed myself further away from the possibility that i may have my own landscape of fetishes. For many years, i put this outlet that responded so strongly to this type of stimulus away. It lay dormant. I hoped it would suffocate and die, like an appendage with a rubber band wrapped around it, choking it of any blood flow, soon to rot and fall off. However, this was not the case.
I moved to a city where they practically established cultural institutions that manufactured walking and breathing models for every fetish known to man. Pretty soon, i could no longer ignore the effect the sound of a clapping high heel had on me. Nor could i just pretend that the altered sway a girl has when wearing a pair of these clod-hoppers (what i've come to call the "Lift-Move-Drop" action of the female buttocks when compensating for the shift in her gait a pair of heels causes) didn't make me want to abandon all plans and just follow this beautiful creature.
Still to this day, i cannot get on a train and not notice every gal wearing a skirt, every well-coiffed hairdo, every pristinely manicured hand, and lord i must look ridiculous the way i crane my neck to catch a glimpse of a girl who i sense is wearing a pair of heels. Why i do this, i ultimately do not know. Am i a fetishist? Frankly, i don't care if i'm labelled as one or not, i just know that far too much has been made about it, and i no longer care to weigh in on the issue like i once did.
p.s. I leave it up to the pure psychoanalysts in the crowd to make sense of the mess that is my ultimate fetishistic fantasy, which is turning girls into objects.
Sugasm #138
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 #139? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set. This Week’s Picks Champagne Orgasms Tie one on Mr. Sugasm Himself Editor’s Choice 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 |
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