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
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