Outside

Since there's no space, come, let us kiss and squeeze;
Or kiss anyway, let's start with that, the kissing, please.
Because it's better than not starting, you agree?
We're good at kissing, kissing all over, pleasantly

And if we kiss, we may as well do more.
For it's just you and me, no one else outside that door.
How is this? My hand? There, holding your breast?
Do i go too far? Or perhaps, should i go the rest?

What pulse is this, that greets me at my touch?
Quivering lips, fingers, hips, sighs of way, too, too much.
Yes, i think i will go on, plundering right here.
And those outside will not abide our passions, my dear.

Where else would i put these thoughts?

- Oh pretty girl on the platform. I stand near you, and not so abstractly or subtly gander over at you. It can't be helped, you see, because your ribbony head of curls caught my eye as soon as i went through the turnstile. And well, i could dip into my satchel and pull out the trade papers i should probably be studying, but then there you are. Pretty. Curly. You haven't yet shown me your eyes - oh my...you are pretty. Incredibly. Surely, you see me. I'm no more than just a few feet from those two big blue beee-yoots. This isn't a game. I'm merely interested in looking at your visage, the same as if i were to stare so intently at a Van Gogh landscape hanging in the Metropolitan. I want to be near that beauty. I want to just stare and admire. I want to be inspired. To be filled with the joy such beauty imbibes you with, to then turn around, and hold the door for that elderly lady, to offer a pleasant smile to that stranger waiting for the bus near my apartment. I want to be charmed, and hopeful in turn, be charming.

- I do so much walking in this city. There can only be so much entertainment one pursues in the headphones plugged into their ears. I offer to those of you who read these words the opportunity to chime in on whether the next behaviors i describe are creepy or endearing: I'm rushing, late (by my terms, which really means i'm right on time) for an appointment. I weave in and out of the stragglers on the sidewalk. I don't shove anyone. It's all on me. I duck, bend, shift, scoot and bow - all to make my way through a congested alleyway. I look at my watch every few steps. How can it still only be that time? Seriously? Boy, when did minutes go so fast? And then, suddenly, without any hesitation, i stop in my tracks. Ahead, there is a beautiful woman who has stopped to study the tantalizing window display at a dress shop. My steps are methodically slower, angling my approach so that i walk behind her by just a few inches. Right as i'm upon her, i close my eyes, suck in the air around her through my nostrils just so i can sense her perfume. My forward progress carries me a few feet past her, as the remnants of her bouquet pay their last respects upon my nostrils. And then, without hesitation, i resume my hurried march to my appointment, with 100% certainty she has no idea what her lovely perfume has done to lift my day.

Top me, oh Top me, please.

Ever since my girl got me an iPod Touch for Christmas last year, i have developed a gradually growing addiction for podcasts. This format has an incredible versatility because the shows can run the gamut of slick, professionally produced media spectacles to the low budget dude-with-a-mic-in-his-living-room-just-chatting. Couple that with how they are delivered to me, only in my ear, an air of intimacy has built up around my listening experience. As it shouldn't be a surprise, i've gone in search of kinky, SM podcasts, and to my surprise there are a good number of them. It's quite an enjoyable thrill to queue up one of these sexual broadcasts, board my morning subway train, and listen to tales of dykes packing dicks, bisexual sex parties, or a latex couples' weekend - all the while surrounded by my completely oblivious fellow commuters.

One thing i've noticed, and it's echoed here in the kinky blogosphere, is the absolute dearth of straight, male dominants/Tops hosting their own podcast (and if indeed there is a show, please feel free to let me know. I'd love to tune in). There is an endless number of quality shows consistent of females of all sexuality, and there are even a number of submissive males. Where are the straight male Tops? Does our viewpoint not excite enough of a following that a podcast hosted by one would find its way into my iTunes store? Some of this is self-explanatory. There just isn't an audience for the male perspective, especially when that perspective is trying to entice a female audience.

And that's when another thought occurred to me. In a good number of these shows, there are plenty of stories of men paying women a fee for a session of sadistic domination. None of these stories go in the opposite direction. Why have i never heard of a pro straight, male Dominant?

Economically, this means there isn't a market for submissive women to pay some male to practice his sadistic side upon them. I'm not sure what this says about the genders. Automatically, I draw conclusions that it is a product of our male-dominated society. But that is my intellectual assessment. Emotionally, identifying with male sexuality, I feel like a creep. That I have the internal capacity just as a male to need sex so much that I would dole out money feels gross, feels a little unhealthy. Admittedly, the perception is that boys think about sex more than girls. I'm told WAY more than girls, but that is the kind of gross over-generalization that i care not to make on these pages. That being said, it makes sense, or at least the absence of this kind of media isn't a shock. Maybe male Tops have to maintain a certain mystique that the oral/aural presentation of a podcast doesn't fit? Maybe they are those of few words, and thus couldn't fill the timeslot allocated for a show. Maybe trust is a bigger deal with women, and men will put themselves in considerably riskier scenarios just to blow their load.

I genuinely cannot offer an explanation for why there isn't a bevy of submissive females who need to be under the firm hand of a sadistic Top so badly that they are willing to pay hard-earned cash, or, at the very least, tune-in to hear him talk about it.

Myjaculate

No one's ever asked me to discuss my take on the male ejaculatory orgasm, let alone write an entire detailed post about it. When lg asked me if i'd be interested (rather mousily, and i'm sure she was nervously tracing a circle on her desk with her finger as she waited for my answer - but, alas, she didn't have to trace for too long), i was ecstatic. That's one topic i just never thought others would be interested in hearing my perspective on. I immediately replied yes with as much haste as possible.

And that's as far as my momentum went.

I struggled to find a place where i could begin. Talk about ejaculating? This is one of the few things that i've kept rather privately to myself. None of my partners have ever been particularly curious about what it's like to eject semen out of a penis, and frankly, the subject has never come up with anyone else. That doesn't mean i don't have a desire to spray my thoughts about cumming all over these pages. This indicates that i've struggled to organize my impressions in my head. And, truthfully, i think it's important that this make up part of this post. I'm still shocked that anyone would want to hear about a confidential sensation i've been experiencing nearly everyday for over a quarter of a century. My orgasm is such an emblematic part of me, as integral as my breathing, which makes it all the more difficult to parse and spread out onto a slide to be examined underneath an expository microscope. So, in order to tackle this project, i thought that i would employ a technique that i've used in the past to expound upon a subject. I've broken it up into three, ever expanding sections.

The first: Masturbation, pt. 1 (aka. thrilling)
As i've mentioned before, i really enjoy handling my penis. Sometimes, whilst mid-fondle, my somewhat flaccid member will start to respond and either out of boredom/curiosity/mischievousness i'll choose to push it further. I'll slide my penis between my fore and middle fingers and just wiggle them back and forth, inciting blood to rush into this appendage. Slowly the skin tightens, stretches, and expands. Very shortly, my erect penis is pointed in the air, slanted upwards, throbbing and bobbing in connection with my heartbeat. It's at this point where if i'm sitting, i will stand up. The preferred place for this form of ejaculation is a bathroom. I will lean (if i have privacy) against the edge of a sink, resting the outer rim of the bowl on my thighs, a few inches beneath my crotch. If in a public bathroom, i will pick a stall, and lean against the toilet, bracing my weight right underneath my knees. Regardless of where i am, the posture is all the same.

For this orgasm, all i'm interested in is cumming. It's not about being sexually turned on. It's merely for the sensation of the orgasm, but more importantly, the rush of thick, viscous fluids through the vas deferens, spurting finally out of the gaping hole on the tip of the penis. I will stroke my penis with my entire hand fully enclosed around it, applying more pressure on the underside. My hand glides over the flesh rapidly, causing my wrist to slam into my pelvic bone, and my thumb and forefinger smacking against the rim of my circumcised head. This feels incredible. Every nerve ending in my penis awakens, anxiously anticipating the rapid physical stimulation of my pistoning grip.

When i feel an electrical sizzle on both sides of my groin, i know i'm close. Here's where leaning against a toilet or sink comes into play (something i discovered completely by chance and to my benevolent grace). Timed perfectly with the rising crescendo, i will lean as far back as possible, maintaining my fast strokes, and tense my abdominal muscles as much as possible. This distributes the intense, pleasurable sensation of the orgasm all throughout my mid-section, building and building until finally, deep inside, i feel a pull from within. As if the semen could not be contained, it jets out of my penis, and with each expulsion, a concluding jolt of exquisite warmth explodes across my torso. As quickly as it was begun, it is over. The blood recedes, the erection subsides, and i am left to dispose of the creamy, thick evidence of my debauchery.

The second: Masturbation, pt. 2 (aka. uncontrollable)
Here enters the vast amounts of pornographic material i've accumulated. There is no mistake when i sit down (usually in front of the computer) what i have on my mind. I am already aroused, i've either awoken this way in the morning, which frequently happens, or just suddenly my chemical composition shifts, and i must satiate my customarily-high libido. When i am in this state, there is no need to manhandle my member to encourage blood flow. Blood floweth already. Blood rageth. I am achingly, obliteratingly hard.

In fact, i'm so aroused, that i must be careful in how i touch my penis. In this state, very little needs to occur for me to blow. I will cue up whatever girl being debased/objectified/minimized material i seek, and lower my undergarments. The difference in firmness and size in this state as opposed to the one i previously described is completely palpable. My penis is so swollen and engorged, it flushes a deep violet, purple tone. Starting the media, i take my fingers and lightly rub the underside of my genitals, caressing the (surprisingly) soft, skin, tracing over the wide, flanged head. This minimal contact is amazing. I can feel nerve endings in my spine react to this, crawling up my back and into my neck. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not grab a hold of this staff and start thrusting down on it.

When i do finally curl my meaty fingers around my penis, i just choke it at first, squeezing it which in turn causes a neural shudder to tremor through my core. This shakes off any civility left lingering in my foreground. In response, my jaw assumes an inhumane stance, with my lower teeth jutting forward. My breath purchases savage lungfuls of air from the atmosphere. The tendons in my hand scream "STROKE!". The rigid muscles in my forearm concur yelling "STROKE!". My eyes want to see this. My ears want to hear it. My nose wants to smell the thick, pungent musk of my beastly arousal. Playing over and over in my head are the images and sounds of the girl's hopeless plight.

When i begin stroking, blasts of euphoric current shoot down my thighs, past my knees. Jolts of pleasure sever through my crotch, using my penis like a lightning rod, boring megawatts of electrical sizzle deep into my prostate. With this much frenzied stimulation, it won't be long before i cannot hold back any longer. Depending on how long i want to go, i must cease immediately any contact with my penis in order to prolong my release. I will wait a few counts, then quickly jerk on my penis a handful of times, bringing me quickly back to the edge of that delicious waterfall. Then, once again, i pull my hand off. I breathe sinisterly, letting the flow of sadistic juices nourish my mind. I can sustain this dance of edging towards the crescendo for hours, or sow my seed in just a few minutes. Regardless of duration, my eruption remains the same. A sensation of live spirits collecting in my chest signals the commencement, and as these wild creatures join together and push through my veins, my penis begins to violently clench, spasming upward, setting off the ejaculatory impulses. Semen surges through my penis, spraying gush after gush of thin, briney liquid all up and down my torso. This can last upto a minute, and even after completion, the inelastic firmness remains for several minutes more.

The third: Fornication (aka. transformative)
This one was the toughest to write about because truthfully, there exist so many derivatives of this orgasm depending on which female orifice is used, which position she is in, and what other stimuli (i.e. sex toy, bondage, roleplay, fetish, etc.) is involved (or lack thereof). To attempt to capture them all would take numerous posts dedicated to each nuanced version (i.e. her mouth; lying on her back, head over the edge of the bed; blindfolded). I fear the intricacy of each one, although truly enjoyable research material for me to collect, would prove to be less than interesting to my readers. To boil this form of orgasm down to its essence, it is simplest to view this as the hands-free, genital-only, fornicating orgasm.

This is the most intrinsically male of the orgasms, and probably the one that most females are traditionally in the dark about. The masturbatory ones are about toying, frigging, diddling, playing. This one is serious. This one demonstrates the biological and psychological requirement that males must penetrate in order to fertilize the female. This orgasm is the most fulfilling, without a doubt. I gain a deep, intimate connection with my partner, but in addition to that, i embody my ingrained dominant tendencies the most when i use my penis to penetrate her. I'm sticking a part of myself inside of her. I'm inserting me into her. I am joining with her by going within her. I make a hole in her and fill it with me. Once inside of her, the most magnificent, incredible pleasure consumes me. That she has accepted me inside, has adapted to my fleshy intrusion, enveloped me, cradling my most sensitive and yet stimulative appendage satiates my desire to overcome, topple and conquer her. She has surrendered to me in this moment. I am her conqueror, she is the vanquished. I have a lavish, celebratory feast upon her banquet.

In retrospect, this act seems to imply the need for an apology on my behalf. It is done with such force - the kind that when attempted without the heightened hormonal state, would be viewed as barbaric and violent - and after a certain point (of no return) with zero regard for the recipient. In the beginning, when i first dabbled in the coital arts, i knew i held back out of trepidation for the horribly, hungry monster i knew i could become, sparing my lover this ghastly sight. But as i realized i couldn't control it, as its strength grew, sustained by the few droplets of sanguine blood in the water it sensed, i gave up all (completely futile) attempts at reining it in.

But i think that's what makes this such a delicate and treasured experience. Because of these moments, however long they last, we are forcibly removed from the artificial chains of civilization and humanity, and are instead treated as two galaxial bodies whose particles are violently slamming into eachother, creating new, unabashed passion.

We are ultimately and without any restraint, creating life.

Boy training

A commenter on this post made an excellent suggestion that someone tackle the lazies of the male persuasion. Honestly, i just love getting suggestions for posts, and couldn't pass this one up.

Without further ado:

I feel for the most part that this entire site, despite its nomenclature of "transformher", has been dedicated to the ways a man can become a better man. I speak frequently about the need for restraint. I celebrate the virtue and necessity of patience. I subscribe to the notion that what is done here, what i speak of is more than just about sex, but about finding an inner peace and connection with my partner.

But ultimately, the matter that sits at the core of my entire psyche is the unceasing creation of beauty. I know this word automatically has feminine inferences woven into it. Rare is it that someone would say "that man is beautiful" and even if they do, it is something that causes you to take express notice. Additionally, for my sake, beauty is not just physical attractiveness. In fact, we limit the power and prevalence of beauty if we only use physical characteristics as its ingredients.

How does one contribute beauty to the world? With the list of things i chose to highlight in my other post, you'd think offering something beautiful was arduous (you mean i have to wear high heels in order to contribute positively to the world?). Actually, it's quite simple. Just care. That's all you need to do. Care about other people, care about your loved ones, but most importantly, care about yourself.

I'm surrounded by men who have no problem oggling some cute thing fluttering by in her little mini skirt and wedges, all the while their potbellies pour onto the table from where they stuff their mouths with the worst, nutrient-deficient, fat-laden food on the planet. They demand that their women look a specific way - tiny, thin, attractive - yet they give no thought to how they themselves look. They dress like the clothes they own were as inconvenient a formality as the wrapper on their greasy cheeseburger. They take no pride in their appearance, whether it is how little attention they pay to their grooming habits (i have seen some collosally awful haircuts that men seem to care very little about) or how homogenized they've made their outfits (can anyone tell the difference between what a guy wore on Monday to what he wore on a Thursday?).

Let me provide a little background information to round out the context to where i'm coming from. I was raised on a ranch. My father did not wear bespoke clothing. His regular outfit was a plaid button down and some heavily-worn jeans. And that suited his vocation. However, whenever he found himself attending some public function, he made a point to be dressed as nicely and handsomely as possible. He never once was found at a social event not dressing or looking his best. Doing so spoke about the welfare of his family, but also provided other folks with a charming, dashing gentleman to occupy their visual sampling. He knew that there was a bigger purpose than all of us. And i remember giving him a great deal of grief as a boy on Sundays, when i couldn't understand his insistence that i wear my navy suit to "dumb ole church". His simple answer was stolen straight out of a J.D. Salinger story (a fact i didn't learn until years later, on my own, reading "Franny and Zooey").

"Do it for the Fat Lady."

As men, we ask a lot of our women. We ask them to be seductive co-eds. We ask them to be blushing brides. We ask them to be strong, pregnant ladies. We ask them to be diligent partners, and impeccable mothers to our children. All of this is fine and warranted, only if we ask of ourselves on magnitudes much, much higher. We are not under the same pressure that women are to look, act and dress a certain way.

But if i could slow things down, for just a moment, let me speak solely to my very, small male audience.

Do better.

Do and be better. Don't let fatigue allow you to let things slide. Don't let laziness be your calling card. Don't let busyness interrupt your ability to offer more.

If you need encouragement from a bigger force, know for certain that the world benefits when you take the time to care and acknowledge that your contribution on this day is to a much larger and spiritually fulfilling effort.

Medium well done

The media

In some ways, it's responsible for framing my approach to my kink (some might even say it's responsible for the formation of it - fine, i'll allow that). Whether it's from viewing Popeye cartoons at a young age that involved Bluto kidnapping the hapless Olive, only to offer us brief scenes of her torture, then interrupted by the hero's spinach-laden rescue or the climactic finale of Young Sherlock Holmes where the adolescent gumshoe, in the nick of time, saves a mummified damsel from her waxy entombment - my introduction to the abduction of the female as a way to interact and commute with her came from this artificial construction.

I didn't know what i was seeing. In my real life, i wasn't seeing actual evidence of any kinky proclivities from the flesh and blood around me. There is no doubt that the media i encountered had a major impact on my sexuality. A certain image stimulated a part of my brain that up until that point was just agitated, an itch i couldn't scratch. But once it saw this image of a beautiful girl bound tightly by rope - ahhhhhh, relief! Suddenly, a visceral connection is made between my internal, secretive appetites and those broadcast through a wider medium of others. When i would encounter these familiar scenarios as a teen (again not in real life, but usually through a magazine or film), my mind made a pleasant association with the image before me, further reinforcing the hope that this kink of mine may someday be savored.

Because i am an animal with appetites, once i learned that there was a source for the kind of sustenance my lust required - the media - very soon, that was where i directed a great deal of my time and energy. But here is where it gets skewed. Since i was not producing any media (except for the written word, which is mostly all you encounter here), i was merely a consumer of what was available (still to this day, they have not made the erotic movie that i'd deign to make if i had the proper funds). Over time, the unabashed consumer will find their appetites and desires altered, reformed to fit the flow of consumable materials. So to was the case for me. I found myself aroused by things i never expected to be stimulated by, and after awhile, it became difficult to clearly delineate what were my own native impulses from those implanted by the media i voraciously consumed.

When i finally decided to create this site, i realized i was making an active step to participate in the very realm that forged my own internal desires. I contribute to it here by sharing my words and posting photos/videos that illustrate my point of view - but that's just it, they are just my points of view. I am just one (highly opinionated) man with a particular bent on the world that occupies a rather small corner of the kinky blogosphere. I cannot compete with the onslaught of images and stories that other high-profiled, commercially-focused and well-financed put out - nor do i ever intend to try to compete with this, but i recognize that i occupy a spot in the constant, unending stream. Even though, recently, me and my girl embarked on the exciting endeavor of actually creating media (photos specifically) of a professional nature (already, we've made it into a few publications), our transmission is a mere trifle compared to the largest and loudest voices out there.

It should also be stated that i continue to view SM media constantly, repeatedly, and emphatically. It is a daily treat for me - one in which i'm able to shut down when i realize i've wasted too much time plundering through the digital channels. One thing to note, however, is that the media is persistent and non-stop. We're under a constant barrage of imagery and motion that attempt to reinforce and stimulate deeply held fascinations of the opposite sex and the erotic theatre (for largely profitable enterprises), and it's up to us to decide what we're willing to let influence our psychology, and what we're willing to toss into the trash.

Help Wanted

The Lustful Quality is spinning off - yet again. I've got a super, secret project i'm working on and need some assistance.

Consider this a call for the first ever TransformHer internship. Throughout the existence of this site, i've never really asked much from my readers. But, now i'm appealing to you directly. I am limited in my html/graphic design skills, and need someone who has some free time and interest in helping me with this project. I have concept ideas in my head, artwork that i've produced and other things already, i just need the right skills to set it in motion.

So, if there are any of you interested, please submit an e-mail (to: dominantdeity (at) gmail) and a brief description of your skillset (don't think i need to see resumes).

Kitty's Response

One of the things I love about my man is his frankness, but sometimes it comes out the wrong way. In our relationship, I'm generally in charge of pleasantries like sending thank-you notes, remembering to bring a bottle of wine to a dinner party or offering drinks to guests the moment they enter our home. It's not that Deity is not thoughtful--I assure you, he is an incredibly generous person. But sometimes, his strong opinions trump his empathy and sensitivity.

Obviously, his last post was far from "rather benign" as he claimed in one of his responses to comments. It touched a nerve with many of you, and if I didn't know him better, it would have riled me too. For starters, he's not a woman. He doesn't walk through the world actually wearing the false eyelashes he so adores, and yes, they do take some getting used to, not to mention lots of practice. He doesn't wear a corset, walk in heels or put on makeup every morning, so from an outsider's perspective, his instructions and assertions as to how to do these things begs the question, "Where do you get off?" We do argue about this from time to time--I'm huffing and puffing up a few flights of stairs, he teases me, I shoot back with little patience that he's not the one with his ribcage forcibly compressed four and a half inches.

I explained this to him when discussing the responses to his post, and once I pointed out how his writing can read from a female perspective, he understood that, generally, women bristle at being told how to be feminine by a man, and explained that this was not his intention. He said, "But all I'm saying is do it the right way." I said, "What's the right way?" He answered, "Whatever looks best on you. Whatever you're happy with. I just don't like sloppiness."

And that's what I think is missing from his post. Ultimately, he doesn't mean that everyone should go for a 1950s look or wear false eyelashes, a corset and heels every day. (I certainly don't. I think I would be blind and have tendonitis if I did.) What he is really railing against is women who take no pride in their personal appearance, and who forget that part of the reason for taking care of yourself is so that you feel good.

If your heels give you great pain and are making you walk uncomfortably, take them off; they're clearly not working for you. If you're not adept at putting on makeup and don't care to wear it, or practice at it, then don't. It's not you. When undressing, it is a little more fun to do this simple task in a way that makes you feel good--whether you're working it slowly or are more of a bodice-ripper type. If you're going to do something, anything, it's worth putting some effort into it to do it well and bring you happiness. As for the corset part, I think it is part of his fantasy that he knows how to do this better than me. He doesn't, because I know when it feels right, and I have years of practice. But for most people, someone else--their partner?--is the one lacing them on the special occasion that calls for a corset. (You can probably guess that that was the section which had me stop and take a deep breath for patience).

Of all the generalized, blanket statements Deity makes explicitly in his post, the implicit one that is clear to me as someone who knows him well, is that this all comes back to his belief that men and women alike should strive every day to add some beauty to the world. I feel safe saying that most people are at their best when they feel their best, and are making purposeful choices about themselves and how they act, and I know Deity agrees with me. This is the point that is lost when we, as women, read his post and hear yet another man telling us how to act. Too many women have heard that for most of their lives. By no means do I intend to suggest that those who were offended have no right to feel offended, I only wish to offer that there may have been a miscommunication. Deity's been writing this blog for years, and this one post is but an aberration from his otherwise articulate writings.

(Another point: Try not to take him so seriously. He gets off on being cheeky. Case in point: His blogger name is meant as a joke.)

--Kitty du Vert

Girl training

There are things that i should not know better how to do than women. Simply put, there is a deficit of femininity on display in this world, and i find it to be a travesty.

- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.

- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".

- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.

- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW

- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.

The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.

I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?

you are safe

there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
dangle it
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
across my lips
as i nap
as you watch me nap
from above
brush me with your beauty
pour over me with your eyes
safe
you are safe
for were i awake
i would
topple
you

The Dungeon

Eyes Wide Shut - Banned Orgy

We had to descend several spiralling staircases that carried us from the Burlesque Showcase room, through the Dance floor/Couples Room, to an external staircase that exited the old cathedral for a moment, finally delivering us to the bottom level - the cellar. Immediately, upon penetrating the low-lit chamber called "the Dungeon", you heard the song from the ritual scene in Eyes Wide Shut floating in from speakers throughout the level.

I walked arm and arm with my girl as we took a tour around the room. To our right several lounge chaise lined the wall, above them hung lanterns that sprayed the wall with stars of light. Following the cocktail bar against the far left side, we ventured into the area where the play equipment resided. As we progressed further, the rhythmic sounds of someone being flogged met our ears before the image of the naked girl with her outstretched, bound limbs greeted our eyes. A group of people had gathered to watch this corporal feast, as they gobbled up the moans and cries from the sweating submissive which sang into the air. We stayed for a moment, watching her Top switch between leather whips and hard wooden paddles, producing a gorgeous red tint to her upper thighs and buttocks.

There were many delicious visual feasts for our eyes to munch on, but seeing as she'd been standing on 6-inch heels for over three hours, my girl requested we sit to rest her feet. We resituated ourselves in the first chamber we'd visited in the Dungeon, finding a comfortable couch in the corner. There were others sitting in this area, and we soon found ourselves in polite conversation. While we were talking, a handsome blond man approached my girl.

"Madam, you are so stunning. May i please worship your feet?"

She looked over at me, subtly indicating our roles. He clued in very quickly and turned to me.

"Forgive me. Would you allow me to worship her feet?"

I nodded, and waved my hand in my girl's direction. He knelt at the base of her legs and very gingerly lifted and rested her right leg on top of his bended knee. With equal amounts of delicacy, he carefully undid the ankle straps to her shoes, and gently removed her custom-made patent leather heels. He wrapped his hands around her latex stocking-clad ankles, then slowly began to massage her fatigued tissue beneath the rubbery layer. With methodical movement, he kneaded her foot, every once in awhile bringing it to his mouth where he would softly kiss her toes. My girl relished the adoration, letting her head fall backwards in stimulated bliss. The entire time he paid her attention, he kept whispering to her how beautiful her feet and legs were, and how grateful he was to be able to worship them.

He had just finished his devotion when a gorgeous Italian girl tapped me on my shoulder. Through her pouty, sensuous lips, she asked me if i would allow her to also worship my girl's legs. Out of the corner of my eye, in a small little alcove off to my right, a couple was quietly, but hungrily fucking. I watched their undulating bodies for a moment, then returned my attention to the beautiful raven-haired signora, offering her my consent. Her method was different than the blond gentleman's. Where his touch was thorough and concentrated, her's was sensual and graceful. She brushed her fingers up and down my girl's shiny rubber thighs, barely applying any pressure. Each stroke traced a path that reached further and further up my girl's leg. The worshiping femme nuzzled her cheeks against her goddess' gams, closing her eyes in ecstasy, kissing their entirety. I adored watching her lavish attention on my latex doll. I've always found the idea of a girl servicing my submissive bottom in this fashion incredibly erotic, knowing that it wouldn't go any further than this.

I thanked her for her homage, and helped her to her feet, then dismissed her. I had an urge to turn the evening in a different direction. Earlier, in our tour of the space, i caught sight of a stripper's pole in the middle of the play area. With this in mind, when my girl returned from a brief trip to the rubbergirls' room, i rose, preventing her from taking a seat. I wrapped my arms around her, lavished her neck with miniature kisses, and then tapped upon, with purpose, her rubberized tush three times.

"Are you going to spank me?"

As a sign of confirmation, i walked in front of her, holding her hand, leading her to the pole. We weaved in and out of voyeuristic groups gathered around various devious activities. It was perfect, i thought to myself, because my girl had taken several dance classes, and one of her favorites was her pole dancing class. She excelled at seductively negotiating a floor to ceiling pole in 6-inch heels.

I gathered her in my arms, as we stood looking at the shiny, brass bar, and whispered into her ear,"I want you to give me a slow, enticing dance. Make me want to tear you down from that pole."

She stepped up to the pole, grabbed it with her hand, then took a slow revolution around it - the entire time she kept her bright eyes affixed on me. Swinging her legs around, she slowly lowered her body down the pole, straddling it the length of the descent. The longer she danced, the more spectators she attracted. But despite the growing numbers, her eyes never left mine.

I could barely contain myself. The crowd looking on, her fiery movement, the intensity of her concentration - all of it pushed my arousal to a peak. Without hesitation, i broke the barrier between performer and audience by approaching her as she swayed up there on the platform. I positioned my hands on either side of her hips, holding her still, both of us not moving at all.

I mouthed to her, "Turn around."

She complied.

I stepped closer, right against the pole.

"Grab the pole with both hands, and bend over. Point your ass out to all of those people watching you."

I moved behind her as she grasped her hands around the brass rod. Pushing her legs outward, i positioned her feet exactly where i wanted them. Her shiny backside beckoned me, but i tried to hold on as long as possible, letting this scene get as much maturity as possible. My hand flattened into a paddle shape. In my peripheral vision, i could see that several people had stopped to watch. This reality gave my hand a tremendous momentum as i swung it through the air and landed it on her rubbery cheeks.

"PHWAP!!"

She emitted a tiny "oof". I was immediately taken by how different it felt to spank her ass while it was tightly constricted under a thick layer of shiny latex. When i hit just one of her cheeks, the impact seemed to resonate throughout the entire area. It felt foreign. It felt artificial. It felt incredibly, incredibly erotic. I continued to spank her through the rubber, every once in awhile gazing out to the onlookers. I wanted to see if anyone felt a desire to give her a few swats of their own. Too timid perhaps, no one accepted my non-verbal invitation. Unfazed, i continued to shred into my girl's buttocks, enjoying the recoil her whole backside offered after each slap.

Slowly, as if the lights in the surrounding room were being extinguished, the background dimmed in my eyes. I no longer noticed those gathering. My hunger to inflict upon my girl had sky rocketed. I reached down at the bottom hem of her latex dress, and pulled it up, revealing her pale, sweat-soaked flesh. The aroma from her now freed arousal incited me. My hands acted without thought. They pinched, they clawed at the mounds of meat hovering before me. I spanked her repeatedly, skin to skin, while she clung to the pole. And then, abruptly, i stopped.

I had to. The next step would need to take place back in our hotel room. Over many, many hours.

Worn out

Whenever anyone has asked what my highlight from me and my girl's recent trip to London is, i've hesitated in my response. Quite honestly, i could pick many favorite memories from my inaugural visit to the Square Mile. We saw so many things: gloriously old museums, eccentric and unique boutiques, my favorite soccer team's hallowed grounds, a great assemblage of pubs, and much more. But, it is not the sheer number of great attractions that gives my answer to their question pause. Instead, it is the "inappropriate" nature of our vacation's most treasured souvenir:

Our attendance at Torture Garden's London Fetish Ball

Some of you may remember (and the naughtiest of you might even chuckle) my post about the preparations i needed to go through in order to secure our attendance of the Ball. The biggest stress that followed once our latex goods were ordered and delivered was safely packing them into our luggage prior to our departure and then handing them over to the ever dutiful TSA. I had serious concerns this tidy little investment in rubber gear would find it's way into the back screening rooms at JFK airport, and never see the light of day again. What a sigh of relief that came rushing out of my lungs when i gathered our valises from the luggage carousels at Heathrow and saw the cable tie i put on each zipper completely in tact.

We spent the day of the event caroming from one parlor after another of feminine delicacies, finishing our tour in the neighborhood where my cherished football team plays and also where my dear friend who helped us get into the Ball resided. Originally, the plan i'd arranged with my comrade was for my girl and i to bring over our whole get-up, and then we'd all get ready. This sounded like a lot of fun, but ultimately impractical, when i considered how many different girly accessories and tools we'd have to haul from our hotel to accomplish my doll's latex transformation. We settled for splitting a pizza while watching a soccer match - which was the perfect antidote for my excited nerves in anticipation of the evening's festivities - and then my girl and i made our way back to our West London accommodations.

Getting ready for fetish events is always such a thrill, because i adore witnessing my girl's metamorphosis from pretty, dainty gentlelady to sexed-up, slick, fetish vixen. However, this time was different, because i was making my debut sporting the very textile i've spent many years obsessing over when worn by my feminine counterparts. When it came time to polish and shine my clothing, it sunk in how real my immersion into this event was to be. I was buffing the slick latex so that my own attractiveness would stand out - such an overtly sexual and aggressive gesture i'm not accustomed to making (i'm usually much more subtle in the expression of my appearance) - and soon i felt my own transformation start to unfold. By the time we got the call from the lobby downstairs that the cab we'd ordered had arrived, a fervent energy pulsed through my body, intensified by how turned on both of us were when we looked at eachother. Instead of being coy, we walked through the lobby of our hotel (which was surprisingly busy for that late hour), with purposeful strides and direct eye contact with anyone gawking at our shiny figurines parading across the marble floor.

The spectacle of the Fetish Ball was everything my friend had billed it out to be. This was not going to be like the hugely disappointing events we'd attended here in the States. Top to bottom, the multi-level, former cathedral swam with gorgeous people - both male and female. Hundreds of tightly-clad, latex seductresses slithered and ground their hips to the bombastic beats of the DJ's house music. Vampiric goths, naughty nurses, sinful nuns, pretty candy-coated pixies, and breathtaking pin-ups roamed the grounds, providing your's truly with a sensory feast i'd be able to munch on during the many days following.

The air hummed with a sexual sizzle, that only lowered and deepened into a guttural growl once we stepped foot into the area known as "the Dungeon". It's here that my latex dolly got the most attention - the kind of attention (and my subsequent reaction) that requires another entry, all to itself.

My collection

From a very early age (oh dear, here we go again. Another one of Deity's posts about how he was as a kid - 'fraid so), my favorite places in the world to spend my time were museums. I loved their quiet, church-like solemnity. People spoke in hushed tones, whispering, as if the artifacts were sacred relics (some in fact were) that shouldn't be disturbed. And, contrary to what most must assume, it wasn't just art museums I adored. No in fact. It was all museums. Natural History museums. Transit museums. Military museums. Art museums. Sports Museums. Hell, I'd even go to a toothpick museum, as long as there were objects, on display preferably (and actually a very important detail) behind glass cases.

It turns out that this is a rather prevalent part of my psyche. I've always loved collecting things: stamps, business cards, soil - you name it, i would find a way to gather and archive it. Whatever the collectible, the most important component was the container I kept it in. I preferred that it was see-through. Something about looking at the contents, captured, yet protected and preserved gave me peace; as if i were relieved that they couldn't get away but also, nothing could get to them. I thrilled at the task of cataloging these individual specimens, taking great care to label each with the contents that lie inside. But just as enjoyable was my process of orderly and meticulously putting these treasures away.

I liked knowing I had these little bundles stored in my closet or stacked meticulously on my shelf. By possessing them, I took on the very serious role as their caretaker. I looked after them, made certain they remained organized and cleaned and gave them copious amounts of my attention. I felt total ownership of them, and as a result they were completely and totally mine.

A complete dick

I think with my dick. That's what I'm told. That's what is expressed to me countless times, over and over.

"Stop thinking with your dick."

What exactly does this mean? I know what they intend it to mean when they say it. Stop allowing your phallus to influence or overpower your decisions. But, it's ignorant to expect a man to not give great deference to a part of his anatomy that has caused so much of his life. From an early age, males, whether they are gay or straight develop a very private relationship with their penis. Some will end up sharing a portion of this relationship with others, some will keep it in complete isolation from everyone. However the male decides to handle this, this appendage remains at the very center of their self, and cannot be easily extricated or ignored.

In order for this to be an accurate statement, i think it should be rephrased as:

"Stop thinking with and about your dick."

I'm not sure when i first thought of my penis as a dick (a sexual unit), and i'm not sure i've quite come to think of it as a cock (either as a word or as the trashy term used in erotica/porn). I do know, however, that i spend a great deal of time thinking about it in some fashion. Sometimes i try to remember what it was like before this fleshy handful transformed into a weapon of mass insemination. It's odd to me that i've had only two or three conversations with other (straight) men about our penises, when i'm certain we'd have plenty to say. For the most part, it is seen as homosexual-esque if you were to engage in a discussion about your genitals, and most men will feign complete revulsion at the topic - which i don't get because i find the topic ENDLESSLY fascinating (of course these same men will prattle on and on about bowel movements and their flatulence).

I enjoy a good meal. I feel rejuvenated when i get to spend time outdoors being active. I would even say that music provides me with tremendous amount of stimulation. But without hyperbole, none of this compares to attention paid to my penis. I adore - ADORE - masturbation and sex (and they are separate but equally thrilling activities). In a typical day, i will handle my penis on average of about an hour, whether it is just a quick rub/check-in/adjustment, or if i'm pulling it completely out of my pants and giving it my full attention. I think about it when i'm sitting in my office chair, when i'm on the train holding onto a pole, or when i reach into my pocket to fetch my wallet. It doesn't take much to cause an erection. A certain smell. The sound of a pair of heels clicking on the sidewalk. Even something as simple as a brief embrace from my girl.

Frankly, i've had more worthwhile and meaningful experiences when i've given every little ounce of my energy and thought to my penis. When i channel all of me towards and through it, such tremendous liberation and freedom overwhelms me, i couldn't imagine it never being a major player in my decisions.

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

Many years ago, i created a profile on one of the more prominent personal sites for those seeking an SM relationship. I was very curious, as online dating was just starting to really pick up steam, and thought it would be fun to venture into the kinky partition. I spent a little time filling out my profile, not much, but enough to get across the message that i wasn't seeking a "slave or a sub" nor was i needing the girl to refer to me as "Master" or "Lord" or "Sir" anything. I remember ploughing through the checklist of interests with rapid concentration. You had to indicate whether you'd be interested in receiving or giving of the particular activity (i.e. spanking) as well as indicating your experience level (never tried but curious; very experienced; or completely avoid). Without knowing what this said about me (because i didn't spend a great deal looking at other folks profiles), the manner in which i answered these questions gave my profile a specific expertise level. Apparently, i was advanced in my deviancy.

I enjoyed sampling the number of local girls (i was only looking for any interaction with someone who lived in my city) who largely expressed their (mostly) reluctant interest in being dominated by a man. This made sense to me. If you were reluctant to pursue a kinky connection, it was pragmatic to test the waters in a relatively safe online environment. But, i didn't completely understand what these girls meant by "being dominated by a man" and still don't understand what this means when i encounter this in the naughty blogosphere. I consider myself a dominant male, but i've never seen my behavior as dominating. When it has felt right, i've seen my behavior as guiding, mesmerizing and arousing. I didn't know if these girls were just looking for a much more pushy version of the typical spineless, insecure male they were used to being with, or if indeed they sought the deep connection i've found when reducing a girl to an object.

I found a good number of girls to be outright enticing as presented through their profile, but chose not to contact any of them. Content for now to just act as a voyeur, i logged in every few days to monitor the activity. I'd been on the site for about a week before i received my first message. It was adorable in its frenetic brevity. She was very timid and unsure, but she expressed a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out to find out more about the man i described myself as. We had a few conversations, and it became clear that my desires were much more extreme than perhaps she wanted at the moment. We parted ways in a pleasant manner - her wishing me luck in my search, me wishing her to be safe and to guard herself diligently. Most of the exchanges (all initiated by the girl) i had on this site proceeded like this, with me at the end wishing to secure each of these novices against what i observed as unexperienced and misguided trolls posing as "Dominants".

I'd nearly given up hope on ever finding a reasonably entertaining and challenging plaything, when out of nowhere Pamela [not her real name] dropped me a very reticent and cautious line. I'll never forget the exact wording of her note:

I'm not even sure why i'm on this site or even why i'm writing to you, but you sound unlike any other man i've found here, and even if you weren't that refreshing, and despite the fact you don't post a pic of yourself, i can't help but get the sense that you are an incredibly attractive person.

I sat on her message for a few days. I liked that it was just mine. I hadn't responded yet, so, to her there was no real existence of me. Just a profile. Whereas i got to sit and read those words and couldn't help but feel their genuineness and their utter flattery. She showed intelligence, confidence, but also a deep vein of curiosity in just her words. I contemplated not even replying, ditching the site completely, but then i abdicated and wrote her back.

I wish now that i hadn't.

The difference being

"I'm not like the other boys."

-Michael Jackson, in his video for the song Thriller

To follow this idea of us all wanting to be valued and accepted, this abuts right up against this feeling i've long held about myself. My difference. I'm not like others. I don't fit in and never really have. Even amongst my small nuclear family, i am set a part from them. My siblings and i get along, but they do not understand me. We are night and day and many cannot believe we grew up in the same house. I don't resemble my parents, nor do either of them feel connected to me. Both of them have said, in their own way, that they felt like i could've been adopted. Our world views are dramatically different. Even our political ideologies couldn't be more opposite.

Amongst my friends, very few of them know the extent of the power exchange that defines my relationship with my girl. Even then, i cannot speak to any of them with much detail before they quickly try to change the subject. If we venture outside of the horizon of my kink, i hold opinions on most topics that are not warmly received or come across as controversial. In large part, the massive contents of my thoughts remain stuck inside my head (except those i journalistically share here or other places).

Acquaintances have always perceived me as odd. A character. Not normal. And for most of my life, that is in fact the umbrella under which i roamed. When compared to others in my same gender, i haven't found much kinship there either. They hold different priorities (watching and talking about sports all of the time). Their reaction to the passing female stranger ("oh, i'd do her.") is incredibly incongruent with mine - i want to stare at her beauty, study it, possess it, but rarely is it my desire to fuck it.

As a result of this, i have developed very thick skin. It wasn't always that way. As a young boy, i was accused (take note that i use this word) by others of purposely acting against the norm: "You just like being different." I became immediately defensive at this accusation. I swore it wasn't an artificial cloak i wore, but they had me convinced that my difference was faked. Rather than attempt to silence the outcastedness, i just withdrew deeper inside. It was these times i turned to that young man that reflected back at me in that mirror on my floor.

In those times, i didn't see my difference as an asset. It was my handicap. It was what kept me from being a part of the world around me, and more importantly, finding what i needed to satisfy my appetites. It took a great deal for me to realize the worth in my deviant mind, and liberation finally came to me when i first explored SM with a girl i was dating.

Now, when i think about what so many misguided children used to say to me "You just like being different," i smile. It's true. Wow, how i wish i could've felt that way then.

In reflection

Throughout my life, i've often heard from others that i'm starved for attention. In many ways, this is true. When i'm at a party, i tend to be the one regaling everyone with stories and and having them in stitches. At lunch, the subject, if it's not on something general that we all can discuss, is usually about me and some aspect of my life. In public, i make sudden loud noises when i stretch, i don't mind singing a song at high volume, and i'll goof on my girl and say something like "No, i will NOT kiss you on the subway. God!" very loudly. When i was younger, i was frequently nominated to represent our class in school-wide speaking events and had very little problem presenting in front of large groups. I enjoy the spotlight, in fact when in it i feel a very similar sensation as when i'm being served by someone. But, to say that i'm attention starved, i'm not sure i agree with that statement. In fact, when you put that in the framework of my power exchange, it doesn't fly. I quite frequently give a great deal of attention to my girl - certainly it is in the service of my appetites, but it is also servicing her appetite to submit. It is her rump i spank, her dress code and look i manage, her limbs i bind, and her entire body i cocoon. This is not attention that is reciprocated. All of this had me pondering what exactly it means to seek someone's attention.

Is it merely just someone becoming your audience? That wouldn't seem to be enough, really. If they just stood there, blankly staring at you, not offering any emotional response or feedback. We want kind words, pleasing and complimentary words. We want validation, we want applause. We want to see evidence of joy created in the person, but even that isn't the root of what we seek. We want to know that we offer this person, the world, something valuable, intangible, unique. What are we really after?

Our reflection.

Attention from someone is the kindest mirror we could possibly encounter. I remember as a kid, i used to have a notebook-sized mirror i would take off my wall and put on the floor and pretend it was a doorway to another world through the ground. And i would visit with this person, and ask them what was in their world, and i would eventually come to learn that the world in that looking glass was the idealized version of the world i lived in. The "me" in the mirror was giving me the kind of attention i so often sought because he was ultimately validating me - in fact resembling me identically. I'd laugh at myself, make silly faces, but where i really enjoyed these moments was when i stared into the reflection of my eyes and felt a deep connection with that "self".

Maybe that's what attention gives us - a connection. Despite all these new, digital ways we can chain ourselves to people diluting our lives of interpersonal interaction, it hasn't made that desire to connect any easier or any less potent.

Routine

My body doesn't react well to heat. Neither does my mind. It invades the crevices of my brain like a slowly, slithering droplet of water that rots away the wooden foundation of a house. I get irritated. I'm cranky. Most unfortunately, intimacy with my girl suffers. I've tried my best to wrestle with these annual demons, hoping to not let this weather that i cannot control get the best of me. As a result of this struggle, my girl's weekly maintenance has not materialized while the humidity super-saturated the air. I'm not proud of this, and sought to correct the absence of her corrections.

---------------------------

"What are you hungry for?" I asked her while leaning against the doorjam of our living room.

"Oh, gosh. I don't really have a taste for anything," The air wasn't moving in the apartment, and it was very easy just to remain stationary. I could tell she was fully sedentary - a state not conducive to her having a preference for much of anything. "Well, what do you want?"

"We really need to address a more important matter first." I gave her a quick wink with my left eye.

"You mean - oh...yes, spanking. How do you want me?"

I turned and left the room, walking back along the hallway, "Come to the bedroom - and remove those damn socks."

The socks were off before she entered the dark chambre. I guided her to the end of the bed, positioning her differently than what she's used to. Instead of her gripping the footboard, i laid her body over it so that her torso rested completely on the mattress, and her feet anchored to the floor. Lifting her dress, i took note that she'd also already removed her panties. The contrast of her pale, white mounds in that dim setting immediately aroused me.

"Please lay as still as you can," I told her, as i abandoned her backside for the bedside table. Pulling out the drawer, i retrieved the trusty - and hated - wooden brush. I developed an immediate kinship for this device, it being a long time since we last collaborated. He felt confident, secure, and solid in my hand. I brought him to her right buttocks, and stroked her snowy skin. My ears delighted at the familiar sound, rough abrading sighs of bristles sanding her cheeks. Over and over. Stroke. Brush. Burr and shine. The electricity of my movement soon came alive in her flesh, filling the area with a vibrant rosiness. I flipped the brush over and pattered her ass with a chorus of swats, inviting more of her blood to rush onto the corporal scene. When finally my favorite cherry color satisfactorily covered her derriere, i asked her for a number.

"12...?"

It being so long, i felt a lenient ambassador speaking on her behalf inside my head. I took his advice into consideration and made my determination.

"16 - and don't forget to count."

I placed the brush on the bed, near enough so that he didn't miss the festivities. I gave the air a few moments while i flexed my naked palm. It too hadn't been called upon for awhile. Pulling back my arm, i landed the first swat upon her left cheek. Because of how i'd positioned her over the metal frame, upon impact, her mid-section slammed into the black scrolled steel, magnifying the pain. Perfectly as designed.

I greeted her ass cheeks with an assortment of strokes - a collision of the full meat of my hand across her flesh; a downward onslaught from the top thirds of my fingers; a wicked, lightning-quick whip of just the tips of my fingernails (easily the most painful). Her response was remarkable. In a very short time, i spent my 16 lashes. Both of our breaths spilled rapidly into the atmosphere. I desired more.

Grabbing her by the hair, i pulled her up from the bed to face me, then pressed with both of my hands upon her shoulders, moving her to the floor. Her mouth opened and instantly accepted my rigid phallus. Hungrily, her head bobbed up and down, knowing that at the end of this, her full rewards awaited. For a moment, i held her head still, allowing her mouth to just nurse on the flesh gagging it. Finally satisfied with this act, i pulled out with a salivary pop. I lifted her from her knees and quickly swung her, stomach-first, over to the side of the bed. Without discussion, she opened her legs with an inviting lift of her rump. Filled with guttural excitement, i entered her from behind.

"Say: Thank you for fucking me."

Her voice raspily complied,"Thank you for fucking me."

"Repeat it. Don't stop." I continued to pound into her hind quarters, over and over.

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

Turning it on myself

In the near future, the House of Deity will temporarily relocate across the Atlantic to a famed city i haven't yet had the pleasure to visit. This city is one of the cultural scions for many things, but for my purposes, it plays a significant role in the world of fetish. While it isn't the official reason my girl and i are hopping on an easterly plane, kink will be explored, purveyed, played and even purchased. All of this will culminate in the attendance of one of the world's biggest fetish events, with a particular concentration on one of my three largest fetishes: latex

In preparation to attend this kinky gala, my girl and i have had a lot of fun perusing the ever growing market of latex clothing, in search for an update to her wardrobe. However, there is a kink (wink-wink) in this usually conventional search. Due to the profile this party receives, it must enforce a very strict dress code in order to maintain an immaculate latex orthodoxy. As a result, i've had to acquire a latex costume of my own. This is a first.

For years, i've happily plundered my dough on a rubbery dress or skirt for my female companion to don. In fact, 100% of my attention in any boutique that hawks these garments has been devoted to the "Women's" section. I never cared to look at the male offerings because so much of what i saw was so unappealing. Honestly, the notion of slapping on a full-body latex catsuit did nothing for me - worse, it conjured images of the limitless amateur photos i've encountered of male slaves awkwardly draped in the shiny, cocooning material. I didn't relish the task. My fetish isn't one where i'm the mannequin, but rather where i'm able to make my female counterpart the mannequin. Nonetheless, i received repeated assurance from my overseas connection that we would not be allowed entrance - no matter how incredible my girl looked - if i wasn't dressed in some rubberized fashion.

After much procrastination, we settled on a simple military-themed outfit from Libidex. My how easy it was to find something for her, in fact the more difficult task proved to be settling on just one outfit. We waited for our package to arrive in the mail.

When it finally arrived, greeted first by a burst of the heavy, smoky aroma of latex, we carefully peeled each slithery item from its envelope of tissue paper (which is a must when shipping latex, because unlike other clothing, these delicate items cannot lie against themselves out of fear that they will adhere to eachother). I purposely delayed in examining the shirt and pants we ordered for me, instead insisting on previewing her outfit. When i finally fished out my purchases, i was pleasantly greeted with a handsome plumb-colored short sleeved shirt with a striking military insignia on the arm.

The moment arrived to try it on. Having instructed several girls on the application of talcum powder to their bodies in order to facilitate the tug of these rubbery items over their flesh, for some reason, i felt a stubbornly masculine resistance to doing the same for me. I didn't need soft, slightly perfumed baby powder. My sheer will and determination will suffice. Boy, was i wrong. Not only was it a massive struggle to pull on the incredibly tight military trousers, but the material caught on every single hair on my legs and yanked at them, as if to tear each follicle from my flesh.

Eventually, i got the pants on, and then buttoned up the army shirt, still feeling a little weird to actually be someone putting on latex clothes. Almost immediately, i could feel the effect of the tight, stretch material that cause so many to become latex aficionados. I felt a cool breath on my body everywhere the latex touched, that would eventually warm up against my skin. The tight constriction of the material also had an unexpected appeal. I've worn tight pants before, but because these stretched and smoothed over my body to such an extreme degree, they really felt like they were a part of my anatomy, rather than simply draped over it. When we studied eachother, alternating between the mirror and looking straight at eachother, both me and my girl were excited at how relatively un-freakish we looked. She looked phenomenal in the dress we chose, the slick, liquidy latex flowing over her delicious curves. In many ways, we mutually felt like we had put on superhero costumes for Halloween. All we needed were eye masks to fully conceal our identity.

Even now, as i contemplate the fact that after all these years, i finally own some latex outfit for myself, the idea feels a bit surreal. It's like turning the transformation ray on myself, and sometimes i don't mind that notion, but for the most part that time in my life has passed, and i can't help but feel a little out of place.

Paix resistance

Do you remember before you used to think? Do you remember when you looked at grass but didn't know it was called "grass"? Do you remember when your head was untouched by logic, when human civilization hadn't yet pressed its oppressive stamp upon your brain? What form did the images that entered your head from the womb take? What form did they take before you understood language? Has language freed or chained your mind? What have we lost encumbered by all this "noise"? How can we reclaim what we've lost? How can we go back to that stage of singularity? How can we find that peace?

Can i join you?

I received her first package earlier than i expected. What a pleasant surprise. I turned the box over and over in my hand, looking at it as i walked into my kitchen. I dropped it with the rest of the mail on the counter, and forgot about it for the remainder of the evening. Right before i turned in for the night, the package popped back into my head.

-----------------

We'd met one evening, on one of my endless series of business trips. She approached me in a bar, she said, struck by my solitude yet not looking at all alone. I was ravishing my glass of whiskey, letting the auburn liquid swirl around, splashing up the side. Our eyes met, and instantly i approved of her gesture. She was stunning, but beyond that, i could see an immediate hunger in her qualities. She wore it like a tight-fitting dress. More importantly, it wore her. I told her that i didn't require her company. She rebutted.

"I didn't require your permission to sit next to you."

"Oh no?"

-----------------

When i opened the box, a waft of flowery fragrance immediately splashed against my nose. My fingers swam through the brittle cloud of shredded paper stuffed into the box for shipping, finally landing on a mound of soft, silky fabric. Clenching onto my prize, i retracted my hand from the package. Draped in my fingers were a lavender pair of satin panties - the conduit for the perfume. But i detected a different note than just designer perfume, a bolder, richer, hungrier scent. Opening up the lingerie, a white, texturous trail filleted the crotch which was the evidence showing, as asked, that she'd sent a used pair. I pressed this girlish output to my face, crushing it into my nostrils. I swam in the gorgeous contrast of sweet and dirty, inhaling deeply for several minutes.

-----------------

"What exactly do you mean you wouldn't phrase it that way?"

"Well, i'm a man for whom permission is a requirement."

"You can rest assured that i won't seek your permission for anything."

"Well, then, it was nice speaking with you." I turned my body away from her and resumed my position, hovering over my drink.

"Excuse me? You've got to be kidding..." A few seconds of pure silence passed, enough for me to tilt back the rest of my drink and to motion to the bartender for another one.

"You have GOT to be kidding!" My former companion huffily lifted herself from her chair and stomped out of the bar into the hotel lobby. I watched after her. I loved watching the angry protests of women. She'd come back. I took out a pen and grabbed a cocktail napkin, writing down something in preparation for when she did.

-----------------

She'd sent the panties, but it seemed she'd forgotten something else. Tipping the box upside down, i allowed the stuffing to fall to the floor. I was pleased to see the loose note flutter out. I bent down to pick it up, chuckling immediately when i read its pointed brevity.

"you're such a bastard."

Over the course of the next few months, i had the privilege of receiving similar presents in the mail. As agreed, each arrived by a certain date, containing the exact items i'd detailed to her. I enjoyed each delivery because they conjured immediate images of her and the lengths she went to satisfy my requirements. It was many months before i was able to make it back to her city.

-----------------

"You have some serious nerve."

"Why hello there." I looked at her with the side of my eye. Apparently, the hotel lobby wasn't as interesting as she'd hoped it would be. "You're back?"

"I had to let you know how ridiculous you are to insist that a woman ask permission to sit down and give you her company."

"Well are you going to ask?" The ice cubes in my drink broke apart from eachother, creating a little jingle sound. This musical interlude was interrupted by her heavy sigh.

"Would you," she shook her head, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "Would you mind if i sat down?"

"I would love it." I pulled the chair next to me out, guiding her in with my open hand. "Can i get you a drink?"

She ordered a glass of Chardonnay. As the bartender was pouring her drink, i slid over the folded napkin i'd earlier written on.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

Her eyebrows curled in perplexion as she unfolded the note and read.

A week following our conversation, you'll buy a brand new pair of satin panties. One evening when you're by yourself, you'll put them on, and wear only them all night. Before you go to bed, i want you to remove them and the next morning send them to me. I want you to include a note that details your thoughts as you slide the panties off.

The bartender placed her wine in front of her. She looked at the glass, then shot me with her eyes, "You know, on second thought, i think i'll pass on the drink." She pushed herself up from the table and charged out of the bar. I grabbed another napkin, and jotted down my next few demands.

Moot lighting

So much advice found in conventional sex columns and guidebooks talks about the need to set the right atmosphere in order to soothe your partner into an intimate act. I remember reading my parent's copy of The Joy of Sex, flipping through the rich illustrations, but always getting stuck on the descriptions of the ideal mood. The right temperature (not too cold, but not sweltering either), the right sounds (some classical music - Baroque - would do the trick) and always the perfect light (candlelight if possible). The last tone received exceptional stress because too much light might bring out your partner's insecurities about their body, thus weakening their arousal, however too little light might shunt the erotic power of seeing your partner's face in the throes of ecstasy.

For years, as i caroused in the sexual bramble along with my fellow pubescent mates, the importance of light stayed steady in my focus. I was convinced that achieving the proper illumination would ensure the optimum amount of joy and pleasure (little did i know that this sex book was intended for married couples who needed to "re-kindle that spark" and not horny, teenagers). I'd funnel my hard-earned, adolescent wages towards purchase of special lightbulbs that ensured a coital hum or a cacophony of candles that sprayed our naked, young bodies with warm effusion.

As i matured, i continued to employ these meticulous light shows, but discovered something about them that negated their purpose: they did nothing for me. In fact, they did the opposite. If i was attracted to the girl, it didn't matter if a hundred fog lamps were raining down on us, and the same went for pitch darkness, my arousal sizzled either way. Paying so much attention to the mood lighting made the sexual act feel stilted and choreographed. As i continued to develop my erotic palate to reveal a large erogenous zone dedicated to the objectification of my partner, fixating on the need for light in order to observe her orgasmic facial expression desisted.

Randomly the other day, the memory of my once formidable obsession over light levels materialized in my head. I've long since abandoned that fixation, and have replaced it with a rather intricate process of crumbling, collapsing, re-arranging and erasing of my partner's identity. Whether she is bound into an unrecognizable arch of flesh, she is wrapped into a cocoon of plastic wrap and duct tape, or is turned into a shiny hood ornament for me to play with, the common denominator is the disappearance of the face - as an orchestrator and receptor of expressions.

I'm still capable and quite desirous of face to face physical intimacy, there is a different soul to those encounters. But, i cannot ignore the power and sway the act of transforming this beautiful woman i love into an identity-less object whose very will rests fully in my hand holds over me. The metamorphosis grabs my insides - in one gigantic, crunched up fistful - and pulls them up into my chest, swelling it with a kinetic tornado of addictive energy that i can't get enough of nor ever want to relinquish.

Sly old fox

She couldn't have been more than 20 years old, and even then, it was obvious her manner of dress was chosen to add maturity to her age. I saw that she was lost in her magazine, and didn't catch me stepping up to her register. I relished moments like this - this game.

In my head, i contemplate every move and gesture i need to make in order to fluster and catch a girl off guard. I will first surprise her with a firm, low-register greeting. Immediately following that, i will find her eyes, and stare right into them. Once i know she has realized we've locked eyes, a smile will break out the side of my mouth baiting her, as i wait for her to act upon my transaction.

This one seemed perfectly ripe and a virtual lock as a target.

"Hi, there."

She saw me smiling at her, quickly putting her magazine on the counter behind her.

"Uh...hi." She smiled back at me. "Hiya..."

She looked down at the items i'd placed on the conveyor belt, and began to scan each one. Following the beeping response of the scanner, she gazed up at me, right into my stare that hadn't moved from her. And each time she looked, her eyes bubbled and she smiled.

"You have to guess what i'm making for dinner."

She chuckled while arching her eyebrows. She gandered at me while biting her bottom lip, to gauge my seriousness.

"I'm serious...i'll give you three guesses."

She scanned the items, assembling them in a list in her head. She squinted at me contemplatively from the side of her head, trying to figure out what my appetites might be, what lay in my background and my biography. The only thing she had to go off was what stood before her.

"Do you give up?"

"Nooooo! Give me a - "

She stopped mid-sentence, and a disembodied thought that had been boiling in her mind finally formed together.

"You have really beautiful eyes."

Caught off guard a little by the change in subject, i didn't know exactly how to react, so i just offered a simple thanks.

"They are like looking into a bright Summer sky. I could stare at them all day."

I swallowed any words that were on deck in my mouth. She completely turned things around with this comment, taking the advantage in the conversation. I smiled, a little embarrassed by the fluidity of her compliment. As she finished scanning the rest of my groceries, i didn't say much. I didn't have much to say. I continued to hold the corners of my mouth upwards as i paid my bill, and gathered my bags.

As i walked away, i thought about how one should not overestimate the prowess of one even as young as that. Just as i reached the exit door, i heard her cheery voice call after me.

"Tacos! You're making tacos."

I smiled as the sun of the beautiful Summer day hit my face. She was right.

Lynch/fetish

From the first moment i heard the opening, tragic notes of this song, i was hooked. I wanted to escape to this world of simple, forest-inhabiting, cherry pie-ingesting, supernatural people. Each stroke of the cascading six tones, rising then falling, like the chest of an innocent child stopping to catch their breath amidst a game of hide and seek hypnotized me, putting me in a euphoric trance. It all seemed so innocent, the pristine woodland creatures, tumbling waterfalls, soft amber colors. And of course, there were the girls of Twin Peaks. Every single one of them angelic heartbreakers, with pin-up looks and well-concealed darker sides that threatened to burst at any moment. This world represented a place where the fulfillment of my appetites could occur - the rigid capture of romantic beauty - i just didn't realize how much this hunger would affect me or how frequently i'd need to satisfy it.

My favorite of all the girls was Audrey, played by the gorgeous actress Sherilyn Fenn:


This image of Ms. Fenn is an exact copy of one i stared at for many, many hours. I'm not sure what i hoped would happen by these lengthy staring sessions. Her mouth invited a kiss. Her hands at her neck spoke of surrender, as well as one lost in lust. Her eyes, the delicately slanted whispers, bore into you, challenging you to muster up the courage to even be near her. The mountainous, ebony tendrils of her curly hair gave her a regal look, but also made her look like she was falling - away from you, urging you to save her, to catch her.

Hours.

I had to know everything about this actress, the man who composed this music and the other people behind this show. Everything. Eventually, i learned all of the actresses names. And eventually i learned the man who created this dreamy world: David Lynch

It's been (and i can't believe this) almost 20 years since David Lynch first brought us his world of Twin Peaks. Since that time, i have obsessively sought out his entire ouevre. He has imagined very diverse, incredibly surreal landscapes. From Victorian freaks of nature, to a senior citizen taking a jaunt on a riding lawnmower in the Heartland. From a futuristic desert landscape to a neverending highway of nightmares. There has been one theme that has consistently materialized in his work, that of devestatingly gorgeous feminine beauty. Without saying the word, Mr. Lynch, in his cinema, has paraded a world of his spiritual and sexual fetishes. The women have curves as if they belonged in a museum of ancient Roman vases, and the perfection of their faces certainly worthy of heavenly Goddesses.

Recently, i became aware of a collaboration between the cinematic visionary David Lynch and the footwear fantastico Christian Louboutin. Now, i'm a little embarassed to say that this partnership happened back in 2008. How i could've missed this exhibit, i'll never know, but i hope that it escaped my clutches doesn't harm my reputation as kink aficionado with you, my readers.


It's not exactly clear what the full exhibit consisted of, but i gather that David Lynch took the photos of models wearing shoes that Christian Louboutin designed specifically for this project. With all high-minded intellectualism, i can sense a woundedness that each model expresses, that they are trapped by an insanely demanding ideal of femininity which truly only values their parts rather than the sum of them. However, one look at the shoes in this photo, and the fetishist in me completely starts to lose composure. These extreme heels are totally unwalkable - to someone who has a fetish for female objectification, having your doll mobile rarely seems to be a necessity.

This gallery shows the spectrum of shots and shoes these two created.

This has a video that shows the gallery space, and a bit more examples of Louboutin's creations.

I'm not surprised that David Lynch at this point in his career is being more outwardly obvious with his own kinky bents. The arc of his career has been a gradually ascending dialog on this subject. It's comforting, somehow, to have an artist that i've followed and adored for two decades "come out", even though all along, when i first encountered his vision of a sleepy logging town in the Pacific Northwest, i had my suspicions.

The Slut vs. the Lady, revisited

It's summer here, and with the increased temperature so goes my increased irritation with the manner of dress some women choose to wear. Back in 2007, i wrote a post addressing this issue, and found myself returning to this idea very frequently these days. Here we are a full two years later, and i do not detect a massive retreat from the march of the sluttification of feminine beauty.

In my post i speak about what sort of clothing offends:
"There are days that i find myself walking behind some of the filthiest trash, causing my stomach to turn. It's worse in the hot, summer heat. Something in the swelter releases a chemical in the minds of a number of women, convincing them that they should dress as skimpily and vilely as possible. This chemical also seems to block their ability to recognize what is sensible. I see the most lurid of sights parading on the sidewalks:
-vicously tight jeans whose top line seems to recede more and more each passing year, and whose shape makes a trip to the ob-gyn more stream-lined
-visible panties (g-strings or thongs) as a result of the eroding coverage the above pants provide
-backless, belly-less, shoulder-less...really material-less tops that cling to the gal's torso like a frightened child to its mother
-multiple bra straps serving as evidence that the wearer in fact owns undergarments
-belly piercings
-fabrics of bold, tacky and loud colors"

These trends continue, unabated. The fashion designers are obviously responding to a demand by their clientele to look more and more like amateur streetwalkers. My protest is not one out of conservative values and archaic rules of propriety. My reasons are much more dire.

"The men i work with will oggle and drag their tongues along the dirty street whenever they see a female dressed like this. They'll elbow eachother, whistle, snicker, say something crude like "I'd do her," all of which are appropriate (and sought after?) reactions to this kind of dress. The female is dressing like a slut, and for some reason, this is being celebrated, even coveted within our appalling fixation on the lives of celebrities."

I worry about the violence this onslaught of slutty dress promotes. I'm not suggesting that women who dress this way will be raped as a result of their outfits. The violence i speak of is of a mental kind. My male colleagues, when they see a young woman traipsing by in skin-tight jeans whose ass cups and separates each buttock, they're first reaction is a guttoral, instinctual reaction to pounce on her. They do not wonder about her intelligence, or her value to this world. She has become to them what her costume dictates: a piece of meat

Contrast that with a woman who wears a handsome pencil skirt, a titillating but elegant blouse, and modest makeup and her audience has a completely different, more healthy reaction. They speak of and focus on her beauty. A trait, feminine beauty, that has been celebrated for centuries. Yes, i am proposing that a woman's physical appearance is in fact a major contribution to this civilization because seeing a beautiful woman presented in a dignified way reminds us for that brief moment of the divine. Just like when we view a stunning flower garden on a sunny Spring morning, we receive a moment of reprieve from the harshness and brutality of life.

Now, i'm not naive enough to believe that if you eradicated this slutty form of dress, violence against women would disappear. No, in fact, what i propose is to stem the rise of what has been a crime committed against women as long as they have been fetishized and enamored, while also contributing more beauty to the world.