Sugasm #157

Sugasm #157

from Sugasm by Vixen

Ariel courtesy of Viviane’s Sex Carnival.

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 #158? 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
A 2009 Wish For Smut Writers
“Sex bloggers are on the cusp of what I see as being a new kind of sexual revolution.”

Q&A with Domina Doll
“I enjoy teaching others how to explore that aspect of themselves.”

Overtaken
“He kissed the side of my neck, sweeping my long hair out of the way, working his mouth across the side of my neck to press little bites along my collarbone.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: When The Truth Hurts

Editor’s Choice
Dictation with Davis

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

BDSM & Fetish
A year of lustful quality

Musk be something in the air

My girl recently got a new job (can you imagine? in this economic climate?) which offered her fantastic benefits. One of those perks was a dual membership to a high quality sports gym (in this city, that means one with a full-sized pool). For the past decade plus, i'd abstained from ascribing my monetary loyalty to a single center of recreation, instead staying fit and nimble through homemade methods. For both economical and rational reasons, i have avoided this atmosphere for the longest time. However, this offer was in fact too good to pass up.

A good portion of my perspiration is earned in the 'weight room' which is situated three floors above the cardio equipment. Almost exclusively, this weight room is the chief dominion of the male side of the species. This alone was the chief reason gyms quite repelled me.

I can't stand men. Plain and simple. Throughout my life, the mass majority of my social outlets have emanated from the fairer sex. I have very few close male friends as the interests that most men seem to attach themselves to offer very little to me. I do not watch football on Sundays (to those non-US readers, that would be the NFL and its upcoming "Super" Bowl). When caught in a conversation with a large number of XY-chromosoned fellas, i find myself saying little, and caring even less about what others actually say. Men in groups are lewd, thoughtless, and incredibly moronic. I've been witness to their remarks about an attractive female who passes by, lucky enough to survive with her panties in tact based on the slimy comments tossed her way. If given the choice, i would always choose the company of the delicate female creature.

Men in gyms are even worse than they are sitting at a table in a public park, people watching. They stare at themselves in the mirror as they curl the heavy weight in their grip, admiring the virility that bulges from every flexed nook and cranny. The huffing and puffing as they struggle to complete yet another body-shredding exercise stands as the single, biggest irritant i'm exposed to in this setting. I take this pageant of masculine excess as the main reason that few ladies venture up to the metal-pumping floor. Until just recently, this bothered me, feeling an inequality existed in the general fitness between both genders. And then, one afternoon, my sense of smell felt the need to weigh into this debate.

I have an incredibly attuned sensory system, with my olfactory skills exceeding all the other senses. I was squatting on the ground, performing repetition after repetition of what's known as the "Woodcutter's swing", which involved me tugging on a rope that was attached to a pulley further attached to a pile of weighted plates. In this position - legs spread, crotch front and center - i could clearly make out the dense, leathery scent of my musk. It wafted into the air, smelling exactly like it does when i'm engaged in some frantic, coital act. At first, i was startled - and very embarrassed. After all, i'd only been working on the resistance machines. There was no feminine stimulation that could explain my body's reaction. But then i began to piece it together. Watching these men grunt, gyrate, flex and heave, they were spending every ounce of testosterone they had in their bodies, and no wonder that someone doing this would give off the same perfume as someone who was mating.

With this in mind, it became very clear why this workout room was mainly a sausage party. Regarding the kind of behavior that takes place in this domain, I can clearly see the wisdom in those females who choose to avoid this overtly masculine cesspool.

I put my future in her mouth

Parading all over my hands, you would find at any random time minor cuts, burns, bruises and other evidence of me putting my appendages into precarious, and slightly risky situations. Slicing an onion incredibly thin; testing the temperature of a lamb tangine i'm cooking, and searing my skin on the edge of the lid; trying to do a pull-up using just the thin frame of a door. I view not just my hands, but all of my limbs as tools to be tested, stretched and challenged.

I remember when the idea for that night's correction flashed into my head. I was crossing a street i've crossed a hundred times before. But, this intersection rarely displayed a walk signal long enough for even the most athletic pedestrian to make passage. As i was bolting across, just missing the front fender of a speeding cab, the notion of risk popped into my head. I knew immediately how the evening's affair was to take place.

When i arrived home, i saw that my girl had preceded me by a few minutes. She knew that within some window of time from my arrival, the administration of whatever scheme i'd devised would occur. For that reason, rather than change out of her daily wear, she knew my preference was for her to remain fully laced until the conclusion of her correction. We kissed our hello's and i dismounted from the work posture i'd held all day, dropping off my satchel and coat in my bureau. Already, just glimpsing the prelude to the upcoming attraction, a thick bulge had grown in my trousers. I retrieved, from the corner, the wooden paddle with the long handle, placing it on my chair.

I called out to her in the living room, "Darlin, come into my room after you've removed your panties."

Sounds of a shuffle of undergarments came from the front of the apartment, replaced by footsteps on the hallway tile. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the paddle in my hands. In those moments, i'm curious what she's thinking. Is it dread? Is it comfort? I dare not pause the moment to inquire.

"Come here and kneel facing me. I want you to reach back with your hands, and lift up your dress so that you expose your buttocks."

I watched her unveil the white mounds whose curves dismantle most of my gentlemanly behavior. I unzipped my pants, and extracted the extremely rigid appendage, letting it point up towards her chin.

"We're going to have a lesson. Without using your hands, you will give me a blowjob. Throughout it, i will swat you with the paddle if i do not find any part of it enjoyable. Understood?"

She nodded her head, and opened her mouth. She swallowed me halfway, and then began to bob her head up and down.

*SWAT!*

"No teeth!"

She squirmed and groaned, continuing to stroke me with her mouth. Her lips bulged over the now fully erect girth.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

"I said NO teeth."

More groans. Her fingers clenched on the material of her dress. Her sucking took on an urgency, a frenzy. She wanted to perform well, but being corrected mid-performance drove her to an edge.

*SWAT!*

"Noise, make some noise."

Her groans yielded to moans, as hungry hums traveled around the gag. Drool slithered down her chin, as she looked in my eyes with an animal fire behind them.

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Faster!"

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Make me believe you like sucking cock, make me see you need this."

The slurping sounds sprayed across the walls of my bureau, which intensified the sensations of my approaching orgasm.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

Just before exploding, i pulled out, grabbed the back of her hair, pointing her head up to the ceiling. I bent down and kissed her soaked lips deeply.

I whispered into her ear,"You did very good." Then lifted her from the floor, and led her to the bedroom. The risk i took with this limb needed some rewarding.

Change

I occasionally gather the loose pieces of metallic monies that float around in my pockets and deposit them into a bowl in my cupboards. Over time, this will then be hauled to a bank to get counted and turned into hard cash which i store in an undisclosed container found in my storage closet. I first started doing this on September 14th, 2001. Three days after a massive attack of proportions still unfathomed upon the city that i reside, it became clear to me that i needed an immediate fund of cash that i could access in just such an emergency - when cellphones didn't make outgoing calls; when lines extended 3 blocks long just to pull out a $20 dollar bill from an ATM; when you weren't certain if you'd need, let alone be able to get, fresh, clean water. I compiled my coinage, and since then have accumulated a nice, comfortable amount of greenbacks to help me in a dire situation. All of this, came from change. Simply that - change.

Two days ago i witnessed firsthand the peaceful transition of US governmental power from one man to another. I stood amongst a crowd of millions, surrounded by those whose hearts were designed to beat for this moment, the time when this country decided that "Liberty and Justice for All" could now be taken literally. I cried, i sobbed, and i reflected on all of what i was witnessing. Change. Simple, uninterrupted change. Our country will never be the same. All of this seems so small, so minuscule. How much can one man accomplish? Why is this the question that dominates the airwaves? Why do we ponder what he has yet to do for this nation rather than to simply contemplate what his ascension to this office has already allowed? There has most certainly been a shift, an alteration, an offering of options that lay ahead.

I can say with great confidence that as i have pondered, from time to time, the bundle of bills that sit in wait in my utility closet for that moment i may call upon them to help me out of a jam, the right man at the right time has taken the helm and will steer this ship with as much wind to his aft that we can possibly lend it.

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Two faced

One afternoon, my secretary alerted me to the fact that i was to expect two visitors. She did not go into detail who these visitors were or what business they brought to discuss, nor did i inquire due to my frenzied activity upto that point. Shortly after, my phone rang, and going against custom, i answered. It was my boss.

"Have they come by yet?"

"Has who come by?"

"Well, i told them to come down and immediately interrupt what it was you were doing."

"Who?!"

"My daughters, for chrissakes!"

I sunk in my chair. I hadn't met them before, but i knew even then that i didn't want to entertain his daughters. I hung up the phone with him and immediately dialed my secretary, intent on instructing her to stall all attempts at piercing my quiet, inner chambers.

"Too late, Mr. D. They're here, right now."

"...send them in...i guess."

My door burst open, and in exploded the pair, like a ball of energy at full momentum in a long downhill descent. It wasn't until they looked me in the eyes did these two young girls stop in their tracks. They were six and eight respectively, and even in their nascent stage, i still could see the heartbreaking campaigns they would be destined to oversee. I'd heard all about these girls from my boss - he couldn't stop boasting about them, and rightly so. I did not look forward to their inevitable appearance because i knew, once they arrived, parading their magnificent "girlness", i would be prisoner to every demand they made. As was the case with them standing in my office, however, i offered them something that perhaps their own father hadn't prepared them for.

I've written before about the transfixing quality my eyes seem to have over the opposite gender. Without fail, i know that these overly fair, gold-speckled, blue eyes of mine will grab the unsuspecting female, and place her at a considerable disadvantage. Gradually, i've come to learn that it isn't just my baby blues that arrests these lasses in their forward progress, but in fact, it is the entirety of my face that seems to broadcast a signal that i'm to be trusted by every morsel of their being. The latest, and most profound example of this happened four months ago.

I live in city that attracts the trafficking of all kinds of materials, contraband and illegal in every respect. The most tragic and hardest to stomach of those items shuffled through this underworld processing plant is that of the human kind. I've seen entire rooms filled with row after row of indentured people, given the task of some quota to meet, only for that quota to help pay off the debt each individual and their attached family owed for their illegal transport to the "Land of the Free". However, i'd never had a firsthand experience with this seedy underbelly that slithers constantly under this metropolis that i love.

I was taking the East-side trains uptown, heading to a rather important meeting. The doors to the subway opened at 14th Street, inviting more passengers into our already crowded car. She stepped in, scanned the dozens of faces that occupied the subway, and of all of them, decided i was the one who would help her. She sat down next to me - forced her way, wedged her way into a seat next to me that didn't exist - and the first thing i remember thinking was how tiny she was. Everything about her was tiny: her head covered with long silver hair; her eyelids tight, thin, held together; her hands, which after a moment or two i noticed the piece of tattered cloth they held. She shoved the patch of fabric in my face, as if it was the most natural gesture in this dialogue between two people who didn't speak the same language. I looked at the piece of fabric, and saw that someone had written an address on it in permanent marker. They had written this address on rag, given it to this woman who clearly had just been cargo within the past 48 hours from all points East, and told her to make her own way to this place.

It took very little for her to hand over this textile message to me, with the hopes i'd be able to get her to the destination scribbled on it. I didn't recognize the address, nor did i believe the train she was on would get her to where she needed to get. I turned to other passengers, asked them, showed them the fragment, looking for any advice as to how i could direct her to the right place. No one had any idea, or if they did, they refused to get involved.

I handed her back her tattered treasure map, and gestured to other people on the train that she should reach out to. She outright refused. She'd determined that of everyone on that subway car, i was the one who was going to get her to where she needed to go. Now, mind you, because i understood how she got into this country, this city (illegally), i wasn't necessarily motivated to see her deposited at this random address waving in my hand. Who knows what tortures or pressure lay before her. But, what's worse, i thought, than an old woman who's only words came from the Mandarin language to be floating around this big, bad city?

I eventually convinced her to follow me off the train, up some stairs and made her wait as i took her address scribbled across this torn cloth to a station agent who helped me figure out which train and train stop this little Chinese grandma needed. I didn't speak a single word of her tongue, nor did she speak mine. The only reason, i've concluded, that she attached herself to me was due to the calming, arresting qualities of my face.

I've reflected on this matter numerous times since it happened. Did i do the right thing? Should i have invested more energy and resources to make sure this woman made it okay? Why, why of all the people on that very crowded train did she make a bee-line to me? It leads to me to question some of my own interactions with the submissive females that have passed through my life. I understand that on the surface i appear like a very trustworthy, if not downright innocent, individual. No one would pin on me the dastardly acts i commit upon the feminine campus, and i wonder if this has been the same mind frame that operates in those young ladies who entrusted me to treat them with kindness and respect, based solely on the kind qualities of my visage. I wonder if this serves as a comfort and a sedative as they gradually allow the entrance of my other face - to allow it to come into clear, and unequivocally vivid focus.

She was just here

Awhile back, i took a few of you on a tour of the House of Deity in order to demonstrate the ease at which one can conceal the kinky potential of their furnishings. Do any of you remember the wooden stool that normally resides in the kitchen? Good. Keep that on precipice of your mind.

Recently, i had accumulated so much paid vacation that i needed to take random days off in order not to lose them. I reluctantly took the Friday before Christmas off, to give myself a three-day weekend, but to also give myself enough leisure time to contemplate the minutiae of that evening's correction. Vesta had recently shared with me a story she'd penned that detailed a schoolmaster faced with testing out his recently acquired spanking bench. A detail from it had stuck in the soft gray material of my brain like a spoon in a cup of ice cream. To fasten the young spankee to the wooden bench, the schoolmaster had the craftsmen install a leather band that would be draped over the girl's back - holding her in place, but also positioning her prone buttocks pointing skyward. From this image launched my evil stencils, drafting and designing ways to rivet, bind, ply and adhere my girl's frame to the aforementioned stool. I tested the stool to find its center of gravity, to see how the weight needed to be distributed. I calculated how much rope would be required to accomplish my vision, setting out the required number of coils. I layed out a yoga mat, and placed the stool over it in order to reduce the chance of the stool slipping out from under her. Everything was ready. All that waited was for my girl to arrive home from work.

I greeted her at the door, opening it when i heard her in the stairwell. She plunked her bags onto the floor of her room, and immediately grabbed her back, as if in pain.

"Baby, my back is killing me."

The sound of deflated excitement wheezed into the air as i felt all of the carefully crafted plans slip into the abyss. In my head, i tried to devise ways my design would not tax her sore dorsal region, but they all felt contrived.

"Well, you do know it's Friday."

"Yes, that's why i'm telling you about my back right now. I can't do anything too taxing."

"Define taxing."

"The cane...i can't do the cane."

The cane! THE CANE! She couldn't do the cane! I didn't even plan on using the cane. When she identified that it was this kind of trauma she must avoid - the kind of jolts to the lower rump that caused her muscles to jerk in violent spasms - i realized my plans were not for naught.

"Meet me in my study, having removed your clothes in 5 minutes."

I switched on the stereophone player against the long wall, and checked one last time that everything was prepared. She peeped her head in, seeing the stool immediately. I held out my hand and guided her to stand next to it. I took a position behind her, and before proceeding further, hugged her. I squeezed her, caressed her naked flesh, feeling the raised indent of her just-removed corset. I took in her scent, her natural and boutique perfumes. All of this brought me closer to her. I'd been away from this, her, all day. I guided her down, bending her over the stool, and placed each of her arms parallel to the two forelegs of the stool.

Kneeling, i grabbed a coil of hemp rope, and quickly lassoed her delicate wrists to the black wooden stantion of the stool, affixing it with authority. I traveled up her arm and attached her elbow with rope to the hard wood. With haste, i mimicked this configuration with her other arm, wrist and elbow. Her flippers had become legs of a stool. Moving behind her again, i spread her legs, butterflying them around the stool's aftlegs, making sure her feet were positioned wisely so as to support her entire weight should it shift even an inch during her internment. I wrapped her ankles to the legs of the stool, then her knees. Taking the extra slack i anticipated, running the rope up over her outer thigh, i slid a tight line of rope slicing down into her buttocks, and in through her legs. I grasped a hold of her outer right cunt lip in my fingers, and with the rope, pinned it against the inner part of her thigh, tying off the rest of this line to the rungs of the stool. Her left side soon sistered her right, holding her cunt open and spread. Where was my girl whose presence had filled the room, but now lay conjoined with this piece of kitchen furniture? Where had she gone?

Satisfied that she could not move with much liberty, i grabbed the last coil. Starting at the small of her back, at the precise point she had grabbed upon entering our home, i anchored this section to the top of the stool, coiling the rope around and around, each pass further compressing her back to a completely static state.

"How do you feel?"

I caressed her cheek with my hand. Her form clamped over the stool with such beauty. I wanted to grab the camera, but i also didn't want to interrupt the flow that this rigging had established between us.

"I feel good."

I produced the wooden hair brush with the wide head, and bent down to show it to her. She sighed, a sign of pure relief.

"I thought you might still use the cane."

I scraped the coarse bristles across her rope-packed flesh, back and forth, quickly inviting a beautiful scarlet wave to brush across her ass cheeks. I turned the business end of the brush around and thwacked her cheeks, playing with their tautness. I enjoyed the sensation of the impact upon my hand. The target never moved, and for the most part maintained the same rigid texture. After several strokes, i could see her backside was ready.

"Give me a number."

She struggled at first to provide me with one. Her speech seemed to stick in her windpipes, perhaps constrained by the aromatic hemp strewn across her body.

"Sixteen."

"Really? Sixteen."

In my hands, i held the leather cat-o-nine, allowing its mahogany tendrils to twist in the air. With precision as my guide, i suffered sixteen blows across her bound flesh, pausing only twice to allow her to catch her breath. At the conclusion, both of us could sense our mutual excitement, and knew the next logical step.

"Do i need to undo these crotch ropes to fuck you?"

"I think you might."

A year of lustful quality

I felt a review of the journey this site has made over the year might be a good start to a new year. As much as for my readers as myself. I sometimes forget what i've published to the anonymizing ether, and it reminds me of some of the wisdoms (which are rare) and the stubborn bluntness (which are more frequent) i've put my byline to.

In January, after nearly a full year of posts under my belt, i could feel an ennui kicking in about my captaincy over these pages. It was the first time i contemplated ending my online journal. Rather than do that, i decided that what i needed was a personal challenge. I tasked myself with writing several postsseries of posts regarding the physical senses. Each one would either describe how the sense allows me to communicate with the world, or i use the sense to detail a scene. My personal favorite of the series is the one i did on sight.

By February, i'd regained my wind for the site, and attempted a few posts in the hopes of helping others recreate some of the moments they read about here. I attempted to answer the question "Do dominants actually like to hurt their submissive?" here. I really hit a new stride that i enjoyed when i started to regale the story of keeping my girl in suspense with my friend K and his girl as participants. This series meant a lot to me because it contained a good amount of mystery but also allowed me to show some of my own vulnerability, which is a color on the dominant's pallet used far too infrequently.

I started out March rather unlamb-like, attempting to tackle the supposed "Venus corset". I'm still not satisfied with the response it received, only because it is the post that has attracted the second most visitors, but still no clarity on whether it exists or not. I embarked on a new series (what am i, my own network?) where i place a "note" or a "message" before a girl that details to her what i'd like her to do. I've enjoyed this series, if not just to have to come up with interesting titles using the word "demands".

By April, i could see the long awaited crest of the holiday my girl and i were going to embark on by month's end. That affected the manner in which i composed my posts, and the promise of extended rest and tranquility are what i attribute the mood of two of my all-time favorite posts. The idea for a post that started with the ending came to me one day when i was mailing a letter. I love the image of a girl dropping a letter into a postal box, anxious, reluctant but also incredibly aroused (i've also always had a thing for chastity belts). The second, and perhaps my favorite of the two, touches on my need to weave spirituality throughout my power exchange (it is in fact nothing without the spiritual).

And then...i departed...

It would be three weeks later before i posted again. I almost didn't post at all. When i returned from my "vanishing", there were many times i contemplated the complete deletion of TransformHer, even had the screen up with my mouse's cursor hovering over the button. The posts over the next few months took on a retrospective tone as i attempted to waylay time to figure out if i wanted to continue. Poems, essays and exhibitions mainly made up these entries.

It wasn't until i decided to chronicle my regular Friday correction of my girl did my passion for the site re-emerge.

I received the ultimate honor in August when my girl offered her own words in reflection on being mummified. Exploring one of my biggest priorities - dispelling rumors and myths that exist about a real life power exchange - i revealed how clumsy and imperfect the exchange between my girl and i can be, but i also questioned the need for all the kinky accoutrement.

Continuing on this theme, September brought a couple of posts that showed my girl's lively defiant streak, but also my own rigidness that can sometimes unnecessarily wound her ego.

Entering my favorite part of the year, my mood always takes on an extra spark with the first crisp scents of Autumn. My favorite post from the month of October described the rather sadistic predicament i placed my girl in during one of our Friday sessions. And apparently, the fall makes her friskier too, as she pushed several limits with me in a rather public place. Little brat.

Seeing as i'm in a longterm relationship, part of my ruminating energy gets focused on what makes a strong one, which is critical for anything that will last, but especially for a healthy power exchange. I explored my view of coupling as if tending to a garden in a November post. The presence and strength of words are evident throughout my site, but especially so in this entry that examined how one can be made submissive simply by restricting and molding their vocabulary. In an attempt to pick my reader's brains, i tried to start a discussion on whether or not Tops "hunt" their bottoms, and whether or not a bottom could ever play the role of a hunter themselves.

I ended the year 2008 with the deep honor of sharing the words and perspective of the lovely Vesta. I'm so grateful she took to the task i first laid before her a few months ago. I needed the break, but i also felt the readers would relish in her authorship.

Overall, it's been a very exasperating, enlivening and eye-opening year. I've made several personal and professional achievements. One of them i'm extremely proud of is this online journal called "The Lustful Quality". Thank you for offering me the honor of your visits and words. I hope to make this forthcoming year even more filled with lustful quality.

snowflakes

small crystalline specks draft
downwards from the sky
first
announcing the eventual arrival
of clumps of white flakes
large enough
to get caught on the
fluttery eyelashes of the
pretty girl just walking by