in and out

the breath that once great minds respired,
that for centuries has sustained the lives
of thousands, millions more
and hung in the atmosphere, hovering over
epochal moments in history
now
passes through your lips, nestling in your lungs
only to swim freely in your veins
feeding your muscles, your flesh, the warmth
in your cheek
this brings life to you
this brings you to me

Betrayal

The human body's existence receives the bulk of most economical, academic and scientific interest - most of that attention gets focused on the behavior of myriad, different receptors whose reaction then dictates the direction or vector the body housing them will move. Marketers utilize imagery, sound and words to stimulate a diverse panoply of reactions that you may or may not be aware of and certainly cannot control. Scientists study the neural patterns that make up the traffic on the information superhighway of our central nervous system just to try to decipher how this wiring determines our well-being and recovery from a trauma to the head. All of us carry inside intricate systems of receiving messages communicated through various methods, and how our bodies respond determines the way we look at the world, others and ourselves. Yet, we haven't the faintest idea how things have the impact that they do.

For instance, i cannot explain what it is about seeing a girl with well-manicured but obviously fake fingernails, but my body has an immediate and visible reaction. I could try to apply a great deal of psycho-babble about how these nails extend her fingers which in turn bring her closer to me, or better they lengthen what is already a beautiful feminine feature (similar to how a heel lengthens the line of a woman's leg), but neither of those explain why and how my body chooses to react to the sight of artificial ungulas. Thankfully, i've been able to surround myself with females who happily take their beautiful digits to a manicurist, not to mention that i don't find the influence from these ornaments inconvenient. What of those stimulants that do produce a response we are not happy with?

'Betrayal' is a word my girl has used. Her body betrays her. My darling girl is by no means a hard-core masochist, and sees pain as a way to challenge and to push her body's limits. When presented with the idea of a spanking, she doesn't leap out of her seat with great glee like she would should i tell her the budget for her next corset. We might be in the middle of a particularly fiery swatting session, and she will snarl over her shoulder at me, "Goddammit!!! That HURTS!!!", punctuated by her feet stomping into the ground (should they be free to move). This, for those keeping score, is not someone who mentally enjoys the pain the corporal punishment slices across her flesh. However, everytime - EVERYTIME, my fine friends - i reach in between her legs at the end of her persecution, her cunt is sopping wet.

"What's this? Evidence of pleasure?"

"N-n-n-nooooo, no it's not! It can't be...i don't understand."

Betrayal...i'd say it's more like what the mind doesn't know can't really hurt it.

a heart in winter

At a very early age, i quite well comprehended the notion of romantic love. In fact, the act of charting the rough waters of someone else's heart was always more invigorating to me than making out with them. Don't get me wrong, i wanted to kiss the girl - but that was mere kindling to the fire i hoped to stoke in her chest. I spent more ink and paper writing out clumsy emotives about how the air around my crush seemed to react to her beauty instead of describing the carnal ways in which i planned to screw her. I didn't avoid sexual imagery, it just seemed two-dimensional. Whereas, hooking into a young lass' soul and using it to draw her into a theatre of longing felt multi-dimensional to me.

This approach to the opposite sex was reflected in my film tastes (i am a self-professed cinephile, having seen well over 6,000 films - so it makes sense to use my cinematic appetite as a character witness). In high school, i developed a penchant for French romantic films (which really should be a genre all to its own). These films were not straightforward love narratives where girl meets boy, they fall in love, gratuitous happy ending follows. Rather, they would most likely consist of girl (who's already in a relationship) meets boy (who could be in a relationship too, but either way is inaccessible), they fall in love (truly she falls more for him than he for her), and it ends abruptly with both of them painfully longing for eachother yet realizing "this. cannot. be." Longing. The torture inherent in unrequited-but-obviously-existing love fascinated and stimulated me to no end. One of my favorite films of this type was Claude Sautet's "Un coeur en hiver"

It was my first introduction to the stunning Emmanuelle Beart. I have always developed huge crushes on screen idols (Phoebe Cates, Jennifer Connelly, Audrey Tatou to name a few) but none have ever reached the level of exasperating obssession as it did with Mme. Beart. At one point, i'd collected well over 100 print images of her from magazines, and any film she ever laid one dainty finger in i made sure to fastidiously view. In this particular movie, she played a young, extremely talented violinist whose career required custom-made instruments. It just so happens that the best in the business at hand-crafting wooden works of art was Stephane (played by Daniel Auteuil, Emmanuelle's eventual - albeit short-lived - husband). However, Stephane was someone who enjoyed the game of attraction more than the actual outcome. He expertly played Camille (Emmanuelle's character) like a fiddle, gaining her devoted adoration by film's end. However, Stephane cannot return this golden affection for his heart is in a deep, deep Winter. The film concludes with them briefly sharing a table at a typically beautiful, Parisian cafe, parsing some pleasantries before they stare into eachother's eyes with the knowledge that this - this pristine, romantic presentation - is all it will ever be between them. Camille departs, and the film ends with both of them training their eyes off into the distance, numb, cold, uncertain - overwhelmed and stunned by their mutual longing.

I was reminded of this film today as the memory of my somewhat uncustomary adolescent experience with romance popped into my head. What seems like eons ago, i wrote on the subject of how i have approached every romantic entanglement, declaring that it always requires the acquisition of consent from the maiden before i proceed. Perhaps i've made this connection before, but today it sunk home as i was traversing the cold urban streets, contemplating the long hunger that comes with winter. The character of Stephane had made his imprint on every relationship i'd attempted since first viewing his calculating meanderings. I sought to sustain that longing. Like a forceful gale filling the belly of a high sail, i turned my stern towards the gusts of unimpeded emotional fuel.

I'm not sure what this ultimately says about me. I know that in my minustrations, i strive to be incredibly didactic and controlled, and perhaps this has the effect of closing off a large portion of myself from potential romantic harm. Mine may often be a heart in winter, but one that is always aware that Spring and all the life/passion/animation it brings is blissfully around the corner.

des pieces

- Sitting at the counter of a local greasy spoon - well known for their choice burgers - K and i recently caught up, him having just come from a satisfying session of flexible rope bondage involving one of the few girls he plays with. Before we were to meet up, i contemplated the venue for our 'reconnaitre', and the (incredibly rare) appetite for a rare, bloody burger popped into my head. When we met on the street corner, i suggested several locations, but for some reason, i avoided what my body was telling me. Needing to replenish his constitution, K spoke up:

"I'd really like a hamburger."

I, of course, seconded. As we watched the grill jockeys flip and fabricate their way through order after order of the reputed menu item, K and i discussed many topics. We didn't shade the volume of our voice in order to avoid offending the prudish sensibilities of those around us. As what happens whenever we gather, we riffed off of eachother. He's someone with whom i can truly examine my sadistic proclivities without any abashed zeal, or any antagonistic need to shock or show off.

As the evening grew a longer beard, we sat on our stools, feasting on barely cooked meat, and giddily expressing ways in which we had been insatiablly maniacal bastards to our respective partners.

"She actually thought to ask me to lower the blinds, which she soon regretted as our performance suddenly took place at the window's edge."

"Right as i was asking her if she was ready for me to remove the zipper, i prematurely pulled a few clothespins off her flesh. 'Whoops! Sorry about that'."

Towards the end of the evening, the conversation - which had moved to a local dive bar - turned to an exploration about why 'corruption' remains such an addicting elixir for me. This online journal is something that represents decades-worth of the enticing notion that i can corrupt the minds of innocent females. There is no mistake that the mass majority of my readers are female (as well as those few who choose to comment). I told K how i scan the daily statistics of those who visit "The Lustful Quality", looking not for deep purse strings to finance my larger literary dreams, but some indication that the person attached to the IP address holds all the feminine qualities i seek to torment.

Honestly, one cannot glean such information. But, one can dream.

- Recently, i've had to travel alone a great deal for work. These days (aka. in a committed relationship), that means eating a lot of meals alone. I do not enjoy eating alone. Let me rephrase that. I LOATHE eating alone, and do whatever i can to avoid it. However, my physionomy will do all in its power to make the time away from home all the more taxing. Translation: for whatever reason, when i travel alone for business, my libido is exacerbatingly high.

To remedy this, i will go to whatever local eatery i can stomach, in the hopes that it will have a large number of female clientele and/or waitstaff (i assume the food will be paltry). There have been many times when i've turned around and left the establishment if i saw there would be no feminine sundry on which i could gander. When i do stay, i usually request a table off in the corner, where i can look out across the entire floor, and, almost as if they were part of my appetizer, visually devour whatever dainty creature crosses my view. This only gets me through the meal, however.

Once i return all by myself to my unnecessarily large hotel room, i'm faced with an excess of leisure time to myself (seeing as i do not watch TV, i must entertain myself in other ways). In the past, i would've arranged to have some delicate flower's services for the duration of my stay. But, those days are, without any regret, in the past. Instead, i've loaded up a flash drive with several gigabytes-worth of assorted SM kink that, when not completing work, i'm spending long periods of time in my hotel room perusing. I'm not sure what it is about travelling by myself that increases my general arousal, but its elevation is unmistakable.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

In the city where i live, it is law that all citizens sort their garbage so that items that can be recycled are placed in separate (and color-coordinated) bags than regular refuse. In order to help educate the populace on which objects can be recycled and which cannot, the Sanitation Department has produced diagrams with smiling cartoony recycling containers and trash bins, illustrating the most common detritus that can be recycled and that which can be tossed. To me, it's pretty easy to decipher that which can be saved from that which should be junked. However, that is not apparently the case for others who reside in the city, because the Sanitation Department is frequently sending out these illustrations as well as issuing citations to those who fall in violation. People just can't seem to glean the fundamental guidelines. Unfortunately, my girl is among the guilty ones.

I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.

One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.

"What's this for?"

"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."

She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.

"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."

"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."

She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.

"17"

"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Proceed."

She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.

"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.

"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.

Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.

SadiststidaS

We sadists are mean with focus. We are also focused entirely on the means.

We punish with little regard, and regard our punishment with great delight.

We have long, unbending visions. Most times, our vision depends entirely on your flexibility.

We experience joy through the most perverse ways. We are most perverse where joy can be experienced.

We give pain calculatingly, even coldly. We calculate the pain we give by the respondent's temperature.

We snicker menacingly when cries arise. Crying is an unlaughable menace to us.

We torture as a way to connect to our victim. Our victim must be tortured in order for us to allow them to connect with us.

We chide and mock your suffering. Your lack of suffering mocks and chides us.

We seek your struggle and resignation, and only resign once you've stopped struggling.

We do not wince when exacting strain upon your body. Our bodies strain to hold back whenever you wince.

Our push grows in intensity the instant we see you first pout. The more you pout the more we push.

We tighten the knots despite your protests. Your protests only reinforce why we tie the knots so tightly.

We ask that you count the strokes across your flesh to impart order. In order to strike your flesh, we insist that you are aware of how many counts you've incurred.

We're assholes. We love your assholes.

The Universe will have its way

"In the morning I'd awake and couldn't remember
What is love and what is hate - the calculations error
Oh-oh-oh-what is love and what is hate
And why does it matter - is to love just a waste
Why does it matter - oh - oh - ooh - ???

As the dawn began to break - I had to surrender
The universe will have its way - to powerful to master
Oh-oh-oh-what is love and what is hate
And why does it matter - is to love just a waste
Why does it matter - oh - oh - ooh - ???"
-The Flaming Lips, "In the Morning of the Magicians"

Quite recently, i was enjoying a very relaxing moment of sitting on the couch (something that, i stress, is a rarity for me) with my girl and watching one of my favorite things: nature documentaries. In this case it happened to be one of the episodes of the BBC's Planet Earth. A completely fantastic series that shows stunning scenarios and equally stunning cinematography. I highly recommend it. As i was watching a pack of wolves chase a gigantic herd of caribou across the frozen tundra of the Artic Circle, my mind pontificated on the reasons the BBC had chosen to document this natural process and redistribute it to us, the masses. What i concluded was somewhat troubling. They were demonstrating something that takes place in nature every second of every minute of every day. Something that's so commonplace, yet, it looks to us the audience like something exotic, foreign - worse - fantasy. We're so removed from the act of merely surviving by horribly taxing and violent means. Instead, we can witness this rigamarole from the comforts of our living rooms, outfitted with surround sound and high-definition visuals to make it all the more "real".

And then i got to thinking about what most of us are faced with in these dire economic times. Less. Much, much less. Be it simple luxuries like a night of martinis to the even more direr situation of impending foreclosure or layoffs, we all must learn to do with minimized resources. As i heard the recent news that Mattel fell far short of its forecasted sales of toys from this past Christmas, i couldn't help but feel a little relief. Taking out the human factor that this news most likely means that employees of that company may face layoffs, there was something comforting that people had chosen to not binge on as many toys as they normally would for the holidays. We do need to learn to get by with less. We consume way too much. We're too removed from the notion that life is struggle. That there is, as the Flaming Lips say above, very little difference between love and hate when put in context with the much larger, chaotic Universe.

Because my mind does not lend itself to leisure, it took this thought even further. I pondered my own "needs". One way to look at why we are here on this big rock is that we must do all we can to recreate ourselves in our kin. That everything stems from the act of procreation, and nothing else matters. Through this lense, one can view all of this pomp and puffery i proffer here at The Lustful Quality as unnecessary pilferage. I completely understand that viewpoint. I myself often struggle with my own desires of the material kind, as well as how my sexuality largely serves as a shrine to materialism. There are times i inventory my kinky supplies and at once want to toss them all to the curb out of shame for such meaningless consumption. Thankfully, however, i come to my senses.

I do not engage in the activities documented here out of gluttony or avarice. Yes, these are the exploits of my sexuality, but they are also the expressions of my spirituality. I vociferously do not believe that the only reason we are on this planet is just to recreate ourselves. Rather, we are here to create beauty - as often and as largely as is possible. Even in my largest grandeuristic visions of hubris, i realize i cannot control the Universe. It will do that fine on its own. But, i do take the responsibility of upholding my role in it quite seriously.

If these demands go unmet

I wanted to surprise you today, so i slipped this note into your lunch bag before you left for work. You're probably wondering what i am upto. Well, at this moment, i'm making some alterations to your place that will make it appear unfamiliar. When you come home, you're going to do something for me.

Tonight, you are going to kidnap yourself.

When you leave your office, you will be followed. Don't try to discover the person trailing you, they will be very well concealed. Once you arrive, you are to leave your front door slightly ajar. Facing you upon your entrance will be a chair, situated in the middle of your living room. Lying on the seat, you will see two sets of locking cuffs, a thick locking leather posture collar, a heavy burlap sack and a white silk scarf.

You are to strip down to your underwear, leaving only your bra and stockings on. Sit yourself into the chair, then first, lock the ankle cuffs on each leg, making sure to run the connecting chain underneath the chair. Then, lock one of the wrist cuffs to just one of your hands. Take the silk scarf, and tightly gag yourself with it, tying it behind your head. Rest the posture collar in your lap, then, take the burlap sack and pull it over your head. Follow this with the posture collar, snapping closed the attached brass padlocks. When all is completed, take the other wrist cuff, and latch the free hand behind the chair.

Take note of your breathing. Feel how hot your captured breath makes your face. Open your eyes, and drown in the darkness. Listen to each footstep that comes up the stairwell. Will they stop at your door? These thoughts are the only thing you will be able to do. Otherwise, your fate is to...just...wait.