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.

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"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.

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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?"

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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.

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"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.

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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.

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"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.