I can't help it. Provide me with an ass, and i'll bite it. Until it hurts. Until it REALLY hurts. Until you yell at me. Until you can't stop jerking your backside away from my mouth, and moan out of protest.
Moan. Complain. Protest. Dig in your heels. God...that's what i want to hear. I was just spending the waking moments of our morning satisfying my tactile desire to chomp and bite, but then you insist on whimpering. Do you not know what that does to me?
Moan. Whimper. Appeal to my decency. My humanity. You will soon see how i respond to such protestations. You will soon feel how rigid your verbal rejections of my behavior enlivens my groin. This erection, you cannot blame me. This is your fault. I was just biting. I was just nibbling and nuzzling. You chose to paint the air with your withering victimhood. You chose to offer your cries, your rejections.
Turning your naked ass away will not accomplish what you think it will. I will hold you firmer. I will pin you down. And then, i will bite again. I will chew your girly flesh, grind it between my teeth. Suck on it. Pull it into my mouth. Kicking your feet into the mattress will only rile me up. Thrashing will only drive the urge deeper.
The urge to pull you inside of me. The urge to force myself all over you. The urge to make this - us - one, by coercive penetration of your cries, your ears, your mouth, your holes.
It's morning. Peaceful. Early. We've got ample amounts of time. And we've only just started.
Showing posts with label Anal training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anal training. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sunday, December 14, 2008
This Old House
Recently, my girl's relations paid us a pre-Holiday visit (scheduling conflicts do not allow us to share the yuletide with them). Visits like these (and any from non-kink friends, really) always result in a quick scan of the house to make sure it is properly scrubbed and sanitized of any obvious SM paraphernalia. My girl takes the conservative approach, preferring to hide and conceal for reasons of modesty but also issues she still struggles with. Whereas, i rail against hiding and feel like people should just deal with the fact that her and i practice a power exchange. How we compromise is to not go out of our way to shove everything "in the closet", but to not leave out anything that's too obvious - to which i say "define obvious".
(Humorous note: One such episode of her folks visiting had her father grabbing my hard cover edition of Steven Diet Goedde's "The Beauty of Fetish" from the lower shelf of our coffee table. This resulted in dear ole dad inquiring to my girl as to whether or not i was into 'leather'. She replied, quite affirmatively, "We both enjoy that book, Dad.")
Out of respect to her, i do not leave any toys lying about (although i have been known to conveniently forget the buttplug sitting in the dish rack after getting washed), nor do i make any real mention of our activities when her family and friends are concerned. Truthfully, one would have to be completely blind not to see the marrow of our dynamic, especially when you see my girl always in skirts or you witness her dropping everything when i summon her from the other end of the apartment. But i digress...i guess.
In order not to be faced with considerable labors of shoveling things away whenever we have company (and we have company quite frequently - i love to cook massive feasts, although, ironically, i do not like to eat massive feasts), our home has been arranged so that regular, commonplace objects appear to visitors as benign accoutrements but in fact can serve as devices of nefarious deviation.
For instance, were i able (and willing) to take each of you on a tour of the House of Deity, seeing as you are here under the kinkiest auspices, i would be able to fully boast of the ways i've been able to use everyday objects for devilish intentions.
I'd take you to the bedroom, where i would point out the black, scrolled metal bed purchased from Ikea many years ago. To the average eye, it looks like a nice, Gothic setting for nighttime slumbering, but from the deviant's perspective they could immediately see how the long bar on the top and all the curly, metallic scrolls provides this sadistic mind plenty of anchorage.
We'd continue on to the kitchen where there sits a common wooden bar stool. Nothing kinky about that, you might say. Not so fast, friend. That stool serves as a very economical spanking bench. With a little rope, my girl is appropriately fashioned to it and given no choice but to stick her cute little tushy up and out.
Traveling down the hallway, we'd come across the bathroom - or as i like to call it the "examination room". Many times, post shower, i examine my girl's parts to make sure she's properly scrubbed them. It is also here where i administer her regular enemas.
Leaving the bathroom, our next logical destination would be my bureau. Fashioned across the doorframe is my pull-up bar, which has been used frequently for devilish purposes.
Once inside the precipice of my bureau, it's not hard to find deviant use of any of the furniture that resides there. In fact, i'd be amiss if i didn't confess that was my complete intention when i designed the layout of my office. If it can't be used somehow to correct a girl or provide me with some unsavory advantage, i won't have it.
When i actually reviewed my domicile, it became quite clear that there isn't any surface, corner or piece of furniture that hadn't been sullied with my sexual agenda. This might be overreaching on my part. It might be hubris. It might be profligated arrogance. But, at least it's home.
p.s. I'm greatly saddened by the loss of Ms. Bettie Page and would like to ask that you who read me give a moment of your day - any moment you can spare - in silent reflection to how much her contribution helped those of us similarly afflicted.
(Humorous note: One such episode of her folks visiting had her father grabbing my hard cover edition of Steven Diet Goedde's "The Beauty of Fetish" from the lower shelf of our coffee table. This resulted in dear ole dad inquiring to my girl as to whether or not i was into 'leather'. She replied, quite affirmatively, "We both enjoy that book, Dad.")
Out of respect to her, i do not leave any toys lying about (although i have been known to conveniently forget the buttplug sitting in the dish rack after getting washed), nor do i make any real mention of our activities when her family and friends are concerned. Truthfully, one would have to be completely blind not to see the marrow of our dynamic, especially when you see my girl always in skirts or you witness her dropping everything when i summon her from the other end of the apartment. But i digress...i guess.
In order not to be faced with considerable labors of shoveling things away whenever we have company (and we have company quite frequently - i love to cook massive feasts, although, ironically, i do not like to eat massive feasts), our home has been arranged so that regular, commonplace objects appear to visitors as benign accoutrements but in fact can serve as devices of nefarious deviation.
For instance, were i able (and willing) to take each of you on a tour of the House of Deity, seeing as you are here under the kinkiest auspices, i would be able to fully boast of the ways i've been able to use everyday objects for devilish intentions.
I'd take you to the bedroom, where i would point out the black, scrolled metal bed purchased from Ikea many years ago. To the average eye, it looks like a nice, Gothic setting for nighttime slumbering, but from the deviant's perspective they could immediately see how the long bar on the top and all the curly, metallic scrolls provides this sadistic mind plenty of anchorage.
We'd continue on to the kitchen where there sits a common wooden bar stool. Nothing kinky about that, you might say. Not so fast, friend. That stool serves as a very economical spanking bench. With a little rope, my girl is appropriately fashioned to it and given no choice but to stick her cute little tushy up and out.
Traveling down the hallway, we'd come across the bathroom - or as i like to call it the "examination room". Many times, post shower, i examine my girl's parts to make sure she's properly scrubbed them. It is also here where i administer her regular enemas.
Leaving the bathroom, our next logical destination would be my bureau. Fashioned across the doorframe is my pull-up bar, which has been used frequently for devilish purposes.
Once inside the precipice of my bureau, it's not hard to find deviant use of any of the furniture that resides there. In fact, i'd be amiss if i didn't confess that was my complete intention when i designed the layout of my office. If it can't be used somehow to correct a girl or provide me with some unsavory advantage, i won't have it.
When i actually reviewed my domicile, it became quite clear that there isn't any surface, corner or piece of furniture that hadn't been sullied with my sexual agenda. This might be overreaching on my part. It might be hubris. It might be profligated arrogance. But, at least it's home.
p.s. I'm greatly saddened by the loss of Ms. Bettie Page and would like to ask that you who read me give a moment of your day - any moment you can spare - in silent reflection to how much her contribution helped those of us similarly afflicted.
Friday, August 29, 2008
ces choses
these things you need weren't there before.
these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.
these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.
what happened to you?
you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.
you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?
you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.
still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.
you've changed. what happened to you?
what happened to me? i've changed too.
my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.
i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.
i've become attached to these things. Quite so.
these things you ask for would never have crossed your lips.
these things that have you pleading, begging, soaked, flushed, dizzy, hungry, have changed you.
what happened to you?
you never would've let someone take you anally, and now, the thought of it drives you into a frenzy.
you decided what you wore - everyday. in fact, you were one of those dark girls who no one messed with. who would believe you demurely wear skirts and dresses now? who would ever believe you gave over the privilege to dress yourself to someone else?
you were never spanked as a child. yet, these days you expect to be positioned, scolded, spanked, corrected.
still, even you question why you find these things arousing. when i ask you to inspect my fingers for the glistening nectar produced by your cunt, the evidence is clear.
you've changed. what happened to you?
what happened to me? i've changed too.
my hunger has grown. i've embodied this beast more and more, day to day.
i've become attached to the rituals. i've become attached to the sensations, the heat on my hands from slapping your flesh, the burn of the rope as i pull it across my palms. i've become attached to the smells of ecstasy. i've become attached to the mental engineering i use to design the next torment. i've become attached to the sound of your breath caught in your chest as a way to dilute the searing pain of the cane. i've become attached to dressing my doll.
i've become attached to these things. Quite so.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Working the kinks out
As i write this (and i usually write my posts, instead of type them. I use the typing portion as the editing stage. Did someone say intern?), my girl is in her den click-clacking away on her laptop. She doesn't know that in about two hours from now, i will call for her, wherein she will expeditiously respond by coming into my den. I will be situated in my comfortable chair, exposing a large amount of lap for her to situate her little tummy right on top. Before she stretches herself over my knees, she will lower her panties (perhaps even remove them), and gather her skirt over her hips. There is much i enjoy with taking her over my knee. It paints such a beautiful image.
-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.
However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.
Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).
And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.
But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.
-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.
However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.
Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).
And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.
But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Arms to the sky
From time to time, i will experience a period of introspection wherein i evaluate my dominance in the domestic power exchange that informs my household's operation. Lately, i have felt that i had not taken as stern a position as i could in the correction and training of my girl (of course, if you ask her, she might completely disagree with this, and rather categorize this self-criticism as a symptom of my perfectionism). Hearing the poor marks i give myself, there are those of you who visit this site and must wonder:
"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"
"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"
"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."
And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.
Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.
Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.
Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.
As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.
I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.
I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.
I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.
Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.
"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."
With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.
"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."
I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.
Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.
"Fowh."
"What?!? Are you serious?"
She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.
Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.
"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"
"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"
"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."
And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.
Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.
Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.
Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.
As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.
I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.
I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.
I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.
Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.
"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."
With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.
"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."
I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.
Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.
"Fowh."
"What?!? Are you serious?"
She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.
Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sugasm #141
Sugasm #141
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 #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”
Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”
A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Road Rage
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 & FetishRoutine Maintenance, pt. 2
Monday, July 7, 2008
Routine Maintenance, pt. 2
Over the next 18 hours, the bulbous red slashes across her buttocks yielded to a siege of violet discoloration, morphing into a bruised stigmata that spread across the lower curve of her cheeks. A thing of pure beauty. A purple cloud with yellow accents that symbolized the storm that had raged across her flesh. I examined it while she slumbered in the early dawn of morning, stirred by the transference of my emotional energy into this hemorrhage.
My desire beget
cane in my hand, which beget
strokes across her ass, which beget
crimson welts, which beget
these anamorphic bruises
She wore, branded into her skin, my need in its physical manifestation. Every time she sat, the tinge of pain articulated the fever i carry to lash her behind. Her choice of dress, and even her embarrassment over the fact that were she to swim, someone might ask her about the bruises, magnified this intense intimacy we share.
I adored - and more - i was extremely grateful for this. Recognizing my gratitude as i studied the contusion, i realized my ego had softened which made me feel confident that we could proceed with the zipper as i had originally wanted. I didn't take dictation from a greedy, horny demon, but rather, a prescient need to connect with my girl stood behind the appetite for the device.
My clothespin contraption consists of anywhere between 18 and 72 wooden fasteners (depending on her tolerance level and my willingness to prep), threaded onto a 9 meter length of brown leather chord. Because of her previous episode with the cane, we negotiated for 36 pins. I had her strip, then wrapped a silk blindfold over her eyes. With a coil of recently conditioned hemp rope, i bound her elbows behind her back until they touched, and continued to secure her wrists together. I noticed that the temperature in the room had risen, and even though she was naked, her body radiated warmth which led me to turn on the overhead fan. Standing in front of me, nude and armless, her physical self let her mental entity slip deep inside. When i began clamping the pins onto her flesh, her minuscule reaction to the pinch confirmed how deep in shadow her mind had drifted. Even her verbal response sounded little, uncertain.
"ow..."
An afterthought, a formality.
I drew a sinuous line of leather and wood starting from her left armpit, attaching a clamp every few inches. I bit into the pink epidermis on the underside of her tit, following the round suggestion of her mammary.
"ow..."
When there wasn't much skin to pinch, i plied a fold with my finger and thumb and viced onto the base of this tug. Across her belly, down her thigh, then suddenly jackknifing up towards her panting, hairless cunt. I teased her, rubbing the coarse texture of the pin along her sensitive inner groin, inches from her slit before i took purchase with a wooden nip.
"ow..."
I stamped a pin on her left cunt lip, then mirrored this on her right. Looking up at her while paying attention to the elapsed time, i saw that her face showed no sign of cognizance. I counted out the number of the pin i was at.
"24, darlin..."
I continued to dress her with the zipper, when suddenly, she took a step forward, moving herself away from her held position.
"What are you doing? Get back to where you were."
She didn't respond. She took another, less certain, wavering step. I knew something was wrong. And then...
...she collapsed.
I caught her in my arms, worried that the pressure between our bodies was stabbing the attached clothespins into her. I spoke with her.
"Baby...baby, are you okay?"
Thinking as quick as i could, i ripped off the pins that remained. This jolt brought her to the forefront. She gasped, then mumbled some inarticulate phrase. I whipped off the blindfold, then looked into her eyes. Her pupils weren't dilated, she just held the gaze of someone in extreme relaxation.
"W-w-what happened?"
"You collapsed."
"I don't even remember anything after the first clip." I brought her to the bed, and lay her down, telling her to just rest.
I've always been attracted to the image of the hero that saves the damsel in distress, and many times my girl has said she views me this way when i release her from an extended binding. It's odd but also funny that i must put my damsel in the predicaments in order to play the role of savior. However, in this instance, i wasn't saving her from some scenario i placed her in. Rather, i caught her, without any thought, as she fell. If we hadn't spent all of these years learning eachother, growing close, and developing trust, who knows if i would've made the catch.
My desire beget
cane in my hand, which beget
strokes across her ass, which beget
crimson welts, which beget
these anamorphic bruises
She wore, branded into her skin, my need in its physical manifestation. Every time she sat, the tinge of pain articulated the fever i carry to lash her behind. Her choice of dress, and even her embarrassment over the fact that were she to swim, someone might ask her about the bruises, magnified this intense intimacy we share.
I adored - and more - i was extremely grateful for this. Recognizing my gratitude as i studied the contusion, i realized my ego had softened which made me feel confident that we could proceed with the zipper as i had originally wanted. I didn't take dictation from a greedy, horny demon, but rather, a prescient need to connect with my girl stood behind the appetite for the device.
My clothespin contraption consists of anywhere between 18 and 72 wooden fasteners (depending on her tolerance level and my willingness to prep), threaded onto a 9 meter length of brown leather chord. Because of her previous episode with the cane, we negotiated for 36 pins. I had her strip, then wrapped a silk blindfold over her eyes. With a coil of recently conditioned hemp rope, i bound her elbows behind her back until they touched, and continued to secure her wrists together. I noticed that the temperature in the room had risen, and even though she was naked, her body radiated warmth which led me to turn on the overhead fan. Standing in front of me, nude and armless, her physical self let her mental entity slip deep inside. When i began clamping the pins onto her flesh, her minuscule reaction to the pinch confirmed how deep in shadow her mind had drifted. Even her verbal response sounded little, uncertain.
"ow..."
An afterthought, a formality.
I drew a sinuous line of leather and wood starting from her left armpit, attaching a clamp every few inches. I bit into the pink epidermis on the underside of her tit, following the round suggestion of her mammary.
"ow..."
When there wasn't much skin to pinch, i plied a fold with my finger and thumb and viced onto the base of this tug. Across her belly, down her thigh, then suddenly jackknifing up towards her panting, hairless cunt. I teased her, rubbing the coarse texture of the pin along her sensitive inner groin, inches from her slit before i took purchase with a wooden nip.
"ow..."
I stamped a pin on her left cunt lip, then mirrored this on her right. Looking up at her while paying attention to the elapsed time, i saw that her face showed no sign of cognizance. I counted out the number of the pin i was at.
"24, darlin..."
I continued to dress her with the zipper, when suddenly, she took a step forward, moving herself away from her held position.
"What are you doing? Get back to where you were."
She didn't respond. She took another, less certain, wavering step. I knew something was wrong. And then...
...she collapsed.
I caught her in my arms, worried that the pressure between our bodies was stabbing the attached clothespins into her. I spoke with her.
"Baby...baby, are you okay?"
Thinking as quick as i could, i ripped off the pins that remained. This jolt brought her to the forefront. She gasped, then mumbled some inarticulate phrase. I whipped off the blindfold, then looked into her eyes. Her pupils weren't dilated, she just held the gaze of someone in extreme relaxation.
"W-w-what happened?"
"You collapsed."
"I don't even remember anything after the first clip." I brought her to the bed, and lay her down, telling her to just rest.
I've always been attracted to the image of the hero that saves the damsel in distress, and many times my girl has said she views me this way when i release her from an extended binding. It's odd but also funny that i must put my damsel in the predicaments in order to play the role of savior. However, in this instance, i wasn't saving her from some scenario i placed her in. Rather, i caught her, without any thought, as she fell. If we hadn't spent all of these years learning eachother, growing close, and developing trust, who knows if i would've made the catch.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Routine maintenance
As it typifies the power exchange, routine typically fills an important, guiding role in a dominant's repertoire. It habitualizes certain behaviors that over time serve to condition the submissive to a set way. The structure that comes inherent in routine can also reduce the number of liabilities should something go wrong in a scene by finetuning each party's response to eachother. Regimental cycles build trust, they can put the focus on the human spirits involved in the wicked dance, rather than on the steps that make up the tango.
For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.
My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.
Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.
She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"
"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"
She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.
If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.
*this continues on here
For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.
My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.
Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.
She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"
"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"
She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.
If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.
*this continues on here
Monday, June 23, 2008
Dis-comforting
"Gorgeous, at some point this weekend, you're gonna get an enema. I leave it up to you to decide when you're most inclined for that to happen," i said this upon her arrival home, as we embraced in our customary greeting.
She took it completely in stride, choosing not to offer her response to the presentation. I knew the calculation of precisely where a colonic cleansing would fit into her weekend plans had her internal mental apparatus at full steam. I can't offer exactly why it needed to happen at the time i decided. Out of nowhere, an urge to make a statement upon her rectal passage overwhelmed me.
When finally the time came, i prepared all the necessary materials, lining them up on the bathroom counter. A brand new Fleet-brand, saline enema; one pair of sterile, latex gloves; box of alcohol-free, disposable, sanitary wipes for post-enema cleaning; large, soft beach towel, spread out onto the bathroom floor. I walked back to the living room, where i'd extracted myself beneath her slumbering head in my lap. I gently woke her from her nap, speaking to her with a calm, reserved tone.
"Darlin, it's time."
She removed all of her clothes and met me in the bathroom. I told her to assume the regular position - on all fours, forehead pressed to the floor, buttocks angled up at me. I'd made sure she showered earlier in the day, and inspecting her hairless backside, could unobstructively see the mauve tones that surrounded her squinting asshole. I've viewed many a female anal egress, and even then, i marvel every time i view this one that i possess. Its shape, the extreme bank of the cheeks that form the valley of her crack, the sweaty yet deep scent that it delivers to my nose - all of it gives me a pleasurable gush.
I pushed the nozzle of the dispenser past her sphincter, then orderly squeezed the liquid contents deep inside of her. Once i've emptied the last of the liquid into her pinched rectum, she must hold the prone ass-up position for a good five minutes for the fluids to really exfoliate her gastrointestinals. Time had taken over the power exchange, and it would determine when i would get to watch her writhe in discomfort, as wave after wave of lower bowel nausea washed over her. I sat on the edge of the tub, as she stationed herself onto the toilet spreading her cheeks wide in anticipation of the taxing evacuation. Sweat built on her brow, her temples clenched in strenuous anxiety. All the while, she did her best to respond to my repeated inquiries into her overall state without letting the irritation of the moment and my place in it cause her to erupt in frustration.
"How close are we? Are you doing okay?"
"...y-y-yes, i'm...(spasms rocking her insides)...fine."
I sat there the entire time, watching with fascination and explicit sadistic glee. As i witnessed the effects of minerals sprayed into her undercarriage, i thought about the macabre and viciousness of this act. I put her there, and while i had no reservations, i do have my soft side. I adore her, and spend most of my time looking for ways to worship and spoil her. In most matters, i would flip over a parked car were i ever to see her the victim of atrocities. I have come close to blows with drivers who have carelessly cut in front of us, her arm-in-arm with me, as we cross an intersection. How dare they put this gorgeous creature in a position of danger. How dare they force her body, her mind, her spirit into dysphoria.
That's my job.
She took it completely in stride, choosing not to offer her response to the presentation. I knew the calculation of precisely where a colonic cleansing would fit into her weekend plans had her internal mental apparatus at full steam. I can't offer exactly why it needed to happen at the time i decided. Out of nowhere, an urge to make a statement upon her rectal passage overwhelmed me.
When finally the time came, i prepared all the necessary materials, lining them up on the bathroom counter. A brand new Fleet-brand, saline enema; one pair of sterile, latex gloves; box of alcohol-free, disposable, sanitary wipes for post-enema cleaning; large, soft beach towel, spread out onto the bathroom floor. I walked back to the living room, where i'd extracted myself beneath her slumbering head in my lap. I gently woke her from her nap, speaking to her with a calm, reserved tone.
"Darlin, it's time."
She removed all of her clothes and met me in the bathroom. I told her to assume the regular position - on all fours, forehead pressed to the floor, buttocks angled up at me. I'd made sure she showered earlier in the day, and inspecting her hairless backside, could unobstructively see the mauve tones that surrounded her squinting asshole. I've viewed many a female anal egress, and even then, i marvel every time i view this one that i possess. Its shape, the extreme bank of the cheeks that form the valley of her crack, the sweaty yet deep scent that it delivers to my nose - all of it gives me a pleasurable gush.
I pushed the nozzle of the dispenser past her sphincter, then orderly squeezed the liquid contents deep inside of her. Once i've emptied the last of the liquid into her pinched rectum, she must hold the prone ass-up position for a good five minutes for the fluids to really exfoliate her gastrointestinals. Time had taken over the power exchange, and it would determine when i would get to watch her writhe in discomfort, as wave after wave of lower bowel nausea washed over her. I sat on the edge of the tub, as she stationed herself onto the toilet spreading her cheeks wide in anticipation of the taxing evacuation. Sweat built on her brow, her temples clenched in strenuous anxiety. All the while, she did her best to respond to my repeated inquiries into her overall state without letting the irritation of the moment and my place in it cause her to erupt in frustration.
"How close are we? Are you doing okay?"
"...y-y-yes, i'm...(spasms rocking her insides)...fine."
I sat there the entire time, watching with fascination and explicit sadistic glee. As i witnessed the effects of minerals sprayed into her undercarriage, i thought about the macabre and viciousness of this act. I put her there, and while i had no reservations, i do have my soft side. I adore her, and spend most of my time looking for ways to worship and spoil her. In most matters, i would flip over a parked car were i ever to see her the victim of atrocities. I have come close to blows with drivers who have carelessly cut in front of us, her arm-in-arm with me, as we cross an intersection. How dare they put this gorgeous creature in a position of danger. How dare they force her body, her mind, her spirit into dysphoria.
That's my job.
Friday, April 18, 2008
still more Demands
Good morning, darling.
I leave this note for you with the understanding that you have a long day of meeting after meeting ahead of you. When i came to kiss you goodbye before i left for work, you looked so peaceful and innocent that i didn't want to disturb you.
That being said, there are some things that need immediate attention. During the last several anal inspections, evidence of negligence in your cleaning have been found. That leaves me to only assume that you've allowed yourself to become lazy and less introspective about this very important part of your body. As i've said many times, your ass is to be clean and presentable at all times.
The lapses force me to take drastic corrective steps.
You will find on the bathroom sink your longterm buttplug, and a bottle of mild baby shampoo. I'd like you to go about your regular regiment of getting ready, and then, right before you leave, go to the freezer. Take a tray of ice cubes with you into the bathroom.
Once there, i want you to forgoe the usual water-based lube you apply to your plug, and instead liberally coat the implement with the shampoo. I then want you to take an ice cube in your hand, letting the heat from your palm create a nice liquidy layer. Slip this ice cube up inside of your ass. Repeat this with three more ice cubes. Quickly follow this with the plug, pushing the wide bulge past your anal rings, making sure it sits in your rectum nice and tight.
You are not to remove the plug until you come home later tonight, no matter how uncomfortable the shampoo reacting with your insides get.
My hope is that you learn to take better care of the areas i have tasked you with grooming.
*this continues on here
I leave this note for you with the understanding that you have a long day of meeting after meeting ahead of you. When i came to kiss you goodbye before i left for work, you looked so peaceful and innocent that i didn't want to disturb you.
That being said, there are some things that need immediate attention. During the last several anal inspections, evidence of negligence in your cleaning have been found. That leaves me to only assume that you've allowed yourself to become lazy and less introspective about this very important part of your body. As i've said many times, your ass is to be clean and presentable at all times.
The lapses force me to take drastic corrective steps.
You will find on the bathroom sink your longterm buttplug, and a bottle of mild baby shampoo. I'd like you to go about your regular regiment of getting ready, and then, right before you leave, go to the freezer. Take a tray of ice cubes with you into the bathroom.
Once there, i want you to forgoe the usual water-based lube you apply to your plug, and instead liberally coat the implement with the shampoo. I then want you to take an ice cube in your hand, letting the heat from your palm create a nice liquidy layer. Slip this ice cube up inside of your ass. Repeat this with three more ice cubes. Quickly follow this with the plug, pushing the wide bulge past your anal rings, making sure it sits in your rectum nice and tight.
You are not to remove the plug until you come home later tonight, no matter how uncomfortable the shampoo reacting with your insides get.
My hope is that you learn to take better care of the areas i have tasked you with grooming.
*this continues on here
Monday, January 7, 2008
A convenient side effect
you order her coffee...because you're a gentleman, and because you're controlling the scenario;
you buy her a pair of impromptu stockings...because you like to treat her to a surprise gift, and because you are reinforcing the dress code you've mandated;
you hold the door open for her...because "ladies go first", and because you like to reduce the amount of autonomous actions she takes;
you compliment her on her heels...because she glows when she gets praise, and because you want to engineer a desire in her to wear heels more frequently;
you kiss her neck...because she's very sensitive at this spot, causing her to shiver, and because by avoiding her mouth, you are treating her like an object;
you tighten her corset...because it makes her look beautiful, and because you enjoy her restriction;
you brush her hair...because she sinks into a pleasurable purr when stroked, and because she fits the role of a doll;
you intervene when someone insults her...because her honor is your greatest concern, and because you want to accentuate her fragility;
you proudly show off photographs of her...because she enjoys hearing of the attention, and because these people are only seeing her in a two-dimensional way;
you give her little tush a swat as she passes by...because it excites her as well as stimulates her, and because you are further indicating to her that she is owned;
you forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyze, and because she requires the authority of a boss.
you bind her body in rope...because the respite from any movement frees her mind and soul, and because you know you must trap, confine and capture her.
you gingerly rub your thumb across her rectum as you finger her...because the dual sensations are double her pleasure, and because you are showing her new ways to think of her anal passage.
you bring her to a climax...because she deserves the solitary attention, and because it came from your hands, your delivery.
you tell her how much she means to you...because she needs to hear that she matters, and because she fulfills so many of your needs.
you buy her a pair of impromptu stockings...because you like to treat her to a surprise gift, and because you are reinforcing the dress code you've mandated;
you hold the door open for her...because "ladies go first", and because you like to reduce the amount of autonomous actions she takes;
you compliment her on her heels...because she glows when she gets praise, and because you want to engineer a desire in her to wear heels more frequently;
you kiss her neck...because she's very sensitive at this spot, causing her to shiver, and because by avoiding her mouth, you are treating her like an object;
you tighten her corset...because it makes her look beautiful, and because you enjoy her restriction;
you brush her hair...because she sinks into a pleasurable purr when stroked, and because she fits the role of a doll;
you intervene when someone insults her...because her honor is your greatest concern, and because you want to accentuate her fragility;
you proudly show off photographs of her...because she enjoys hearing of the attention, and because these people are only seeing her in a two-dimensional way;
you give her little tush a swat as she passes by...because it excites her as well as stimulates her, and because you are further indicating to her that she is owned;
you forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyze, and because she requires the authority of a boss.
you bind her body in rope...because the respite from any movement frees her mind and soul, and because you know you must trap, confine and capture her.
you gingerly rub your thumb across her rectum as you finger her...because the dual sensations are double her pleasure, and because you are showing her new ways to think of her anal passage.
you bring her to a climax...because she deserves the solitary attention, and because it came from your hands, your delivery.
you tell her how much she means to you...because she needs to hear that she matters, and because she fulfills so many of your needs.
Sugasm #113
Sugasm #113
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 #114? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
A Different Kind Of Authority For Sex Bloggers
“As we sex workers, sex bloggers, and adult business folks swim in our ponds or spin in our micro universes & connect with others, we continue to build authority.”
Of sex and strippers
“At one point she was straddling Girlfriend’s right leg, grinding her thigh against Girlfriend’s clit through her jeans.”
Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge
Her comments were something to the effect of, “No one wanted to see me twirl with tassels ~ on fire or not ~ when some girl was going to sit on stage and insert things into herself.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Kofola
Editor’s Choice
Interview with Paul Festa about circumcision
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & FetishTuesday, January 1, 2008
Who knew Uncle Sam was kinky?
For many of us, the last day of the year signifies a time where we reflect on the 364 diurnal periods that preceded it as well as plan for the coming year with steeled resolve to do more/less, be more/less or think more/less. For those of us in the States who work in a corporate environment, this day signifies a different form of reflection. December 31st is the very last possible day that one can make purchases that qualify as a withdrawal from their flex spending account.
The nutshell (let's break it down):
These are pockets of money you can have taken out of your paycheck every pay period before the US gubbmint gets its grubby hands on your money and siphons off taxes. This then theoretically lowers your income bracket, thus reducing the amount of total tariffs you owe the IRS come the middle of April.
The catch (come on, you knew there had to be one):
You must use these funds only for the purchase of certain healthcare-related costs, AND you must make these purchases within the calendar year of the payroll deductions. Meaning if money was taken out of my salary during 2007, i must use these funds before December 31st 2007, otherwise i forfeit this money and it goes straight into Uncle Sam's pocket.
That's right. Forfeit. Lose. Never get back.
I participate in this program through my office, and was caught off guard when i received my December statement in the mail explaining my remaining balance. I had a rather large amount of money i needed to spend before January 1st, and i had absolutely no scheduled healthcare costs. Not wanting to horde cases of sterile gauze pads and vitamins, i was stuck for what i'd do with the surplus amount. And then i found a devilish loophole.
The redeemer:
It figures the the solution to my problems could be found on the internet. It turns out that such sites as drugstore.com and walgreens.com have specific sections of their inventory cordoned off to make using your flex spending dollars as easy as possible. But what they consider eligible, i would never have expected to fit within the requirements of the IRS. All it took was a few clicks of the mouse before i was able to determine that a good amount of this money was going towards fulfilling several of my fetishes.
Of all the self-adhering elastic bandages, Nexcare is by far the best for use in a mummification scene. It does not bunch like other brands, comes in extra wide strips and really vibrant colors. I personally love using this "space-age" material when entombing someone because it is breathable, which allows for longer periods of bondage as well as total closure. Instead of needing to cut holes in the elastic like i would if it were tape or shrinkwrap, the submissive is able to draw breath through the bandage itself.
With my flex spending account, i was able to order enough for several scenes of total encapsulation.
Enemas are crucial aspects of any serious anal training, but also are enjoyable tools when used in a predicament scenario. A girl being trained anally must grow accustomed to regular enemas so that the use of her "third cunt" is safe and healthy for both involved. It's important to note that enemas are not to be administered too frequently, because the gastro-intestinal tract has natural bacteria that must exist in order for proper digestion. More than once a month should be avoided.
Enema play is it's own wonderful subject that i plan to go into later, but as i have said many times before, a girl knows her place almost immediately when she is made to think of her ass in a different way through the rudiments of anal play. Being told to hold in an enema despite urges from her stomach, her bowels and her anal rings to release is an incredible act of obedient submission.
All in all, i was able to outfit myself with a number of items that will, in addition to making the House of Deity a safer, more sanitary and less sniffly of a place, also make devilish appearances in sadistic ways that i'm sure the bigwigs who conjured our tax code in Washington would be proud of.
I wish all of you who purchase some entertainment from this site a Happy and Prosperous New Year. I look forward to seeing where it might go in 2008.
The nutshell (let's break it down):
These are pockets of money you can have taken out of your paycheck every pay period before the US gubbmint gets its grubby hands on your money and siphons off taxes. This then theoretically lowers your income bracket, thus reducing the amount of total tariffs you owe the IRS come the middle of April.
The catch (come on, you knew there had to be one):
You must use these funds only for the purchase of certain healthcare-related costs, AND you must make these purchases within the calendar year of the payroll deductions. Meaning if money was taken out of my salary during 2007, i must use these funds before December 31st 2007, otherwise i forfeit this money and it goes straight into Uncle Sam's pocket.
That's right. Forfeit. Lose. Never get back.
I participate in this program through my office, and was caught off guard when i received my December statement in the mail explaining my remaining balance. I had a rather large amount of money i needed to spend before January 1st, and i had absolutely no scheduled healthcare costs. Not wanting to horde cases of sterile gauze pads and vitamins, i was stuck for what i'd do with the surplus amount. And then i found a devilish loophole.
The redeemer:
It figures the the solution to my problems could be found on the internet. It turns out that such sites as drugstore.com and walgreens.com have specific sections of their inventory cordoned off to make using your flex spending dollars as easy as possible. But what they consider eligible, i would never have expected to fit within the requirements of the IRS. All it took was a few clicks of the mouse before i was able to determine that a good amount of this money was going towards fulfilling several of my fetishes.
Of all the self-adhering elastic bandages, Nexcare is by far the best for use in a mummification scene. It does not bunch like other brands, comes in extra wide strips and really vibrant colors. I personally love using this "space-age" material when entombing someone because it is breathable, which allows for longer periods of bondage as well as total closure. Instead of needing to cut holes in the elastic like i would if it were tape or shrinkwrap, the submissive is able to draw breath through the bandage itself.With my flex spending account, i was able to order enough for several scenes of total encapsulation.
Enemas are crucial aspects of any serious anal training, but also are enjoyable tools when used in a predicament scenario. A girl being trained anally must grow accustomed to regular enemas so that the use of her "third cunt" is safe and healthy for both involved. It's important to note that enemas are not to be administered too frequently, because the gastro-intestinal tract has natural bacteria that must exist in order for proper digestion. More than once a month should be avoided.
Enema play is it's own wonderful subject that i plan to go into later, but as i have said many times before, a girl knows her place almost immediately when she is made to think of her ass in a different way through the rudiments of anal play. Being told to hold in an enema despite urges from her stomach, her bowels and her anal rings to release is an incredible act of obedient submission.
All in all, i was able to outfit myself with a number of items that will, in addition to making the House of Deity a safer, more sanitary and less sniffly of a place, also make devilish appearances in sadistic ways that i'm sure the bigwigs who conjured our tax code in Washington would be proud of.
I wish all of you who purchase some entertainment from this site a Happy and Prosperous New Year. I look forward to seeing where it might go in 2008.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Happy Spanksgiving
I'm grateful for many things that i've encountered since i first dropped the initial sentences in the url transformher.blogspot.com. I've met many great people who have visited my hovel, received an assortment of enlightening feedback, and expanded my own frontiers through the process of sharing my thoughts on my sexuality. I'll be traveling the entire week of Thanksgiving, and as a result will be out of touch with the three bits of enjoyment i mentioned above.
In the spirit of the season, i'll leave the reader with a list of links i take particular pride in but most importantly, instances that i'm very appreciative for because i have such an outlet in my life. Without further ado, i give spanks for the following posts:
Whereupon she says she needs it
I'm a generous and charitable man. When she pleads, i provide.
Those fleshy mounds are meant for something, no?
I look for a canvass where i can paint my customized mark upon flesh.
An outlet for my internal hypertension
I should fill out an application for canonization. She deserves it.
The few square inches this part of the female anatomy occupies does not hold up to my obsession with it
And how could it? No one could satisfy these kind of demands...or could they?
A simple correction
I expel my transgressions over a knee, and see if we can't arrive at some sort of compromise.
Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers, and a pleasant week to those in other regions.
In the spirit of the season, i'll leave the reader with a list of links i take particular pride in but most importantly, instances that i'm very appreciative for because i have such an outlet in my life. Without further ado, i give spanks for the following posts:
Whereupon she says she needs it
I'm a generous and charitable man. When she pleads, i provide.
Those fleshy mounds are meant for something, no?
I look for a canvass where i can paint my customized mark upon flesh.
An outlet for my internal hypertension
I should fill out an application for canonization. She deserves it.
The few square inches this part of the female anatomy occupies does not hold up to my obsession with it
And how could it? No one could satisfy these kind of demands...or could they?
A simple correction
I expel my transgressions over a knee, and see if we can't arrive at some sort of compromise.
Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers, and a pleasant week to those in other regions.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I'd like to issue a correction
I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.
This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.
I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.
We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.
I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:
"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."
I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.
"Option B."
She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.
Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.
"That's one."
"How many more?"
"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."
I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.
Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.
I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Ouvert le genou
It is a beautiful autumn Sunday morning. The outside atmosphere rings with the church bells and the crisp fall air. I let her sleep in a little longer than usual. These are the sort of days where sleeping-in deserves special consideration.
At breakfast, i tell her that at some point in the day she will be put over my knee. I mention this to her at all because i want to glean her general attitude and emotional station, knowing that we have just broken our slumber-induced fast. I inquire as to when she thinks she would be most receptive. She gives it some thought, then states after her shower.
Later on, i'm working on the computer. Off in the distance, i hear the cascade of water cease in the bathroom. The sound of a door opening splits into the air from down the hallway, and i sit, waiting for her to soon come into my bureau. For whatever reason, i do not anticipate that she will crawl into my den. On all fours she scampers in along the floor, pulling her completely naked body, dripping with fresh, clean wetness right up to my chair.
I ask her why she came crawling.
"Because i knew i was to be spanked."
"And why are you to be spanked?"
"Because that is what you have decided."
"Is there any reason you deserve to be spanked?"
She doesn't respond.
"You have been especially bratty this week."
"When?" she asks.
"The other morning, you showed a great deal of irritation for no good reason, and were awfully short in your answers. You were being quite the little brat."
"Yes. Yes i was."
"Now do you think a spanking will do you good?"
"Yes. It will do me good for awhile, and then, i'll eventually need another."
I guide her nude frame to lie across my lap as i sit in my chaise lounge. I stroke my hand the full length of her backside. From the base of her thin neck, to the ample curvature of her round feminine hips, i explore the corpuscle terrain glowing up at me. i kiss the convex indentations of her spine, then move my embrace to her newly cleaned ass cheeks. My hand interrupts this fleshy love affair with a thwap into her right buttocks. Her muscles leap in a tense tour jeté, quickly consuming the altered rhythm of our exchange. Suddenly, i view her epidermal frontier of delicate peach and pink tones and decide they are in need of an acceleration to bright red inflammation. I slap three strokes hard into her skin.
She yelps.
I brush my hand across the newly irritated flesh, and move to the other cheek.
Three more strokes. Her body has come alive with stimulation. Her muscles pulse with fresh blood pumped through them. Small droplets of sweat pool in the concavity of her lower back. The rounded mounds of her ass cheeks throb a gravitating heat that feels so comforting to my flattened palm. I patter her butt with a quick resonance of slaps, finding a pattern that satisfies my inner hunger but does not yet push her to the limit of seeking mercy. I alternate between her right and left cheeks. Right, then left, then right, then left. I bring her pain receptors just to the edge, teasing them, hording my command over this physical domain, never quite pushing her beyond the edge. This continues for another seven minutes.
At a certain point, i work out the kink in my shoulder, arm, psyche that dictated to me that i would need this sort of expression. My girl has extracted herself from the corporal impact slapped into her body, and hovering above it, has found a clear, explicit euphoria. I can feel the visceral, ectoplasmic possession of it glistening the folds of her yet unattended cunt. I pull her up into my lap, and hold her close to my body.
I visit her silent, now suddenly-smaller-than-normal frame with tender kisses and continued strokes with my hand, perched upon my reclined legs. I give us a few tender moments in the silent stasis of this pose before i move on to the completion of our intimate moment.
At breakfast, i tell her that at some point in the day she will be put over my knee. I mention this to her at all because i want to glean her general attitude and emotional station, knowing that we have just broken our slumber-induced fast. I inquire as to when she thinks she would be most receptive. She gives it some thought, then states after her shower.
Later on, i'm working on the computer. Off in the distance, i hear the cascade of water cease in the bathroom. The sound of a door opening splits into the air from down the hallway, and i sit, waiting for her to soon come into my bureau. For whatever reason, i do not anticipate that she will crawl into my den. On all fours she scampers in along the floor, pulling her completely naked body, dripping with fresh, clean wetness right up to my chair.
I ask her why she came crawling.
"Because i knew i was to be spanked."
"And why are you to be spanked?"
"Because that is what you have decided."
"Is there any reason you deserve to be spanked?"
She doesn't respond.
"You have been especially bratty this week."
"When?" she asks.
"The other morning, you showed a great deal of irritation for no good reason, and were awfully short in your answers. You were being quite the little brat."
"Yes. Yes i was."
"Now do you think a spanking will do you good?"
"Yes. It will do me good for awhile, and then, i'll eventually need another."
I guide her nude frame to lie across my lap as i sit in my chaise lounge. I stroke my hand the full length of her backside. From the base of her thin neck, to the ample curvature of her round feminine hips, i explore the corpuscle terrain glowing up at me. i kiss the convex indentations of her spine, then move my embrace to her newly cleaned ass cheeks. My hand interrupts this fleshy love affair with a thwap into her right buttocks. Her muscles leap in a tense tour jeté, quickly consuming the altered rhythm of our exchange. Suddenly, i view her epidermal frontier of delicate peach and pink tones and decide they are in need of an acceleration to bright red inflammation. I slap three strokes hard into her skin.
She yelps.
I brush my hand across the newly irritated flesh, and move to the other cheek.
Three more strokes. Her body has come alive with stimulation. Her muscles pulse with fresh blood pumped through them. Small droplets of sweat pool in the concavity of her lower back. The rounded mounds of her ass cheeks throb a gravitating heat that feels so comforting to my flattened palm. I patter her butt with a quick resonance of slaps, finding a pattern that satisfies my inner hunger but does not yet push her to the limit of seeking mercy. I alternate between her right and left cheeks. Right, then left, then right, then left. I bring her pain receptors just to the edge, teasing them, hording my command over this physical domain, never quite pushing her beyond the edge. This continues for another seven minutes.
At a certain point, i work out the kink in my shoulder, arm, psyche that dictated to me that i would need this sort of expression. My girl has extracted herself from the corporal impact slapped into her body, and hovering above it, has found a clear, explicit euphoria. I can feel the visceral, ectoplasmic possession of it glistening the folds of her yet unattended cunt. I pull her up into my lap, and hold her close to my body.
I visit her silent, now suddenly-smaller-than-normal frame with tender kisses and continued strokes with my hand, perched upon my reclined legs. I give us a few tender moments in the silent stasis of this pose before i move on to the completion of our intimate moment.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Ass-pirations
"Are you sure you're not gay?"
I've heard this in several iterations over the years. In fact, the number one most common misconception that people have when meeting me is that i'm homosexual. Yes, i'm that pretty.
*wink*
Plus, i'm not the most imposing of physical presences. I'm not going to go on record saying that i don't meet the minimum size requirement to ride the roller coasters at the fair, but i will say that sometimes i'm the tallest person on the subway, and sometimes i'm not. Not to mention i notice the tiniest details, especially those that refer to a female's decorum. Should a girl in my office get a trim or even change their hair tint just a slight amount, i'll notice and make a comment. There are other things that pop up, as well. I'm not a guy's guy. I don't enjoy football, or for that matter, usually other men. In fact, if you counted, the ratio of females to males in my appointment book would easily be 8 to 1. So, when i do have to relate to a room full of XY's, i find myself bored, antagonistic, disconnected. I'm proud to say i prefer the company of females, for most occasions.
But, even these superficial generalizations (not to mention the glaringly obvious lack of interest in another man's cock) are not as tough to take as the one i've received from the girl's i've been intimate with. Men like to term themselves as being loyal to one camp that adopts a part of the female anatomy as their official mascot. They like to declare that they are "tits" men, or "ass" men, or "minimal cuticle" men (not sure how many devotees there are of the latter). I've never been able to pick one feature and rally behind it as my absolute favorite. If pressed, i would have to say that i'm a:
"calf-ass-tit-lips-fingers-thighs-smalloftheback-hair-eyelashes-neck-cunt-toes-voice" man.
Couldn't do without any of them. I'm a full-fledged, dues paying member of the "official fan club of the female gender", and as much as i get a thrill from objectifying my submissive in our play, i consider the sum of the whole a true gift to this planet.
I make this clear to any girl i've been with; be it through outward proclamations or actions that demonstrate my adulation. Yet, the number of times my fascination with the female ass and what i want to do with it that has led to the gal in my life to mention her concern that i'm homosexual is astonishing. Yes, i'm quite sure i'm not gay. I just happen to, well, let me try to detail, what it is exactly i want to do to the female ass.
First:
I have an instant desire to slap a girl's ass. I won't pretend to get overtly academic and uncover the root psychological reason why that is. If the lass is pointing her well-rounded ass in my general direction, i find my hand cupping the air, quickly identifying the impact zone on the hostile rump. My internal demon likes the physical sensation of the slap, the heat that follows, and the devastating feminine myew that punctuates the act. I, of course, recognize the socially off-limits qualities of this part of the feminine anatomy. I subscribe to the notion that it is the equally shared belief that anything "ass" should not be discussed, let alone indulged, which has led to so much profound accomplishment and intimacy when i've focused my passion on this area. That leads me to my second interest.
Second:
I've long believed that the quickest and most profound way to acquire a girl's submission is through her ass. The very few times i've indulged in long-distance dominance, i have found myself turning to the buttplug as a trusty tool to impart my presence in a girl's journey into deep submission. But, i don't require the excuse of distance separating me from the girl to indulge in what i term "anal training". Whether it is by virtue that the girls i am attracted to have an affinity for back-door attention, or that i'm rather persuasive in my insistence of this form of sexual play, they grow very attached to the buttplug.
I embark on a quest to retrain the girl's ass. To teach it and her it's new purpose. The minute i begin to see the girl accept this new role, i walk trepiditiously because i know i can lose grip very quickly and let the full throttle of my inner rectal demon trounce all over me. I am taking ownership of a physical attribute that has for years been the focal point of her humiliation and disgust, imbibing it with my sexual arousal that comes from the girl finding pleasure in transforming it, with the goal that it supplants her cunt as the place where she believes she should be fucked. How could one impress deeper submissive values than to guide a girl to gradually accept that her ass is where she should provide and receive sexual attention?
Does this make me gay? I think that a strong reason that so many females have worried that i was when i pressed anal matters so much came from the fact that they wanted to believe that it was my obsession with this area, and not their own, which brought us to this transaction.
I've heard this in several iterations over the years. In fact, the number one most common misconception that people have when meeting me is that i'm homosexual. Yes, i'm that pretty.
*wink*
Plus, i'm not the most imposing of physical presences. I'm not going to go on record saying that i don't meet the minimum size requirement to ride the roller coasters at the fair, but i will say that sometimes i'm the tallest person on the subway, and sometimes i'm not. Not to mention i notice the tiniest details, especially those that refer to a female's decorum. Should a girl in my office get a trim or even change their hair tint just a slight amount, i'll notice and make a comment. There are other things that pop up, as well. I'm not a guy's guy. I don't enjoy football, or for that matter, usually other men. In fact, if you counted, the ratio of females to males in my appointment book would easily be 8 to 1. So, when i do have to relate to a room full of XY's, i find myself bored, antagonistic, disconnected. I'm proud to say i prefer the company of females, for most occasions.
But, even these superficial generalizations (not to mention the glaringly obvious lack of interest in another man's cock) are not as tough to take as the one i've received from the girl's i've been intimate with. Men like to term themselves as being loyal to one camp that adopts a part of the female anatomy as their official mascot. They like to declare that they are "tits" men, or "ass" men, or "minimal cuticle" men (not sure how many devotees there are of the latter). I've never been able to pick one feature and rally behind it as my absolute favorite. If pressed, i would have to say that i'm a:
"calf-ass-tit-lips-fingers-thighs-smalloftheback-hair-eyelashes-neck-cunt-toes-voice" man.
Couldn't do without any of them. I'm a full-fledged, dues paying member of the "official fan club of the female gender", and as much as i get a thrill from objectifying my submissive in our play, i consider the sum of the whole a true gift to this planet.
I make this clear to any girl i've been with; be it through outward proclamations or actions that demonstrate my adulation. Yet, the number of times my fascination with the female ass and what i want to do with it that has led to the gal in my life to mention her concern that i'm homosexual is astonishing. Yes, i'm quite sure i'm not gay. I just happen to, well, let me try to detail, what it is exactly i want to do to the female ass.
First:
I have an instant desire to slap a girl's ass. I won't pretend to get overtly academic and uncover the root psychological reason why that is. If the lass is pointing her well-rounded ass in my general direction, i find my hand cupping the air, quickly identifying the impact zone on the hostile rump. My internal demon likes the physical sensation of the slap, the heat that follows, and the devastating feminine myew that punctuates the act. I, of course, recognize the socially off-limits qualities of this part of the feminine anatomy. I subscribe to the notion that it is the equally shared belief that anything "ass" should not be discussed, let alone indulged, which has led to so much profound accomplishment and intimacy when i've focused my passion on this area. That leads me to my second interest.
Second:
I've long believed that the quickest and most profound way to acquire a girl's submission is through her ass. The very few times i've indulged in long-distance dominance, i have found myself turning to the buttplug as a trusty tool to impart my presence in a girl's journey into deep submission. But, i don't require the excuse of distance separating me from the girl to indulge in what i term "anal training". Whether it is by virtue that the girls i am attracted to have an affinity for back-door attention, or that i'm rather persuasive in my insistence of this form of sexual play, they grow very attached to the buttplug.
I embark on a quest to retrain the girl's ass. To teach it and her it's new purpose. The minute i begin to see the girl accept this new role, i walk trepiditiously because i know i can lose grip very quickly and let the full throttle of my inner rectal demon trounce all over me. I am taking ownership of a physical attribute that has for years been the focal point of her humiliation and disgust, imbibing it with my sexual arousal that comes from the girl finding pleasure in transforming it, with the goal that it supplants her cunt as the place where she believes she should be fucked. How could one impress deeper submissive values than to guide a girl to gradually accept that her ass is where she should provide and receive sexual attention?
Does this make me gay? I think that a strong reason that so many females have worried that i was when i pressed anal matters so much came from the fact that they wanted to believe that it was my obsession with this area, and not their own, which brought us to this transaction.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sugasm #93
Sugasm #93
Mon 20th Aug, 07
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 #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Mon 20th Aug, 07
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 #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie
Monday, July 30, 2007
Playing with my Barbie
I had the worst hobby as a young boy. The kind that no "lettered in Football", Special Forces in Vietnam, self-made rags-to-riches father would ever want his son to have.
I played with dolls.
I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.
Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.
As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.
Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.
I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.
The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.
And then, i go further.
I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.
"barbie likes"
At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.
My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.
I played with dolls.
I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.
Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.
As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.
Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.
I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.
The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.
And then, i go further.
I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.
"barbie likes"
At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.
My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Circle
In the early stages of my career, i was quite fortunate for two specific reasons:
Firstly, due to my inexperience, i felt the need to alter, stretch or even fabricate what knowledge i had in order to get me in the door.
Secondly, i had the luck of encountering potential employers who couldn't tell i did this or didn't care.
Either way, my early jobs, as a result of my embellishments, were often more fantastic than i probably deserved. I travelled all over, spending long spans of time going from one locale to the next. I remember one notable 20 day period had me dashing through no less than 15 different cities. It was exhausting, but for a young man my age, equally exhilirating. Over time, i learned how to find the basic comforts and needs in any town that i'd grown accustomed to having back at home. Except one thing: companionship.
Unfortunately, the kind of female company i sought wasn't outfitted by calling a local escort service. For several reasons, you just can't hire a submissive girl. This unique problem sent me on the difficult course of finding a submissive in as many of my ports of call as possible. In retrospect, as i type this now, i can see how arrogant and mostly unpragmatic this pursuit was.
In all, i had a girl i could call on in Chicago, Tampa, Philly, San Antone, Toronto, New York and Nawlins. When i knew far enough in advance that i would be visiting, i'd call up my host and arrange some time with her. Usual protocol would be for her to begin wearing a buttplug that i had given her early on in our exchange, at least a day before i arrived. I wanted to make my unique impression on her. There is something about meeting with a girl who's been plugging her ass for you for a period of hours that just builds this insane level of anticipation. She knew i had put so much thought and energy into her stationed this way, and i knew she felt the constant pressure. Most visits were rather calm, and would not have filled the shelves of the erotica section of your local bookstore, especially since i usually just wanted her to serve as company. When you are in a city all by yourself, peace comes in a familiar face. Very often, i would have her sitting near me as i drank a cocktail to unwind, her beauty and grace serving as a shield against the day's stress.
My favorite girl was my Toronto hostess. We connected on so many levels, but she also served as the most mysterious. She would ask me to pick her up in the most random of spots. A busstop out on Dundas. In front of a vegetable vendor in St. Lawrence. I didn't ask. Well, until it got in the way of being served. After she stood me up once, i insisted on knowing why. What she told me i still haven't fully grasped.
I know i risk exposing myself to a kind of unwelcome attention by merely having the title i've chosen for this post. Should i speak of this subject as if it were false and it proves not to be, i've put myself in an unfortunate position.
She told me that she was a member of a society known as "The Circle". This was a collection of incredibly wealthy men who have their various representatives approach incredibly gorgeous young women proposing them the opportunity to live very comfortably in exchange for their liberty. These young, consenting women are then taken to a remote location, drilled in the rudiments of sexual service, and then traded amongst the spokes of "The Circle".
I know, preposterous. But, why did i want to believe it? I remember asking her only one question about it. Why was i able to enjoy her company if she was essentially a slave to this group? She said it was part of her ongoing training. That satisfied me. I didn't want to know more because i didn't believe her, and her company was a luxurious oasis in a desert of hostile faces that i was unwilling to do without. I also felt myself wanting to believe her. I wanted to believe that an organization such as this existed. It was incredibly arousing to think about. The powerful feasting on hand-selected and made toys.
Years later, after i'd relinquished my claim on these girls, i found myself coming back to the idea of "The Circle". I'd grown tired of my local SM scene. It was overrun by social rejects and folks who believed that kinky=freaky. I realized that the biggest problem behind these clubs and parties i would occasionally frequent was that there was no screening process. Anyone who wanted to explore could come and clog up the floorspace. I understood that not everyone raced along inside their deviant behavior at the speed i did, but i grew tired of having to share the same racing track with the beginners and finding few attractive submissives in the largely male-dominated chapters. I longed for some covert fellowship, where an intense, highly scrutinizing review took place for potential newcomers. I sent out feelers to various contacts within the lifestyle, asking them to *wink-wink* level with me. I got no nibbles. And then it hit me, "they" would not want you to look for them. They'll find you when they want to.
I've always said patience is one of my best characteristics.
Firstly, due to my inexperience, i felt the need to alter, stretch or even fabricate what knowledge i had in order to get me in the door.
Secondly, i had the luck of encountering potential employers who couldn't tell i did this or didn't care.
Either way, my early jobs, as a result of my embellishments, were often more fantastic than i probably deserved. I travelled all over, spending long spans of time going from one locale to the next. I remember one notable 20 day period had me dashing through no less than 15 different cities. It was exhausting, but for a young man my age, equally exhilirating. Over time, i learned how to find the basic comforts and needs in any town that i'd grown accustomed to having back at home. Except one thing: companionship.
Unfortunately, the kind of female company i sought wasn't outfitted by calling a local escort service. For several reasons, you just can't hire a submissive girl. This unique problem sent me on the difficult course of finding a submissive in as many of my ports of call as possible. In retrospect, as i type this now, i can see how arrogant and mostly unpragmatic this pursuit was.
In all, i had a girl i could call on in Chicago, Tampa, Philly, San Antone, Toronto, New York and Nawlins. When i knew far enough in advance that i would be visiting, i'd call up my host and arrange some time with her. Usual protocol would be for her to begin wearing a buttplug that i had given her early on in our exchange, at least a day before i arrived. I wanted to make my unique impression on her. There is something about meeting with a girl who's been plugging her ass for you for a period of hours that just builds this insane level of anticipation. She knew i had put so much thought and energy into her stationed this way, and i knew she felt the constant pressure. Most visits were rather calm, and would not have filled the shelves of the erotica section of your local bookstore, especially since i usually just wanted her to serve as company. When you are in a city all by yourself, peace comes in a familiar face. Very often, i would have her sitting near me as i drank a cocktail to unwind, her beauty and grace serving as a shield against the day's stress.
My favorite girl was my Toronto hostess. We connected on so many levels, but she also served as the most mysterious. She would ask me to pick her up in the most random of spots. A busstop out on Dundas. In front of a vegetable vendor in St. Lawrence. I didn't ask. Well, until it got in the way of being served. After she stood me up once, i insisted on knowing why. What she told me i still haven't fully grasped.
I know i risk exposing myself to a kind of unwelcome attention by merely having the title i've chosen for this post. Should i speak of this subject as if it were false and it proves not to be, i've put myself in an unfortunate position.
She told me that she was a member of a society known as "The Circle". This was a collection of incredibly wealthy men who have their various representatives approach incredibly gorgeous young women proposing them the opportunity to live very comfortably in exchange for their liberty. These young, consenting women are then taken to a remote location, drilled in the rudiments of sexual service, and then traded amongst the spokes of "The Circle".
I know, preposterous. But, why did i want to believe it? I remember asking her only one question about it. Why was i able to enjoy her company if she was essentially a slave to this group? She said it was part of her ongoing training. That satisfied me. I didn't want to know more because i didn't believe her, and her company was a luxurious oasis in a desert of hostile faces that i was unwilling to do without. I also felt myself wanting to believe her. I wanted to believe that an organization such as this existed. It was incredibly arousing to think about. The powerful feasting on hand-selected and made toys.
Years later, after i'd relinquished my claim on these girls, i found myself coming back to the idea of "The Circle". I'd grown tired of my local SM scene. It was overrun by social rejects and folks who believed that kinky=freaky. I realized that the biggest problem behind these clubs and parties i would occasionally frequent was that there was no screening process. Anyone who wanted to explore could come and clog up the floorspace. I understood that not everyone raced along inside their deviant behavior at the speed i did, but i grew tired of having to share the same racing track with the beginners and finding few attractive submissives in the largely male-dominated chapters. I longed for some covert fellowship, where an intense, highly scrutinizing review took place for potential newcomers. I sent out feelers to various contacts within the lifestyle, asking them to *wink-wink* level with me. I got no nibbles. And then it hit me, "they" would not want you to look for them. They'll find you when they want to.
I've always said patience is one of my best characteristics.
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