Christmas came early...or late

Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Quite frankly like a kid on Christmas Eve night. I finally heard from him.

After months of no replies to my weekly e-mails inquiring about an update, finally, my girl's corsetier got back with me. The custom patent leather neck corset and hood was finally completed. To tantalize me, he sent me a photo of it, laced onto a mannequin to shoe its full viciousness. If i could, upon viewing this picture, i would've taken a cab up to his place immediately, but, as it was, i had a wedding to attend and was heading out of town. I'd have to wait another week longer (some may say "what's another week after all this time?" and i would reply simply "uhm, another week, that's what it is.").

For those of you who recall, this contraption was supposed to be a naughty christmas gift from me to my girl last year. Twelve visits, thirty one e-mails, and countless fittings later, he'd completed the piece. We arranged to visit the following weekend. I didn't care if a monsoon hit the city, i'd trudge my way to his studio. I was going to have my toy.

When we arrived, we quickly dispatched of the most rudimentary social niceties (largely because the corsetier is an awfully socially awkward fella), not to mention i was a little peeved that he hadn't responded for so long. I scanned his long workbench on the other side of his studio, in hopes of eyeing my treasure. No such luck. The scoundrel had hidden it away from me.

"Okay, let me see it."

He gave my girl big eyes that spoke his incredulity at my tactless cut-to-the-chase manner. Without much hesitation, he opened a closet, and wheeled out the headless dress form where laced around the stem that served as its neck lay the beautiful neck corset. If i didn't gasp, i could've very easily. He produced the hood, handing it to me. I immediately responded to the tactile quality of the slick surface of the black patent leather. This was real. This item i'd envisioned, designed in my head and commissioned was finally in my hands. The garment was thick, stiff, and had considerable rigidness to it, despite its undeniable feminine qualities.

With haste, i positioned myself behind my girl, pulling her hair into a ponytail. I then slid the hood over her head. Even without doing any of the laces, the fit was exquisite. It literally was like pulling a second skin over her face, as it clung tightly to her slender cheeks and dainty chin. The lacing was simple, much easier than a corset, but i had to remind myself not to close the gap as tight as possible. We were just here for a fitting. There would be other times where i can test its tensility.

Next came the corset. I had to solicit my girl's help with this, as positioning this device was critical to a good, constrictive fit. I asked her, once i placed the chin piece over her mouth, to hold it still with her hands. It took several tries at tweaking the way it lay over her sternum before i felt comfortable with lacing it shut. Immediately, i noticed that the patent leather of the hood would cause some difficulties with exact placement because it would stick to the patent leather of the neck corset. Even once it was fully laced, the corsetier showed me that i could pull the collar even further up her neck to achieve a higher degree of immobility. I let my girl take a peek at herself in the mirror fully sussed up, and then latched the matching black leather eye mask over her ocular cavities - locking her in darkness, robed by soft, supple layers of pink, lambskin leather.

The corsetier and i spent some time examining the fit, seeing if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. I tested my girl's ability to breathe with and without the three leather buckles hitched closed on the back. Because of the restriction, she was not able to speak, only squeeze my hand to indicate any difficulties she encountered in her respiration. I was completely satisfied. More than that, i was elated. I couldn't wait to go home and play with my toy.






Here is a view of the front of the neck corset that completely covers her mouth, ending right at the bottom of her nose. Notice the pink patent leather trim that runs along the bottom and beautiful satin brocade lining. And don't forget the attached D-ring mid-neck (there is a corresponding one not viewed in the photo)





















This is a view of the back of the neck corset and the aforementioned buckles. Are they necessary? 100%.























Here is a profile view of the hood itself. The small pink slit just beneath the buckled eye mask is the only hole for her mouth.
























This is a fantastic view of the interior lining of the hood. A sea of soft pink completely surrounding her.
























Backside of leather eye mask that renders my girl completely blind.

I waited a few days before i pulled the whole thing out to suit up my girl. However, i could not keep myself from pawing it constantly throughout the day. It had such allure and charisma. It drew me to it whenever i happened to be in my bureau. I spent easily an hour just trying to figure out how best to store/display it while it wasn't being used. I couldn't quite place what about it made it so mesmerizing. It was just a garment, albeit a completely unique garment meant only for my girl. It entered my mind frequently leading up to the night i unwielded it.

Forgive the poor quality of the following photos. To say the least, i was incredibly excited, which made holding my hand steady at the camera quite difficult. I've manipulated the image to obscure the background.







I gleaned almost instantly what captivated me about the device before as i handled it. It was instantly transformative. It contained supreme power to alter the way i viewed my girl, and the way my girl viewed herself in it. Once on, once the last strap buckled, my girl vanished. The hood and corset made her my toy. I'd had only a glimpse of the cravings this object would well up inside of me before. Once on, my tempestuous urges exploded. Toy had no voice. Had no language. The blind object was wholly dependent upon me. For its safety and its purpose.

you

you
to grab you
i want to grab you
telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
my stomach leaps as blood gushes through my veins telling me how badly i want to grab you
blood, how badly, my stomach, telling me, grab you, how badly, gushes through, i want, how badly

Treading

She placed the wine glass into the sink, directly beneath the spigot of the fountain, summoning the liquid serpent hiding in the pipes:

Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.

From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.

The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.

Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.

He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.

"I won't need that for awhile."

She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.

a jagged soft puzzle

the sound of her breath
clutching for rescue
moved me to force more
unto her as
her moans captured
her red skin voice for me
lips licking gasps
lingered torture of her
bosom's tight explosion
filling her body with
liquid swell
fingers fingering incomplete
no stop yes yes more
lips licking gasps
undulating bodies fit
hot pieces together in
a jagged soft puzzle

Yield to oncoming traffic

When hammering a nail into the wall, machismo dictates that you hit the nail as hard as possible. Likewise, when wading through a crowded sidewalk, a real man shoves his way past those impeding his path. I have witnessed in many places, whether online through profiles on kinky social networking sites, or in person at SM play parties, this same philosophy throughout some people's approach to domination. I've been surprised by how often i've encountered this modus operandi. Perhaps these tops see the need to constantly roar and bark because they don't understand the craft of subtlety - i'm not really sure.

Dominance isn't always about forcibly wielding power. Sometimes, in very quiet, sublime ways, it can be about yielding power. This can be viewed in customary, everyday transactions. When entering a building, and someone is right behind, i hold the door for them, and, instead, let them pass before me. Immediately, even if they don't say anything to me, after they get over the initial shock of the exchange, they will feel a sense of obligation. In that moment, i am exhibiting dominance but without having to be aggressive about it.

In many ways, this suits my style. As i've mentioned before, i don't fit the standard sterotype for dominants (it may shock some of you that i don't own a single pair of leather pants). Rather, i comport myself with style and elegance, dressing myself with an attention to fine tailoring and natty apparel. When i am walking on the aforementioned congested footpath, i usually strut with swift purpose which, coupled with my appearance, usually gets people to steer away from my direct trajectory. In those offchances that our courses will cross, instead of blowing by them or engaging in that awkward tango of stuttered steps, i will stop in my tracks, guiding them by me with a friendly, leading wave of my arm. In this way, i am taking the upper (forgive the pun) hand.

I have set boundaries and rules with my girl wherein she understands that certain tolerances will be expected of her. I have many implements that incur pain in diverse ways to demonstrate the full extent of these tolerances. However, i do not always push her to her limits. She may have just received thirty one of thirty two assigned swats that make her writhe and shake, standing there in thick anticipation of the final, massive blow. But instead of walloping her behind, i'll pull my hand back with great wind, return it with an equal amount of gust, and ever so lightly tap her little tail.

Force needn't exist to establish dominance, but control is a requisite.

Find the clouds

I breathe.

In great glorious lungfuls, i drink in the air as if it were water, and i had a thirst deep in my chest.

Each breath draws from me a peaceful sigh, a connection to the portion of my mind too often misplaced throughout the regular activity of a day. One breath brings me back there. Another one, and i am centered. Once i am calm, it seems i cannot inhale enough, i am feeding oxygen to muscles and cells that are neglected by my regimental respiration. These parts of me come alive, they ask for more, they make the colors around me stand out, more brilliant. They imbibe the sounds that circle me with a three-part harmony. They lift the corners of my mouth ever so slightly into a smile. They make the blue in my eyes sparkle.

Just by breathing. This air i engulf helps me find my oneness with everything around me. It removes any notion of individuality that i may have allowed myself to falsely accept. It reminds me that i am not just breathing air. I am also breathing the sunshine that creates differing pressures that move the air. I am breathing the clouds that float on the air, and carry moisture from one land to the next.

When i breathe, i remind myself i must find the clouds. When i do, i feel calmness.

Every time she is bent over, naked, grasping the edge of the bed as told, i must remind her to breathe. I am breathing for her. I am breathing with her.

Cut to the chaste

- You place the sealed envelope on the open lid of the blue postal box. You give it one last look, sigh, then let it slide into the belly of the container, certain it will take at least 3 days before i receive the keys in my mail.

- You pull the belt up your legs, situating it at your hips. The coldness of the steel pussy plate and chain that runs along the crevice of your ass causes you to suck in your breath. You adjust the latch in front, making sure the waistband is pulled snug, but not too tight for longterm wear. From the box, you pick up the 2" brass padlocks, sliding one in the latch on the front, and one in the rear. Clasping onto each lock with your hands, you click them closed. You go back to your bed, take out the manila envelope i provided and write my address on the front. You gather the keys, and drop them in, sealing it closed with clear packing tape.

- You carefully, meticulously lubricate your front passage. Sliding several lube-covered fingers in your radiating cunt, you ensure that this canal is adequately prepared. Checking one last time, you examine the small metallic dildo found, carefully wrapped, in the bottom of the package, ensuring the extended-release batteries are situated correctly. You turn the device on, feeling it buzz with animation in your hands. It goes silent, which for a moment causes you to panic, but then you remember its programmed sequence. It won't awake again for another 15 minutes, turning on for 3 minutes, and then hibernating, repeating this cycle until the power in the batteries expires. You slowly, deliberately slowly, slide it past your slick cunt lips, pushing it entirely inside your wet gash. You next grab the leather and metal chastity belt, admiring the weight of the device, anticipating the heavy presence it will render upon your body.

- You walk into the vestibule of your apartment, spying the medium-sized box placed at the foot of your door. You lean down to view the sender's information and immediately gasp when you recognize who it is from. Picking up the box produces a clattering of metal from inside. You fiddle with your keys, opening your door, and immediately walk to your bedroom, leaving the unopened box on your bed. You go to your nightstand and pull out a tube of lubricant and lay it next to the parcel. You try to fill the time that you can feel is rapidly shrinking between now and when you open the package. You take off your heels, remove your skirt, slide off your stockings. You thumb through the stack of regular mail. Bills. Bills. Solicitations. Bills. Distractions. Your mind does not think of these daily interruptions. Rather, it hones in on the ever growing in-your-mind collection of shipped materials waiting for you in your boudoir. Resigned, you take the letter opener from the drawer and take what seems to be a longer than usual walk to the back of your apartment. You quickly dismantle the taped seams, and carefully open the cardboard contraption. My handwritten letter greets your eyes:

"My dear,
We both knew this day would come. You'd expressed a desire for more. More control, more domination. Yet, you exhibited very little ability to accept what amount i could provide due to our distance. Despite the lack of commitment needed to maintain a healthy, strong and meaningful power exchange, i believe the items in this box will act as a catalyst to a much greater fellowship.

You have many choices. You have exhibited a willingness to keep that quantity as large as possible. I've reduced it down to two. Either, submit or not.

The material found within will facilitate your passage into the liberating servitude you've soberly spoken to me about. Choose quickly and resolutely.

I'll await the envelope with the keys inside, signaling your selection."

Milk made

It's quite clear that i'm very enamored with the female creation. I should think it is just as clear that those things that emanate from the female are also very alluring to me (i.e. moans, urine, etc.) Lately, i've been quite quite obsessed with female lactation. I can feel a great deal of energy pooling in the phenomenon's direction.

I don't drink milk myself, so i'm not drawn to consuming the mammary output. In fact, the idea of putting my lips over a girl's heaving, milk-addled tits and drawing liquid from them doesn't offer me all that much stimulation. I have three very distinct, ever-increasingly degrading levels of interest surrounding a female's milk. I will refer to them, in ever more intense gradients, as the Skim, 2% and Whole milk tiers.

Skim milk

What i yearn to see, what is evident throughout the cloud of tangerine terms to the right, comes in the form of erotic auto-operation. I want to see the swollen-boobed maiden wrapping her hands around her tit and squeezing it, milking it, until a fine stream of alabaster liquid shoots from her erect nipple. As she gets into a rhythm, her palms mashing down on the meat of her breast, i find myself mentally directing her to aim the nozzle up into her mouth, struggling to catch every drop, in the hopes of not wasting a single savory morsel. To me, this is a purely feminine form of ejaculation. Yes, there are girls who "come" or squirt, but that is similar in geography and method to the boy version. However, the propulsion of lactose from an already highly-regarded, and female-specific area serves as an exclamation point to a feverishly aroused state.



In this stunning Shirow Masamune illustration, we see our highly sexualized cow girl literally orgasmic from the outpouring of calcified fluid. Those "guns" are at attention, and shooting endless rounds at will.

2% milk

What the previous tier presupposes is that the girl at the center of the pornography currently produces her own milk product. What if you have a girl who has not recently been or is not currently pregnant, and yet you feel the urge to recreate this sprinkler display? All one needs is a natural amount of sadism and a healthy dose of either domperidone or fenugreek. Coupled with a regular schedule of mechanical breast-pump application, and you can induce lactation in any mature female.

Immediately, even i have to take a pause at this idea. This is some very intense body modification, altering a female's frame to serve a completely different, albeit natural, profane purpose. The idea of a girl submitting to this is at the peak of erotic ideas for me. The reasons for why this is so incredibly impressive to me may not be immediately clear. That is most likely because i know what this leads to. As an intense sadist, i've already played out in my head the applications of this discovery, and in some offset ways experienced them. But because i have an unquenchable hunger, i push the possibilities further, to the next tier.

Whole milk

Which comes first:

the need to pump your tits to drain them of your milk or the need to pump your tits to encourage the production of milk?

There is no doubt in my mind that the Creator has a sadistic sensibility, i otherwise cannot explain the devilish convenience that comes with induced lactation. The process one must follow to trick the female body into creating milk (hormones/herbal supplements + regular mechanical pumping) is the very method one must employ once the first gush of creamy ejection occurs to maintain this state. A girl whose tits have been turned into milk factories must regularly pump in order to drain her milk bags - otherwise they fill with liquid and become swollen and quite painful. She has no choice but to give into the signals her body gives, sucking the milk out of her bosom, which only in turn sends a message to the dairy factories that more formula is needed. It's a vicious and gloriously evil cycle. What it amounts to is the transformation of a girl into a human cow. I have given many thoughts and even commands regarding what should be done with this cow juice, and yet the darkness of this fantasy never ceases to shock or excite.

When i first saw a clip of a bound girl attached to an industrial-grade milking machine, the horror and fascination tilted my cognition immediately towards the highly aroused level. I have since, after collecting well over 40 different such scenes, made it an immediate "drop what i'm doing" ultimatum whenever i've encountered another depiction of a poor submissive hooked up to a mindless vacuum machine sucking with a vengeance onto her dangling udders, slowly turning her into a helpless and writhing bovine.

The Exchange

Very frequently, i find myself trying to relate my idea of a power exchange with those more customary relationship dynamics i encounter. It will happen while i'm at a dinner party with friends, and everyone around the table is coupled off in some measure of commitment. Or on the train, commuting into work, i'll observe the young couple sharing a pole, whispering to eachother. I think about what led to these affiliations, how it might differ from my own. All relationships begin with a single transaction. But is that where they cease to ressemble eachother? The terms of that transaction in SM is very crucial, if not the single denominator of what transpires following it.

The two opposite sides of the power exchange meet. A transaction occurs. The dominant makes a proposition. It is here that the next moment defines the structure of the dynamic. Does the submissive offer her consent by accepting his offer? If she does, this places her in control, not the dominant. Every subsequent decision he makes is within the realm of her intellectual consent. He may act like the overlord of this dominion but she is the Creator. Whereas, should the response to the initial transaction be one of silence, not rejection, but absence of an acknowledgment, the dominant may act on the terms he dictates and enforces.

What draws me to the type of a relationship that i am in, is that my submissive, masochistic partner, is as starved for power as i am. We are equals in that sense. Otherwise we wouldn't be compatible, and would not be able to fulfill each other as we currently do. She gets off on giving, and i get off on taking. Granting permission strips the equality in our pursuit. The grantor becomes the leader, the controller. One becomes stronger than the other without any attempt on the more dominant party at taking that control. This nullifies the need to create equality in our roles. It wouldn't be the same i'm afraid, it wouldn't fulfill either one of us if it were the other way around.

I've never outright asked if the submissive would consent to me doing the things i'm about to do. It's known. It's felt. The exchange occurs when a flow moves across the connection our bodies/eyes/souls make. This is The Gain i've frequently discussed. This is the currency that i use to purchase the pleasure i derive from her flesh.

Sight

You sit immobilized, surrounded by absolute shadow. This is the kind of pitch darkness that weighs heavy, where even black is absent. Your arms are bound behind your back, but you don't know exactly how because you can't see a thing. You can't move your arms, but more importantly, you don't want to - out of fear. You see nothing. Light ceases to exist for the time being, which makes the "time being" feel eternally long. You sense, almost hear, something, someone near you. A few feet away.

"Hello?" you call out.

The space occupied by the sound of your words vanishes, sucked into the darkness. As quickly as you muttered that question, a rush comes, collapsing on you, hands pulling on your face, shoving, pushing. They abandon you, having shoved a thick gag into your mouth. You fight the urge to call out, to groan through the solid obstruction forcing your jaw open. Slobber, evidence of your increased duress builds around the orb between your lips, drawing an unseen trail that hangs from your chin. You jerk in reaction to a droplet of saliva splashing against the flesh of your thigh. Having not thought about it before this, you realize you are completely naked. Your sputtery breath rattles into the air. You try to hold as still as you can, but not being able to focus on anything with your eyes makes that incredibly hard.

You hear the presence of the voice just instants before it speaks.

"I control what you see. I control how you see. I give and take away any sight you may have. You exist through my will and desire."

The voice steps closer to you, and suddenly, you feel the frigid cold lifelessness of a thin metal edge pressed against the underside of your chin. Involuntarily, you gulp a swollen swallow.

"Shhhhh..." The voice strikes something against the object held to your neck, exploding the head of a match. The sudden burst of light burns your eyes. You squint them closed, shielding them from the piercing brightness. You open them back up slowly, and as you do, the voice pulls the implement away from your throat, showing you a long knife, illuminated by the flickering flame. Just as you size up the blade, the voice extinguishes the match. You hear the sound of steps backward.

The darkness feels more stark, contrasted against the brilliant fiery light. The vacuum feels like it's right on top of you, pressing against you, pushing into every bend and crease of your body.

You can tell the voice has left, despite not hearing any exit. You await quiet and still, nonetheless. You don't need the voice there to know you are not alone. You don't need to see to know you are aroused.

*this continues on here

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.

In the eye of the beholder

"As soon as you make contact with your life’s passion — which can mean finding your vocation, your life partner or even your sexual identity — you are going to experience a kind of spiritual suffering until you act on that passion. That suffering is actually a form of divine motivation, urging you to pursue a more authentic life."—Caroline Myss

We speak of many physical purchases on these pages. If i'm not abstractly obsessing over the curves that spill over the female hip, i'm regaling those who read here on how something looks to the eye, feels to the touch, and even occasionally smells to the nostril. I will not take away any of the importance these sensual satisfactions provide my life, but i have always inwardly understood that i pursue my sadistic agenda to accomplish some level of metaphysical harmony.

I received the quote at the top from a very dear friend of mine, who thought i would relate to the words "spiritual", "suffering", and "divine". She couldn't have been more wrong. I don't relate to those words. I am those words - they inform every breath i ever make. The general impression floating around these here walls may be that i'm a little obsessed with kinkiness and sex - that needn't be corrected. The only thing that comes close if not outright exceeds it is my fixation on spirituality.

Music moves me. Stirs me. Gets behind every single red blood cell and pushes them through my veins with great velocity. In fact, after "The Great Minimization" of my material goods in 2004, the only music i owned, the only literature i put on my shelves, and the only movies i ever watch are those that deliver me to some euphoric level of consciousness. I meditate frequently, several times throughout the day. I'm not doing it so that i have clarity which then allows me to leap on the next big financial deal or to come up with the crucial missing piece for time travel. When i take a shower, i anxiously await the moment at the end where i train the stream of hot, cascading water down on the base of my neck. Somehow the heat penetrating this part of my body signals my internal anchorage to let go of every muscle, ligament and tissue - instantaneous out-of-body experience.

I feel the same raw expulsion of energy burst through me whenever i give in to the heady demands of a strenuous and intense bondage scene. At those moments when my chest buzzes with so much electricity as i gaze down at the prone feminine figure rendered so vulnerably by my hands and power, what i'm engaging in rises and ascends above the pure base act of intercourse. Communion, of two souls, who must use unconventional methods to slip out of the mortal cloaks hanging from their spines in order to momentarily exist outside the narrow, unnatural confines of their physical frames. Communion.

I seek the Divine in every gesture, mistake and moment of passion. In fact, one of my most frequently (and perhaps too frequently) stated idioms is "There is not enough beauty in this world. We must use every store of energy in our body to do what we can to rectify that."

For beauty reminds us of the Divine. Beauty brings the Divine closer to us. Beauty supersedes all other woes.

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.

On looking

The willowy limbs that bend in an array of gently formed angles as she makes her way down the avenue, clapping wooden taps into the pavement with gondolizing arches in her heels, makes me want to be right next to her, pressed, so that i can feel her vulnerability deliver her in separate pieces.

The curves of her body that hollow out the air as she juts through it, winding around her from unseen vertices, pilloring her neck, sliding in underneath her chanteuse arms, and compressing the silhouette of her torso into a silky, all-encompassing wave, continues down her telescopic thighs, lingering just beneath the balcony of her buttocks that offer a gracious tease of future sights and sorrows, all to end in portions that begin to dwindle from the firm extension of a flammable stem.

Her hands look like delicate music, singing a song with thin, smooth reeds. They enchant every surface they touch, leading the target into a tango that starts at her wrist, travels up through the tendons of her slender hand, bending into the samba of her fingertips. Her very, musical fingers.

Her face...ahhhhhh, her face. Buried in the deep, deep surface of the earth beneath our very feet lies great forces that twists and warp solid stone. They do not get it nearly as right as the forces that carved out her cameo. The canvass of her face begins at the crest of either, predominant cheek, which gives my eye the momentum to slide downward to her protruding feverish curl of flamboyant flesh that forms her very top lip. I linger here until i walk myself upwards to the pinnacle pleasure of her eyes of hidden treasure. A delicious brightness surrounds the caverns of her ocular home, holding the gleaming occupants in a state of utter shock, awe and amazement at their own singular beauty. The copper centers occupy their visual place perfectly, causing no alarm, but as an epiphany with every glance upon them. Lining each lid, a spray of black rays springs into the air, scooping my breath out of my lungs to feed the illumination that seems to take up residence on her unforgettable face.

Pacificity

Where does this passion come from?

Who can i thank for my unending lust?

Who can i curse for my obsession?

Who lights this spark in me, igniting a fire that searches out fuel that can only come from the struggle of a female?

What am i seeking?

Am i running with mighty haste from, or to something?

I've often spoke of darkness, and i hear others refer to darkness inside them when they approach or marvel in their kink, but what really grows out of me as i touch the different manifolds of my sexuality is light. She is the filament, i am the current flowing through her, from which we illuminate dark, uncovered corners. She is the stone, i am the flint that strikes against her surface, shooting sparkling embers into the air, igniting the match head to produce a seedling flame.

However, I do not believe this is just sexuality or even the pure act of procreation. I struggle to define what exactly operates inside my own psyche, but i know i seek more than just a receptacle for my seed. I always have. As a young boy who lurched clumsily along my pocked field of puberty, the fantasies that brought me to my quick climaxes never consisted of me "getting with the girl". They always (and still do) consisted of me "possessing" her. In fact, when we consider biology, any chalice would serve science's purposes. I could find a random female, and as long as i have ejaculated enough semen into her that finds purchase in her womb, my genitals have suceeded galantly.

No, this is much more than simply extroverted petri dishes. How strange it must sound to the outside observer, to my friends who have no idea why i keep a lock and key on a particular door in my residence, that i find peace in such barbarism. I live in a place where "liberal" is a redundancy when assigned to someone's political views, and so i exist in a world where the protocol i enforce in my house would be labeled (has been labeled unknowingly) as sexist, Third World, fundamentalist and archaic. I can imagine the full volume debates with these people who have eaten off of my china, dined in my parlor, commemorated great events and notable celebrations for me, when they hear my supposition that i torment, bind, batter and chastise my girl in order to find peace.

Pacificity. How absurd and contradictory. One cannot live by the hard line order of their lover's regular corporal punishment and also assert that they derive peace from this, can they? One cannot enforce a stringent dress code that abides by social and cultural gender stereotypes, and claim that doing so delivers them to a near Nirvana state, can they? One cannot feel a drive to strip their loved one of their human identity, relegating them to the status of an immobile object, all the while experiencing a picturesque sampling of inner sanctum - or can they? I will not lay metaphysical claim that what i seek, constantly allowing a divining rod to guide me to a source, is the same transcendental mastery those ascetics burrowed deep into monasteries pursue. But i know the purpose for my incendiary is more than just sexual apex.

To go back to my very first post, i wonder what part of the Big Bang's matter seared itself to my cellular structure. To who am i dependent upon for my life and the manner in which i carry it out? I ask rhetorically for an explanation of my inner chemistry, half dangling my toe into the bathtub of knowledge to test its scalding temperature, while also looking to skip the cleanse altogether, concluding it is better not to know.

Ecstasy

I'm not one to take dictation, but from such a nice girl, i think i can oblige.

Oatmeal girl in a comment on this post quoted something i wrote and then asked a follow-up:

" Without realizing it, i've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction."

the Dom's equivalent of subspace? i'm always wanting to know... again and again i ask: what did it feel like? what does it do for you?

Is there an equivalent for the dominant to subspace? Well, to be honest, i hadn't considered it before. I think this comes partially from the fact that i'd never fully confirmed the existence of subspace or headspace as it is sometimes called. I've always bristled at convention, commonly-held definitions, large generalised solutions. Like Murray Burns of A Thousand Clowns, i've railed against conformity. For this reason, i do not refer to myself as my girl's Master or Sir, nor do i refer to her as my slave or submissive. I use the term "dominant" to refer to my half of the power exchange we engage in, but not because that is my title. Following this "Rage Against the Machine", it makes sense that i hadn't verified with sound evidence the exact parameters of subspace nor claimed my own version of the submissive's hideaway.

Effusively threaded throughout my interactions with submissive girls is an achievement i've managed to experience several times. I've described it earlier here as a field of electricity that forms in a small pocket in the chest and grows, soon overtaking the body. I've never gone as far as clinically verifying the anatomy of this charge for the girl, i've simply intuited that is it for me how it is for her how it is for me. I've even witnessed altered states wherein the girl's previously chatty, demure, lady-like corporeal frame has vanished into an ether that fogs her mind with a delicate plushness. I've encountered the production of massive amounts of viscous lubrication that bubbles forth from an artesianal source inside, making this flow feel inhuman if not ungodly. I've heard whispered leathery tongues of Cyrillic chatter channeled by a girl who'd never taken a day of foreign language in her life. I still cannot say, based on the evidence of these ends to my sadistic means, that i have witnessed subspace.

Rapture causes one to react, respond, pronounce out loud a great overcoming. Rapture stimulates one to action. Ecstasy silences. It paralyzes the body with an overflow of joy, freezing the person in the moment of complete exaltation. I have experienced both, during meditation by myself and during the exploration of SM play with a submissive girl. More often than not, when i feel that current blossoming beneath my ribs as i'm marauding across the flesh of my female target, ecstasy enraptures me.

I don't believe i can speak with enough authority about other people's experiences out there to say what it is that happens to me happens to them, but for me there is a click. A very dangerous, audible and physical click where the head no longer controls the body. The circuit breaker in my mind that provides my social congenialities with enough sustaining energy gets tripped. There my "victim" sits, in the dark, uncertain of how large the beast is that looms near her, nor how hungry he is.

My voice changes. It grows deeper, quieter. My breathing also dives deeper, instead of deriving from my lungs, i seem to pull it from way deep in my diaphragm. My temples tingle and pulse. My touch feels electric. Every surface that i press with my fingertips erupts with a field of static separating it from my skin. I feel a heaviness building right at the base of my sternum, that pushes on and then into my stomach, to which my entire digestive system awakens. My cock grows emphatically hard, almost painfully so. A rush of blood engorges my entire groin, making every vein and muscle in this area swell.

But what is not obviously apparent is the harmonic of overwhelming peace that hovers above, acting as a guide through a dark unknown forest. Despite the fact that it takes rather aggressive actions on my part - whipping a leather belt across her buttocks, binding her with tight knots into a hog tie, destroying her identity by layering her under layer after layer of latex - a tranquility does emerge from her consternation. This may come from the rare connection made between two souls who have momentarily rubbed together, or it could just be a tremendous high experienced by two incredibly horny lovers. I'll not try to define (and hence negate) what it is that's happening here because i feel that there is still so much to experience which could prove my rush to definition wrong.

But, i know i'd like to think that what i experience as the dominant is not so drastically different from what she the submissive experiences. She acts as the vessel and i perform the role of the flow - the shape of the sum gets created by our individual nuances. It would make sense that we are equal halves of the same whole, our hemispheres merely a reflection of one another.

Windmills

If the weather permits, i usually like to spend my lunch hour outside, sitting on a bench that positions me in a well-trafficked corridor of this bustling part of the city. I constantly scan the currents of pedestrians for the female components dressed in their flashiest, hippest urban professional wear. For some reason that i deem remarkably masochistic, these girls who do more walking than their suburban counterparts universally insist on wearing high heels. I don't complain. I've always enjoyed watching how a female's anatomy responds to the hitch an elevated heel manifests in their step. But these are mere distractions from the real psychology operating in my head.

I see a girl sitting across from me on a bench, and i feel an immediate compulsion to dominate. I want to grab her stare with my eyes, draw out a long sigh from her mouth as she feels herself slowly slip into trance. She may, in the middle of this illusion, decide to get up. It doesn't matter. The next one will come along soon. Sometimes i feel almost clinical, like i'm observing them through glass. Happy to do so, i'm taking detailed notes of their behavior, noting how similar they act as a gender, learning from their body language, recognizing patterns. I find that i can get quite lost in these examinations.

But why females? I'm very very curious as to why the dominance of the female body is so enthralling. It's not simply because they have a cunt. Or tits. I'm not even thinking of that when i glance at them and quickly commute them to a sentence of intense bondage. Rather i'm admiring their small wrists, their lithe necks, the way they can press their chins into their shoulders to indicate interest. I'm imagining the sum of all of these parts bound and pleading. And it happens a hundred times a day.

The girl behind the Starbucks counter who hands me my coffee. I smile at her. I seek to make her blush. I'll read her name off her nametag, tell her how beautiful i find it, then just grin at her. I know, as i'm doing this, i want to hold a momentary place in her day like a shudder, a tingle, a chill.

The girl i pass on the sidewalk, turning the corner instead of keeping straight like me. She'll flip around briefly to see if i've stopped shadowing her, but not out of fear. She sensed that i was observing her from behind, non-threateningly, and yet, still somewhat predatorily. She briefly considers playing the game.

I'll walk the platform of the subway. Travelling to a point where i know i need to stand, and i'll pass a girl waiting for the opposite train, going in the opposite direction. She'll turn her face towards me, see me smiling, and she'll bashfully offer me a smile back. A genuine smile. A smile that says "Alright, so you caught me this moment. So, i'll smile back, but only because i'm going in the opposite direction."

Or the girl who comes onto the train, once i've caught mine, at the next stop. She looks around before she sits. My antennae lift into the air. I sense a female presence. I peer at her, waiting for her eyes to fall upon me as she scans her immediate vicinity. I hold her gaze, until she sits down and recoils into herself. We will do this several times. I will keep my head turned at her, waiting for her to look my way, only to sustain the stare. Not letting it fizzle. Making her stand behind her glance and not back away from it. The intensity of the energy that builds here between two strangers is incredible. But it goes nowhere.

I do not want to dominate the entire female gender. Nor is my mind conjuring up these images because i want a conquest between the sheets. Yet, my body's reaction to these girls seems to betray that notion. My dominant side asserts itself as if it were the one in control, not i, the consulate. It is hard to describe, but the dominant facet of my personality doesn't want sex as prominently as it wants control. Control of the beautiful female entity. Control over me. It happens, constantly. A hundred times a day. I'm surrounded by this feminine energy that i want to, in small ways, conquer - to saturate it with my desires, my needs, my impulses.

Holding her for ransom

Even i am a realistic man. I recognize that there are some fantasies that are not feasible. I'm someone who cringes at the statement: "Some things are best left as fantasies." I've always caustically railed against that. Speaks of laziness, fear, perhaps even self-doubt. Besides, most people who i've heard utter this remark offer fantasies that i deem tame enough to attempt (i.e none of them have the fantasy of making a bridge of foreskin across the English Channel). I believe rather than dismiss your fantasy as poison one should never consume, recognize it for the native energy and passion that it is, having been borne from your thoughts and neuroses. That being said, i am a realistic man. I have a rather intricate (read: detail-heavy) and therefore nearly impossible fantasy (read: too much propensity to spin out of my control).

I want to kidnap my girl.

I remember when i first learned of the Patty Hearst kidnapping, and the term "Stockholm syndrome", the idea of abducting someone, torturing them to the point where they would eventually offer you their allegiance and loyalty, something stirred very deep within me. I admit to feeling this same way when i've heard on the news of other females kidnapped (and thankfully not harmed). I viewed it as an exercise in absolute surrender. She, my victim, would be forced to, as a way to preserve herself, exist how i wanted her to, how i allowed her to, eventually losing what she had hoped to defend.

I recognized this was a dark, dark fantasy, but i also realized i never wanted to indulge in this without the victim's consent. It only sustained any of its stimulation at the point where i assumed all victims exhibited signs of the "Stockholm syndrome". Present a danger (the abduction, any weaponry used to enforce it), and practice heroism (spare her, show mercy, etc.) and she will gladly do your bidding. This was SM 101, as far as i was concerned.

Many obstacles exist for me to attempt in full glorious technicolor my kidnapping scenario. First of all, we live in a day and age (i.e. war on terror) where our neighbors' attentions are piqued for suspicious behavior. There have been enough times where, as a result of the heightened security, i have been put under unnecessary scrutiny by the TSA to save me and my girl from our own vacationing kinky perversions. I don't even want to test my common citizen's ability to absorb the latest crime-fighting tactics they've viewed on television. Secondly, I do not own a car. Transporting my victim would laughably be reliant upon public transportation or a hired car, which means transporting a bound, gagged and blindfolded damsel may arouse some severe alarm from even the most disinterested livery driver. Thirdly, this scenario seeps heavily with roleplay. I am not acting as my girl's dominant. Instead, i am a complete stranger, a fugitive who must create the possible fear that implies i may mean harm, and she must dissolve into this character, be it the 'bank teller, the 'school marm', the 'traffic cop' or whatever.

Accepting these limitations, i have assembled a decent collection of kidnapped-inspired sessions ranging from interrogation scenes to bouts of torture until she broke down. The most recent took place on an innocuous weekend afternoon, where my girl was lazing on the couch in the calm air of a gentle and mild day.

I snuck up behind her, and thrust a pillow case over her head, quickly securing it in place with a locking wire strap (the plastic kind cops use in place of metal handcuffs) i tightened around her neck. i pushed her over onto her belly, and held her arms above her head, as she squirmed, fighting against my aggression; shocked, uncertain, and definitely a little petrified. I ripped off her shirt, pulling it over her hooded head. I quickly removed her bra, tossing that to the floor. I lassoed her wrists down behind her back with one tight strap. I affixed another just below her elbows, squashing them together. I pulled her upto her feet, then walked her down along the hallway to the back room. I held her up as she stumbled along the way, gasping through the pillowcase, to the point where a moist oval darkened the spot where her mouth lay beneath the fabric. I threw her on top of the bed, onto her stomach, then pulled off her skirt and now completely damp panties. Bending her legs up behind her, i pulled out two more wire straps and bound her ankles to where they rested on her thighs.

I didn't say a single word to her the entire time.

I took my time retrieving a knife, letting the chain of events sink in. A period of eight minutes passed. I could hear the sweet evidence of her struggle while in the other room. The first thing i did upon my return was to lace another strap in between her lips and around the back of her head, gagging her, pulling more of the cotton pillowcase into her mouth, further heightening the stakes. I stood over her, giving space to a silence that separated her from i.

I reached out and touched her naked form. She jerked. I ran my hand up and down her side, letting my fingers trace the spectrum of her curves. I replaced my fingers with the single, thin blade of the knife, dragging the sharp surface gently across her flesh. She jerked again. Her minute gyrations told me she could tell the difference between these two implements. I turned the point into her side, pressing with a little force until she took notice and stopped. I traced the sharp metal down to her thighs, reaching the knee, then boomeranging back up to her bound ankles. I spread her legs wider, to reveal her glistening cunt and quivering fuckhole.

She could feel where i'd turned my focus, pondering the weapon in my hand, and could not contain the unwillingness to let this proceed without protest. She pleaded through her gag, straining all the muscles in her hips and thighs. I slapped her hard on her ass cheek. She froze. I drew a sinister line with the knife along her inner thigh, upto the darker flesh of her mound. She held onto any reflexes that might move her opening as i traced around it, alternating between softer and harder touches. I spread her glistening lips with the blade, looking deep into the heaving slit. With a flick of the wrist, i ran the blunt edge against her asshole and up her crack. She yelped. I slapped the flesh of her butt three times. I lubed up her asshole, then quickly forced a medium-sized buttplug inside, which appropriately did not receive any objections.

I left her again, to let her body adjust to the penetration, further sinking her into subliminal despair. I'd return shortly, pulling her open crotch to just the edge of the bed, to claim my ransom.