It all starts with words. To be more precise, it starts with the reduction of them. I slowly remove certain words from my manner of speech, she responds, following my cue. Her tongue takes to the incision, and suddenly those bits of her vocabulary are off-limits. I strip her of more verbiage, just like i strip her of her clothes, of her identity, of her freedom.
Soon, the language organically evolves into me referring to her in the third person. She is still there in front of me, but dramatically diminished. The notion of "i" or "me", the possibility of autonomy, free thought, disappears. What remains is less. Minimal. A casing.
And she responds.
Her body becomes flush with warmth, tingles spray across the surface of her skin, and her head fills with light effluvium. I see her breathing take on different labors. I see her eyes widen and yet sharpen at the same point. A crest builds between us, drawing from my chest an apparition, summoning another dimension.
That's when It takes over. I take a step back, and It controls the flow.
The presence, the existence, the pause, the stranger, the unknown, the shadow, the flame.
This third person, thing, beast rushes over the object in front of It, overwhelming the microscopic bundle that sits in wait. It will devour the tiny creature.
consume
engulf
and enjoy
Showing posts with label The Gain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Gain. Show all posts
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sugasm #126
Sugasm #126
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 #127? 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
Up Your Bum
“Now, every mainstream porn film seems to include anal sex as part of the sequence”
A Moment Captured
“Right now I am looking out down at the street from my window and my fingers have found their way to my soft wet labia.”
Things Every Man Should Own/Know/Hear
“You can also give the controller to her, or use it yourself, and play with the power of the vibrations.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The New York Times’ Best Porn Articles
Editor’s Choice
Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy #1
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Piss off
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Piss off
When i was a teenager, one of the guys on my hockey team showed us this strange discoloration on his foot. We all looked at it up close, fascinated by the patterns of green and purple blotches spread across his skin. Our coach came in to the locker room, saw us gawking at our teammate's foot and added his two scents to break up the crowd.
"Athlete's foot. From the showers. You gotta piss on your feet to kill it before you get out."
Thanks, Coach. Ever since then, i've pissed on my feet whenever i've taken a shower in a public place, and i don't think twice about the fact that i'm spraying urine all over myself. In fact, i take such a casual approach to my own micturation that i've never really found an erotic urge to pee on someone else.
However, i'm fascinated by a girl's relief of her own bladder.
I used to "accidentally" break into the bathroom when i knew my sister was taking a leak, just because i couldn't believe she did it sitting down. Any girl i've been with, i've thrilled at watching them piss. It sounds different than when men do it. Our urine is concentrated into a thin liquid spear whose primary noise comes from the surface off which it splatters. Whereas, the female stream takes the form of a ribbon of urea, that whistles into the air as she squeezes it out.
I could take or leave my urine, but the female's liquid waste excites me to no end. Thus the few times i've involved it in a predicament session.
--------------------------------------
She was a young freshman in college who'd stumbled into a chatroom i intermittently floated through. Of the dozen or so feminine handles listed in the chatroom's roster, her's was the most appealing and realistic-sounding. We struck up a conversation, where i tried my best to assuage her doubts about my character (as any good and intelligent girl should have with a complete strange male) all the while disguising the ravenous desire i felt to warp this relatively untouched lamb.
Over time, we developed trust in each other that opened the way to her offering me a glimpse of her through her webcam. A very beautiful girl met me the first time i accepted her invitation to view her. But that was not the dominant thought in my mind. Instead, i felt an immediate urge to control and manipulate her.
The presence of an impending force that boiled up the more and more we spoke clanged many a bell in my head. I knew this pull from previous experiences where i'd come to label it "The Gain". All it took was a few words between us, and i could feel this intense exchange of energy passing back and forth.
One afternoon, we'd been chatting for an hour or so, and she casually mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that she informed me of this need, or maybe i would've grabbed the reins in another way, but i let the internal demons speak. They said "no".
"But i have to really go bad."
I offered that it was informative to hear, but she, for the moment must remain exactly where she was. Minutes passed, with not much substance shared from either of us.
"Please, i really really need to go."
I asked her if she had a tall glass. She responded affirmatively. I told her that if she in fact needed to relieve herself so badly, that she must do it in this tall glass and return, with not a drop spilled. Streaming across the internet, i got an assortment of looks via her webcam first of pure frustration, followed by exasperation, and then finalized by reservation and acceptance. She lifted herself from her seat, and left the room.
A few minutes later, she returned and showed me the large square-sided glass filled with her own urine. I told her to place it on her desk, and resumed the conversation from where we'd left it. However, i never took my mind off the collection of liquid that sat inches away from her keyboard.
"What am i supposed to do with this glass?"
Up until this moment, i'd no idea what i wanted her to do with it. As i felt the familiar energy flow into my body, the exact prescription for this glass of urine came to me.
"I want you to take the glass in your hand. Lift it up to your mouth, i want you to hold it there, and do not move it away."
I still remember the blank stare from her into the optical unit stationed atop her computer, capturing her image that was delivered to my laptop. No more than five seconds passed before she grasped the glass and raised it to her lips. Her posture, the way her hair hung over her ears, everything about her broadcast the anger she felt at being put in this position. But, underlying this sternness, i could see a delicious plea for mercy. Even though she chose not to articulate it, that she was in the position she was, glass held against her mouth, the impact was very clear.
I realized as her hand positioned a pint of her own urine at her lips, and the smell of the warm liquid wafted into her nose, that she'd exhibited an understanding, a grasp of the lesson i sought to offer her. This compliance was all that i needed. After five or 6 minutes, i instructed her to lower the glass back down to her desk. As she left to empty the liquid into the toilet, i was struck by how meaningful a experience could be by merely controlling someone's basic biological functions.
"Athlete's foot. From the showers. You gotta piss on your feet to kill it before you get out."
Thanks, Coach. Ever since then, i've pissed on my feet whenever i've taken a shower in a public place, and i don't think twice about the fact that i'm spraying urine all over myself. In fact, i take such a casual approach to my own micturation that i've never really found an erotic urge to pee on someone else.
However, i'm fascinated by a girl's relief of her own bladder.
I used to "accidentally" break into the bathroom when i knew my sister was taking a leak, just because i couldn't believe she did it sitting down. Any girl i've been with, i've thrilled at watching them piss. It sounds different than when men do it. Our urine is concentrated into a thin liquid spear whose primary noise comes from the surface off which it splatters. Whereas, the female stream takes the form of a ribbon of urea, that whistles into the air as she squeezes it out.
I could take or leave my urine, but the female's liquid waste excites me to no end. Thus the few times i've involved it in a predicament session.
--------------------------------------
She was a young freshman in college who'd stumbled into a chatroom i intermittently floated through. Of the dozen or so feminine handles listed in the chatroom's roster, her's was the most appealing and realistic-sounding. We struck up a conversation, where i tried my best to assuage her doubts about my character (as any good and intelligent girl should have with a complete strange male) all the while disguising the ravenous desire i felt to warp this relatively untouched lamb.
Over time, we developed trust in each other that opened the way to her offering me a glimpse of her through her webcam. A very beautiful girl met me the first time i accepted her invitation to view her. But that was not the dominant thought in my mind. Instead, i felt an immediate urge to control and manipulate her.
The presence of an impending force that boiled up the more and more we spoke clanged many a bell in my head. I knew this pull from previous experiences where i'd come to label it "The Gain". All it took was a few words between us, and i could feel this intense exchange of energy passing back and forth.
One afternoon, we'd been chatting for an hour or so, and she casually mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that she informed me of this need, or maybe i would've grabbed the reins in another way, but i let the internal demons speak. They said "no".
"But i have to really go bad."
I offered that it was informative to hear, but she, for the moment must remain exactly where she was. Minutes passed, with not much substance shared from either of us.
"Please, i really really need to go."
I asked her if she had a tall glass. She responded affirmatively. I told her that if she in fact needed to relieve herself so badly, that she must do it in this tall glass and return, with not a drop spilled. Streaming across the internet, i got an assortment of looks via her webcam first of pure frustration, followed by exasperation, and then finalized by reservation and acceptance. She lifted herself from her seat, and left the room.
A few minutes later, she returned and showed me the large square-sided glass filled with her own urine. I told her to place it on her desk, and resumed the conversation from where we'd left it. However, i never took my mind off the collection of liquid that sat inches away from her keyboard.
"What am i supposed to do with this glass?"
Up until this moment, i'd no idea what i wanted her to do with it. As i felt the familiar energy flow into my body, the exact prescription for this glass of urine came to me.
"I want you to take the glass in your hand. Lift it up to your mouth, i want you to hold it there, and do not move it away."
I still remember the blank stare from her into the optical unit stationed atop her computer, capturing her image that was delivered to my laptop. No more than five seconds passed before she grasped the glass and raised it to her lips. Her posture, the way her hair hung over her ears, everything about her broadcast the anger she felt at being put in this position. But, underlying this sternness, i could see a delicious plea for mercy. Even though she chose not to articulate it, that she was in the position she was, glass held against her mouth, the impact was very clear.
I realized as her hand positioned a pint of her own urine at her lips, and the smell of the warm liquid wafted into her nose, that she'd exhibited an understanding, a grasp of the lesson i sought to offer her. This compliance was all that i needed. After five or 6 minutes, i instructed her to lower the glass back down to her desk. As she left to empty the liquid into the toilet, i was struck by how meaningful a experience could be by merely controlling someone's basic biological functions.
Friday, February 15, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exchange
When i arrived at the restaurant, i purposely asked for the table up on the ledge, which looked out over the rest of the dining patrons. I took the chair that pointed me right at the entrance. When the waiter came, i ordered a double bourbon. I waited. Looking at my watch, i could see she was already ten minutes late. I finished my drink, trying to stretch it as long as possible, allowing the amber flood to lighten with the melting ice. She didn't arrive. I ordered another.
An entire half hour past our agreed meeting time, and she still hadn't shown. She'd never been this late before. Despite this, i didn't grow angry. I patiently waited, stunting my nerves with the alcohol.
A rush of cold air suddenly ruffled the tablecloth. I lifted my head to see the front door had opened. I saw her speaking with the girl at the front, looking around the restaurant as she did. The disinterested hostess limply pointed in my direction. June walked around her, and with long, overly pronounced strides, sauntered back to the table. I rose from my seat, drink still in my hand, caught in a mild sweat of anticipation. The small tip of a white garter strap peaked out beneath the hem of her skirt. I smiled as she stood before me. I leaned forward, lightly kissed her cheek and said,"You're late."
She grinned, then sat down. I joined her. My nose gobbled every note that came in the symphony of her perfume. She'd wrapped a cream white cashmere scarf around her neck, which gave her face the softness and enticement of a delicate pastry in a glass case.
"Thank you for coming," I immediately located our waiter, ordering another drink for myself and a small one for her. I laid my hands on the table, just inches away from hers. She turned her palms upward right as i did this, but she could not bring her eyes to mine.
We pedalled through a few laps of innane conversation, ignoring mention of why we'd met. I didn't have a strong desire to turn the subject to a topic i knew would clam her up. I enjoyed listening to her voice, which when given room sang quite nicely against the chorus of background activity and noise. Before too long, i felt an urge to assert.
I pulled my right hand off the table, and plunged it under the short tablecloth. I followed the line of my thigh out to my knee. I paused, exhaling a single breath. I made sure her gaze was on me. I reached across the blind space to her knee, feeling a tingle of pleasurable electricity conduct up through my fingers. Her mouth puckered open, giving out a soft cry. My hand snaked up her leg, the silky texture of her stockings spoke to my fingertips in a brief dialogue, escorting me to the top, where they met the naked frontier of her flesh. The waiter returned with our drink order, causing me to pause.
"Would you care to order?" He eyed her untouched menu.
"Certainly." I lifted it from the table, reaching across my body with my left arm. I handed both of the menus to him, holding them out in the air as our waiter hesitated a moment.
"I'll have the steak au poivre. Medium rare. She will have the duck confit, but instead of fries, fresh greens."
He nodded at me, collected the menus, then turned and stepped down into the main dining room.
I pushed my hand further up her thigh, sliding under the canopy of her skirt. A steamy warmth met my hand. The pliant tickle of a few pubic hairs graced my touch. I looked at her eyes which looked down at the edge of the table in front of her. She held her mouth open, rocking subtly back and forth, respiring in small heaves. I extended a finger, lightly caressing the moist flesh of her cunt lips, completely, as commanded, uninhibited by any undergarment.
Securing the evidence i sought, my arm retreated rapidly back to the topside of the table. I rubbed the glistening nectar i'd gathered between my finger and thumb in plain view. It was at that time the selection of the table - high, exposed, isolated - occured to her. The looks of the other patrons suddenly became clear, even the devilish smirk of our waiter when he delivered our meal.
I found the steak to be much, much too bloody.
An entire half hour past our agreed meeting time, and she still hadn't shown. She'd never been this late before. Despite this, i didn't grow angry. I patiently waited, stunting my nerves with the alcohol.
A rush of cold air suddenly ruffled the tablecloth. I lifted my head to see the front door had opened. I saw her speaking with the girl at the front, looking around the restaurant as she did. The disinterested hostess limply pointed in my direction. June walked around her, and with long, overly pronounced strides, sauntered back to the table. I rose from my seat, drink still in my hand, caught in a mild sweat of anticipation. The small tip of a white garter strap peaked out beneath the hem of her skirt. I smiled as she stood before me. I leaned forward, lightly kissed her cheek and said,"You're late."
She grinned, then sat down. I joined her. My nose gobbled every note that came in the symphony of her perfume. She'd wrapped a cream white cashmere scarf around her neck, which gave her face the softness and enticement of a delicate pastry in a glass case.
"Thank you for coming," I immediately located our waiter, ordering another drink for myself and a small one for her. I laid my hands on the table, just inches away from hers. She turned her palms upward right as i did this, but she could not bring her eyes to mine.
We pedalled through a few laps of innane conversation, ignoring mention of why we'd met. I didn't have a strong desire to turn the subject to a topic i knew would clam her up. I enjoyed listening to her voice, which when given room sang quite nicely against the chorus of background activity and noise. Before too long, i felt an urge to assert.
I pulled my right hand off the table, and plunged it under the short tablecloth. I followed the line of my thigh out to my knee. I paused, exhaling a single breath. I made sure her gaze was on me. I reached across the blind space to her knee, feeling a tingle of pleasurable electricity conduct up through my fingers. Her mouth puckered open, giving out a soft cry. My hand snaked up her leg, the silky texture of her stockings spoke to my fingertips in a brief dialogue, escorting me to the top, where they met the naked frontier of her flesh. The waiter returned with our drink order, causing me to pause.
"Would you care to order?" He eyed her untouched menu.
"Certainly." I lifted it from the table, reaching across my body with my left arm. I handed both of the menus to him, holding them out in the air as our waiter hesitated a moment.
"I'll have the steak au poivre. Medium rare. She will have the duck confit, but instead of fries, fresh greens."
He nodded at me, collected the menus, then turned and stepped down into the main dining room.
I pushed my hand further up her thigh, sliding under the canopy of her skirt. A steamy warmth met my hand. The pliant tickle of a few pubic hairs graced my touch. I looked at her eyes which looked down at the edge of the table in front of her. She held her mouth open, rocking subtly back and forth, respiring in small heaves. I extended a finger, lightly caressing the moist flesh of her cunt lips, completely, as commanded, uninhibited by any undergarment.
Securing the evidence i sought, my arm retreated rapidly back to the topside of the table. I rubbed the glistening nectar i'd gathered between my finger and thumb in plain view. It was at that time the selection of the table - high, exposed, isolated - occured to her. The looks of the other patrons suddenly became clear, even the devilish smirk of our waiter when he delivered our meal.
I found the steak to be much, much too bloody.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Compromise
Most of my encounters with June followed the routine set in our first date. I'd provide guidelines for how she should dress, introducing a different hurdle each time. I would spend a few moments deriding her ineptitude, then leave in disgust. I noticed, however, over time, she was slowly starting to resemble the image i'd conjured from our initial crossing at her office.
We'd met for the very first time at the architectural firm she worked. I was there for a meeting to go over the project with the rest of the design team i was overseeing, when during the presentation of final plans, June came bursting into the conference room. She pulled the head architect out of the huddle, frantically explaining to him her "needs immediate attention" crisis. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was stunning.
Working in a field populated largely by men, it is rare to encounter a female who sits amongst the elite ranks of the highly skilled. It is even rarer that this female have obliteratingly potent looks. Upon her head sat raven black hair, which pulled tightly into a bun showed off the sleek, attractive shape of her skull. She wore a grey, wool skirt suit that spoke in a modest way about the boundless curves beneath it, with ash-colored stockings and black stiletto heels. She looked up once from her pow-wow to see me piercing her with my eyes. We didn't speak a word.
Later, after the meeting, i approached the architect she'd spoken with, asking for her name. When a week had passed, I called her. Contrasting this image with the one i'd seen put together on our dates told me the prey sought to draw out the chase. This gave me an idea for our next encounter.
"I can't dress like that."
I knew she would say this, Her modesty continued to serve as her overbearing chaperone.
"Then, there is no reason for us to see eachother again." I spoke very assuredly. A premature shriek caught in her throat. This both thrilled me and pained me to say. I felt so much desire to see her again, but i knew i had to make this gamble, "Well? I'm waiting...don't waste my time on the phone if there is no sense in this."
"Please - give me some time. I just need some time." Her words sounded rushed, abrupt.
"Will you do it?"
"...yes..." She said this with the smallest amount of breath needed to generate a sound.
"Do what?"
"What you said."
"I need you to repeat it. Exactly like i've told you to."
"God...skirt, heels. No - no....no panties." The delivery of the last word made me smile. "You're an awful, awful person."
"I know." And i did. But hearing her pronounce it made me understand her acceptance of our contract. I would make sure to get to the restaurant early, in order to pick out the perfect table for the presentation.
We'd met for the very first time at the architectural firm she worked. I was there for a meeting to go over the project with the rest of the design team i was overseeing, when during the presentation of final plans, June came bursting into the conference room. She pulled the head architect out of the huddle, frantically explaining to him her "needs immediate attention" crisis. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was stunning.
Working in a field populated largely by men, it is rare to encounter a female who sits amongst the elite ranks of the highly skilled. It is even rarer that this female have obliteratingly potent looks. Upon her head sat raven black hair, which pulled tightly into a bun showed off the sleek, attractive shape of her skull. She wore a grey, wool skirt suit that spoke in a modest way about the boundless curves beneath it, with ash-colored stockings and black stiletto heels. She looked up once from her pow-wow to see me piercing her with my eyes. We didn't speak a word.
Later, after the meeting, i approached the architect she'd spoken with, asking for her name. When a week had passed, I called her. Contrasting this image with the one i'd seen put together on our dates told me the prey sought to draw out the chase. This gave me an idea for our next encounter.
"I can't dress like that."
I knew she would say this, Her modesty continued to serve as her overbearing chaperone.
"Then, there is no reason for us to see eachother again." I spoke very assuredly. A premature shriek caught in her throat. This both thrilled me and pained me to say. I felt so much desire to see her again, but i knew i had to make this gamble, "Well? I'm waiting...don't waste my time on the phone if there is no sense in this."
"Please - give me some time. I just need some time." Her words sounded rushed, abrupt.
"Will you do it?"
"...yes..." She said this with the smallest amount of breath needed to generate a sound.
"Do what?"
"What you said."
"I need you to repeat it. Exactly like i've told you to."
"God...skirt, heels. No - no....no panties." The delivery of the last word made me smile. "You're an awful, awful person."
"I know." And i did. But hearing her pronounce it made me understand her acceptance of our contract. I would make sure to get to the restaurant early, in order to pick out the perfect table for the presentation.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exhibition
Our first date, June insisted that we meet in a very public place. The entire date was to happen as we eyed eachother while sitting on facing benches, right in the middle of the heavy rush hour traffic of the train station. When she had suggested we meet there, after asking her where she would feel safest, i grinned to myself as i held onto the phone. The obvious security she'd feel in such a venue didn't make me feel defensive or creepy. I liked that she felt the need to put up safety measures, but i wasn't certain from who she was protecting herself.
As one of my favorite pastimes, I had spent many hours in peaceful solitude anchored to a seat in the veranda of the depot, just watching people. I'd watch them walk, the way they stepped their feet down, how they shifted their bodies to avoid oncoming pedestrians. The pageantry of flowing bodies fascinated me, and i found myself thrilled to be a pebble in the midst of it as a static witness. I knew that June felt the same way, but as shy as she tried to pretend she was, she also wanted the attention and eyes of those who walked by. June was an exhibitionist.
When she finally arrived, she was wearing many more layers than the hot weather demanded. She rushed in, late, flustered and incredibly apologetic, offering both vocal and postural penance. I knew all of this was on purpose. She'd spend the next 30 minutes of our rendez-vous sweating, fidgeting, fanning her face with her hands, then eventually peeling an article or two of clothing off. She wasn't attempting a civic and pathetically clumsy striptease. She sought the endurance of being humiliated, degraded and put in severe discomfort while the hundreds of eyes that hurried by looked at her in pity. Recognizing this desire of hers, a very familiar hunger rose up inside of me. I became quite merciless.
I didn't say anything for the next ten minutes, staring at her quietly behind tersely held eyes. I watched her body give over to the abuse she was putting it through, changing right in front of me. Not one to carry a conversation on her own, June fumbled through her explanation for why she'd arrived late. Ignoring her pleas for polite forgiveness, i eyed her appearance with disgust.
I leaned forward, putting my head right at her shoulder and sniffed heavily through my nose. I let her scent take root in my nostrils for a few seconds, then whispered into her ear.
"You smell...dirty. Couldn't you even stay clean enough to last through our date? You reek like a filthy, desperate slut."
She sucked in a pocket of air through her mouth. Her face reddened as her shoulders rolled into her lap, shrinking her already minute frame. Clearly, she'd given her appearance some effort, but was it the effort of someone who only had so much to offer or that of someone who hoped to be called on her shortcomings.
I got up from the bench and left her sitting alone in the train station.
As one of my favorite pastimes, I had spent many hours in peaceful solitude anchored to a seat in the veranda of the depot, just watching people. I'd watch them walk, the way they stepped their feet down, how they shifted their bodies to avoid oncoming pedestrians. The pageantry of flowing bodies fascinated me, and i found myself thrilled to be a pebble in the midst of it as a static witness. I knew that June felt the same way, but as shy as she tried to pretend she was, she also wanted the attention and eyes of those who walked by. June was an exhibitionist.
When she finally arrived, she was wearing many more layers than the hot weather demanded. She rushed in, late, flustered and incredibly apologetic, offering both vocal and postural penance. I knew all of this was on purpose. She'd spend the next 30 minutes of our rendez-vous sweating, fidgeting, fanning her face with her hands, then eventually peeling an article or two of clothing off. She wasn't attempting a civic and pathetically clumsy striptease. She sought the endurance of being humiliated, degraded and put in severe discomfort while the hundreds of eyes that hurried by looked at her in pity. Recognizing this desire of hers, a very familiar hunger rose up inside of me. I became quite merciless.
I didn't say anything for the next ten minutes, staring at her quietly behind tersely held eyes. I watched her body give over to the abuse she was putting it through, changing right in front of me. Not one to carry a conversation on her own, June fumbled through her explanation for why she'd arrived late. Ignoring her pleas for polite forgiveness, i eyed her appearance with disgust.
I leaned forward, putting my head right at her shoulder and sniffed heavily through my nose. I let her scent take root in my nostrils for a few seconds, then whispered into her ear.
"You smell...dirty. Couldn't you even stay clean enough to last through our date? You reek like a filthy, desperate slut."
She sucked in a pocket of air through her mouth. Her face reddened as her shoulders rolled into her lap, shrinking her already minute frame. Clearly, she'd given her appearance some effort, but was it the effort of someone who only had so much to offer or that of someone who hoped to be called on her shortcomings.
I got up from the bench and left her sitting alone in the train station.
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Gain, pt. 3
As macho as i think i am, which if needed measure puts me somewhere between King Kong and Superman, i still could not prepare myself for her.
First of all, our interaction was purely online. This placed a numbness between me and my reaction to the situation which, eventually, dictated the duration of our dynamic. I met her in my chatroom that i hosted (does anyone remember the one i mentioned here?). She dawdled, but only a little. Once she saw that i had a certain amount of untenable arrogance, she proceeded to lay out the full narrative of her submission and how she saw me fitting into it. We were easily 500 miles apart. We would never see eachother in person, unless one of us made a considerable trek to the other's locale, which just wasn't going to happen. What i liked and equally feared about her was her ability to succinctly describe the ways in which she would submit to me, even though these scenarios that i designed would be carried out by her cuckolded husband whose only role in their romance was to ensure his wife was summarily tormented, via proxy.
"c" would break the ice when she came online by telling me about the Shopping Network extravaganzas she had just watched that would efficiently plop her into a "ready to submit" mode. Trust me, i didn't believe it myself. I would cajole her, saying things like,"Cubic zirconias make you cream?!?" As "c" described it, watching the beautiful feminine hands delicately handle the costume jewelry (which, with her, would allow me to patter around with my own jewelry fascination) took her to a place where she could face her "demons". I came to learn that these "demons" were some of the most extreme degradations i'd ever participated in.
"I need to be in complete discomfort."
"I need to be suspended by my hair."
"I need to be treated like a mindless rag doll."
She repeated these statements in various iterations, but all of them would find a place in each of the predicaments i designed. On her consent, her husband e-mailed me, initiating a correspondence between him and i. I would send him my diagrams and my instructions. "c" would see none of this, not knowing her fate or its duration once her hubby began. His e-mails always came with just one phrase: "How am i supposed to position "c"?" The first time i received this question, i took several steps back from my computer. I paced back and forth. Something disturbed me about the spouse of one of the girls i'd met in my chatroom allowing his mate to face whatever torture a stranger could conjure from a distance. I would not be there when it began. I would not be there to set the mood and to establish the tone, telling her that i knew what i was doing. I would also not be there after she was released. I would not be there to hold her, embrace her, or wash her of the grime that collects after long hours of constriction. Yet, despite this, i could not contain my arousal and found myself creating intricate mechanisms for "c's" debasement.
The first scenario i designed involved shrink wrap (one of my favorite things). I'd been exploring this myself in my real life, and wanted to try something with "c". She had established that her torments needed to take place over a period of 24 hours or more - non-stop. First, she would be strapped to the support pole in their basement with leather bindings at her forehead, clavicle, hips, knees, and ankles, totally immobilizing her. Then, her husband would carefully apply a flawless mask of overly feminine makeup: Exceptionally rouged cheeks; Heavily lined eyelids, overhung by dark, rich eye shadows; Lips accentuated by crimson shades. He would then insert into her cunt an inflatable dildo, and a matching inflatable butt plug into her ass, as well as a PVC triple-headed gasket gag in her mouth. This would be followed by several layers of tight shrink wrap stretched across her naked body. The only thing protruding from the plastic would be the air hole of her PVC gag and the plunger bulbs of her dildo and butt plug. Her husband painted her shrink wrap-encased body with the heat of a hair dryer, effectively sealing her inside of this prison. Later that evening, via my instructions, the husband invited over several of "c's" friends to examine her, given encouragement to touch her through the plastic and squeeze the plungers of her impalers. 36 hours after this began - 36 hours - she was released.
She consistently challenged me, prodding me to go further with my sadism. One of the most extreme scenarios i ever designed had her bound with her arms behind her back, gagged, blinded and stuffed inside a burlap sack which was then placed inside a cedar chest, lid closed, and then pushed inside of a walk-in closet. The only light of day she "saw" during her internment were the hourly visits where her hubby was instructed to lift the lid off the chest and urinate onto the form lying prone inside. She withstood this for 41 hours. At the end of this episode, i could not, despite all attempts, find the thrill i'd first experienced when "c" approached me with her initial proposition.
Over time, i looked on my experience with her as a growth period. I learned more about my need to debase the female form, and its limits. That arrived after many hours of reflection. When i came to the realization that i could no longer perform this duty for "c", i was devastated. For the first time in my life, i was unable to accommodate the gift of someone's complete submission. Before this experience, i'd glibly thought that i could meet any level of masochism tossed at me. "c" showed me the limits to my own sadistic traits. I still remember the stark jolt of pain as i told "c" that i was no longer going to be able to act as her "top". Letting go of her submission was almost as extreme as it was to first acquire it. Except, this time i didn't feel any pleasure.
*this continues on here
First of all, our interaction was purely online. This placed a numbness between me and my reaction to the situation which, eventually, dictated the duration of our dynamic. I met her in my chatroom that i hosted (does anyone remember the one i mentioned here?). She dawdled, but only a little. Once she saw that i had a certain amount of untenable arrogance, she proceeded to lay out the full narrative of her submission and how she saw me fitting into it. We were easily 500 miles apart. We would never see eachother in person, unless one of us made a considerable trek to the other's locale, which just wasn't going to happen. What i liked and equally feared about her was her ability to succinctly describe the ways in which she would submit to me, even though these scenarios that i designed would be carried out by her cuckolded husband whose only role in their romance was to ensure his wife was summarily tormented, via proxy.
"c" would break the ice when she came online by telling me about the Shopping Network extravaganzas she had just watched that would efficiently plop her into a "ready to submit" mode. Trust me, i didn't believe it myself. I would cajole her, saying things like,"Cubic zirconias make you cream?!?" As "c" described it, watching the beautiful feminine hands delicately handle the costume jewelry (which, with her, would allow me to patter around with my own jewelry fascination) took her to a place where she could face her "demons". I came to learn that these "demons" were some of the most extreme degradations i'd ever participated in.
"I need to be in complete discomfort."
"I need to be suspended by my hair."
"I need to be treated like a mindless rag doll."
She repeated these statements in various iterations, but all of them would find a place in each of the predicaments i designed. On her consent, her husband e-mailed me, initiating a correspondence between him and i. I would send him my diagrams and my instructions. "c" would see none of this, not knowing her fate or its duration once her hubby began. His e-mails always came with just one phrase: "How am i supposed to position "c"?" The first time i received this question, i took several steps back from my computer. I paced back and forth. Something disturbed me about the spouse of one of the girls i'd met in my chatroom allowing his mate to face whatever torture a stranger could conjure from a distance. I would not be there when it began. I would not be there to set the mood and to establish the tone, telling her that i knew what i was doing. I would also not be there after she was released. I would not be there to hold her, embrace her, or wash her of the grime that collects after long hours of constriction. Yet, despite this, i could not contain my arousal and found myself creating intricate mechanisms for "c's" debasement.
The first scenario i designed involved shrink wrap (one of my favorite things). I'd been exploring this myself in my real life, and wanted to try something with "c". She had established that her torments needed to take place over a period of 24 hours or more - non-stop. First, she would be strapped to the support pole in their basement with leather bindings at her forehead, clavicle, hips, knees, and ankles, totally immobilizing her. Then, her husband would carefully apply a flawless mask of overly feminine makeup: Exceptionally rouged cheeks; Heavily lined eyelids, overhung by dark, rich eye shadows; Lips accentuated by crimson shades. He would then insert into her cunt an inflatable dildo, and a matching inflatable butt plug into her ass, as well as a PVC triple-headed gasket gag in her mouth. This would be followed by several layers of tight shrink wrap stretched across her naked body. The only thing protruding from the plastic would be the air hole of her PVC gag and the plunger bulbs of her dildo and butt plug. Her husband painted her shrink wrap-encased body with the heat of a hair dryer, effectively sealing her inside of this prison. Later that evening, via my instructions, the husband invited over several of "c's" friends to examine her, given encouragement to touch her through the plastic and squeeze the plungers of her impalers. 36 hours after this began - 36 hours - she was released.
She consistently challenged me, prodding me to go further with my sadism. One of the most extreme scenarios i ever designed had her bound with her arms behind her back, gagged, blinded and stuffed inside a burlap sack which was then placed inside a cedar chest, lid closed, and then pushed inside of a walk-in closet. The only light of day she "saw" during her internment were the hourly visits where her hubby was instructed to lift the lid off the chest and urinate onto the form lying prone inside. She withstood this for 41 hours. At the end of this episode, i could not, despite all attempts, find the thrill i'd first experienced when "c" approached me with her initial proposition.
Over time, i looked on my experience with her as a growth period. I learned more about my need to debase the female form, and its limits. That arrived after many hours of reflection. When i came to the realization that i could no longer perform this duty for "c", i was devastated. For the first time in my life, i was unable to accommodate the gift of someone's complete submission. Before this experience, i'd glibly thought that i could meet any level of masochism tossed at me. "c" showed me the limits to my own sadistic traits. I still remember the stark jolt of pain as i told "c" that i was no longer going to be able to act as her "top". Letting go of her submission was almost as extreme as it was to first acquire it. Except, this time i didn't feel any pleasure.
*this continues on here
Thursday, May 3, 2007
The Gain, pt. 2
I use the term "girl" universally. It can mean a female from any age between 18 and 60. Something in the term grabs me. It's like a wind that pushes me against the wall of the building i am standing on the ledge of, hoping not to fall off. I recognize that the term "girl" has an underage connotation to it, yet i am repulsed at the idea of eroticizing minors. The word "girl" also implies little. And that is where it excites the base primal wolf inside of me. Little, vulnerable, needing protection. I can be talking to a female associate at work about her weekend, in a completely innocuous social way, and she could suddenly utter the phrase "...but i'm just not that kind of girl." I will stop right in my tracks. A grown woman has just uttered a phrase that transforms her into a sexual target, the same way my head whips around whenever i hear the clod of highheels on the pavement. I'm suddenly hungry.
"r" was incensed when i first referred to her as a girl. Understandably. She was 15 years my senior. She'd wandered into a chat room i was hosting about body modification and (what else) transformation. Within 5 minutes of chatting with me, she'd called me an arrogant prick and an asshole, and did the equivalent of an Internet hangup - she exited the room. Now, i'd grown used to that reaction. What some girls expect when they are roaming in the SM corridors of chat rooms, i'm not sure, but they should not be surprised to find a man who is assertive and obstinate. Something about "r" told me that she'd return. Even through the stammer of a cold digital interaction, i could sense an arousal. In fact, i even said to her when she re-appeared a few days later:
"I knew you'd come back."
But unlike the other girls who flirted with the idea of lingering, she stuck around. She drilled me to find out all of what i demanded of a girl i modified. She accused me of bullshitting her. I provided her photo evidence, she still refused to believe. But deep inside of her protective armor of doubt, i could see something she did not want me to see: i could see that she was slipping. Her responses took longer. Her words were carefully selected and offered. She was doing her best to hold me at bay, but her house of sticks was falling in.
"Let's meet", i said.
Nothing from her end. Then finally:
"i have to go."
Eventually, we would agree to meet. Skirt, just above the knees. Black, 3" heels. Hair pulled back into a tight bun. Hoop earrings. A top to accentuate and allow access to her ample tits. And most importantly, no panties (when she agreed to this, i insisted she repeat the word "panties". A word she loathed). We met at a public place.
I was waiting for her, writing into my journal. She took the seat next to me and for the first 20 minutes of banal conversation, found ways to completely avoid eye contact with me. Finally, when her eyes fell on mine, i reached my hand across, and grabbed a hold of her wrist. I stood up and quietly led her to the men's bathroom. Cemented across her face, her fear, anxiety and excitement played interactively with her features. I held open the door and waved her inside. The few men in the bathroom looked at her with utter confusion, but i'm certain when they saw me open a stall door and motion for her to follow, they figured out some of what was about to happen. Closing the door behind us, in a whisper i told her to bend over the toilet, hike up her skirt, and then put her hands against the tile wall.
"Spread your legs."
She looked back at me. Her hand started to curl away from the wall, her instincts to strike rising. I didn't move, slicing my glance through her stare. She turned her head back around, and, staring up at the ceiling, spread her legs. A distinctive sheen glimmered between them. I rubbed my hand between her thighs, gathering some of her moistness, then spread it all up and down her backside. I pulled the "tool" i'd brought out of my pocket, smeared it with her juices, and applied more from a tube of lube. I poured more lube on my fingers and pushed at her asshole, delicately playing with the opening until i could feel it purse open. I repeated this gesture several times, making sure her passage was prepared.
"I want you to focus on your breathing. Just breathe, that is all i need you to do right now."
I pushed the "tool" up against her asshole, and slowly edged it forward. Her yelp brought a smile to my face. With gentle strokes, i pushed it deeper and deeper, reminding her to breathe. I told her to push out, as if she were defecating, when finally it popped "home", stationing itself firmly inside. I arched my arm around her mid-section, as her knees abandoned their efforts, giving way to the enormous shockwave of orgasm that overtook her body. Holding her for just a moment, allowing her to finish, i told her to pull her skirt back down. I led her back outside, kissed her on the cheek and sent her home.
"r" grew very attached to that butt plug. She was told to wear it regularly, but i wasn't always there to insert it, so for those times, she was to close her eyes and just envision it was my hand guiding it in. Over time, she didn't need to envision my hand, the plug soon embodied me. Around this time, i informed her of my reasons for the plug. I told her she was being anally trained, learning the new purpose for what i now called her "ass cunt". When we would chat or talk on the phone, she would sometimes leave the plug out of its home. I could tell that she wasn't full, just by her tone and her wily bite. I'd instruct her to go get it. Many times she'd resist, but my persistence would prevail. The instant that it entered her, she sunk deep into a coil of submission. She was full. She was open, vulnerable. She spoke to me about how she could feel her mind transform the function of her back passage. It no longer served the purpose she'd attached to it. It now served mine.
She hated the plug sometimes. Reviled it for its power over her. Other times she offered it long bouts of devotion, even losing her grip on sanity one afternoon when she couldn't find it. I used to cherish the glow she exhibited while she wore it, entranced with the acceptance and beauty cast by a girl captured and occupied by me.
*this continues on here
"r" was incensed when i first referred to her as a girl. Understandably. She was 15 years my senior. She'd wandered into a chat room i was hosting about body modification and (what else) transformation. Within 5 minutes of chatting with me, she'd called me an arrogant prick and an asshole, and did the equivalent of an Internet hangup - she exited the room. Now, i'd grown used to that reaction. What some girls expect when they are roaming in the SM corridors of chat rooms, i'm not sure, but they should not be surprised to find a man who is assertive and obstinate. Something about "r" told me that she'd return. Even through the stammer of a cold digital interaction, i could sense an arousal. In fact, i even said to her when she re-appeared a few days later:
"I knew you'd come back."
But unlike the other girls who flirted with the idea of lingering, she stuck around. She drilled me to find out all of what i demanded of a girl i modified. She accused me of bullshitting her. I provided her photo evidence, she still refused to believe. But deep inside of her protective armor of doubt, i could see something she did not want me to see: i could see that she was slipping. Her responses took longer. Her words were carefully selected and offered. She was doing her best to hold me at bay, but her house of sticks was falling in.
"Let's meet", i said.
Nothing from her end. Then finally:
"i have to go."
Eventually, we would agree to meet. Skirt, just above the knees. Black, 3" heels. Hair pulled back into a tight bun. Hoop earrings. A top to accentuate and allow access to her ample tits. And most importantly, no panties (when she agreed to this, i insisted she repeat the word "panties". A word she loathed). We met at a public place.
I was waiting for her, writing into my journal. She took the seat next to me and for the first 20 minutes of banal conversation, found ways to completely avoid eye contact with me. Finally, when her eyes fell on mine, i reached my hand across, and grabbed a hold of her wrist. I stood up and quietly led her to the men's bathroom. Cemented across her face, her fear, anxiety and excitement played interactively with her features. I held open the door and waved her inside. The few men in the bathroom looked at her with utter confusion, but i'm certain when they saw me open a stall door and motion for her to follow, they figured out some of what was about to happen. Closing the door behind us, in a whisper i told her to bend over the toilet, hike up her skirt, and then put her hands against the tile wall.
"Spread your legs."
She looked back at me. Her hand started to curl away from the wall, her instincts to strike rising. I didn't move, slicing my glance through her stare. She turned her head back around, and, staring up at the ceiling, spread her legs. A distinctive sheen glimmered between them. I rubbed my hand between her thighs, gathering some of her moistness, then spread it all up and down her backside. I pulled the "tool" i'd brought out of my pocket, smeared it with her juices, and applied more from a tube of lube. I poured more lube on my fingers and pushed at her asshole, delicately playing with the opening until i could feel it purse open. I repeated this gesture several times, making sure her passage was prepared.
"I want you to focus on your breathing. Just breathe, that is all i need you to do right now."
I pushed the "tool" up against her asshole, and slowly edged it forward. Her yelp brought a smile to my face. With gentle strokes, i pushed it deeper and deeper, reminding her to breathe. I told her to push out, as if she were defecating, when finally it popped "home", stationing itself firmly inside. I arched my arm around her mid-section, as her knees abandoned their efforts, giving way to the enormous shockwave of orgasm that overtook her body. Holding her for just a moment, allowing her to finish, i told her to pull her skirt back down. I led her back outside, kissed her on the cheek and sent her home.
"r" grew very attached to that butt plug. She was told to wear it regularly, but i wasn't always there to insert it, so for those times, she was to close her eyes and just envision it was my hand guiding it in. Over time, she didn't need to envision my hand, the plug soon embodied me. Around this time, i informed her of my reasons for the plug. I told her she was being anally trained, learning the new purpose for what i now called her "ass cunt". When we would chat or talk on the phone, she would sometimes leave the plug out of its home. I could tell that she wasn't full, just by her tone and her wily bite. I'd instruct her to go get it. Many times she'd resist, but my persistence would prevail. The instant that it entered her, she sunk deep into a coil of submission. She was full. She was open, vulnerable. She spoke to me about how she could feel her mind transform the function of her back passage. It no longer served the purpose she'd attached to it. It now served mine.
She hated the plug sometimes. Reviled it for its power over her. Other times she offered it long bouts of devotion, even losing her grip on sanity one afternoon when she couldn't find it. I used to cherish the glow she exhibited while she wore it, entranced with the acceptance and beauty cast by a girl captured and occupied by me.
*this continues on here
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Gain, pt. 1
Despite what many men, either online or at clubs, would have you believe, you do not secure a female's submission simply by demanding it (the oft heard slogan of "Kneel, bitch/slave/slut."). And despite my early blind insistence to the contrary, not all females are submissive. Those girls that are submissive require a patient and concerted process that demonstrates to them that the top is worthy of their gift. To me and my small circle of dominant friends, we refer to this moment of reception as "The Gain".
I've been blessed to receive this gift from 6 incredible girls, of course i went about "The Gain" the only way i knew how, and that was to transform them on some level. When i met each of them, i was at a more advanced level in sexual deviance than they were, which was an incredibly enticing prospect all its own. I relished the role of debaucherer, introducing them to scenarios via stories, photos or videos, greeting their vehemenent protests at such filth with immense sadistic delight. Each of them responded differently to my tactics, and each required a specific, custom-made approach to drawing them to a place where the mere sound of my voice or look in my eyes brought them to a deep, safe, and indisputable submission. Something about interacting with these girls, all of whom were/are strong spirits and otherwise vivacious personalities in the outside world, felt incredibly natural and right. I acted precisely as i knew i had to and wanted to, which to an outside observer (and in the initial stages with most of these girls) would appear stubbornly arrogant. I made assertions and demands that they were not accustomed to that insulted their liberated sentiments. In fact, this issue contributed to the biggest challenge i faced. I learned an incredible amount about myself as i made mistakes and miscues. However, the most important thing i learned was simply because i desired to dominate females did not necessarily mean i was fully aware of the responsibility i'd be dealt once i gained an intensely strong and assertive creature's submission.
As i said, each one of these girls gave me their submission in different ways, but there was one thing that united all of them, which told me the exact moment i had it. We simultaneously experienced the same physical sensation of an intense field of energy throbbing in our chests that can only be described as a current running between our two bodies. It expanded out into our arms and hands, up our necks, and the more we breathed within the same space, it flooded over us. We became intertwined. The first time i felt this, i was hooked. It was the greatest high i'd ever experienced, and i would do what i could over the years to get back to the moment. That it came as a result of intense degradation and objectification of the girl struck me both as cruel and beautiful.
Incidentally, in my journey to continually re-experience this sensation, i found, as a result of my greed, a very appealing and efficient method that delivered "The Gain" more succinctly than anything else in my bag of tricks. I'll consider sharing it later.
*this continues on here
I've been blessed to receive this gift from 6 incredible girls, of course i went about "The Gain" the only way i knew how, and that was to transform them on some level. When i met each of them, i was at a more advanced level in sexual deviance than they were, which was an incredibly enticing prospect all its own. I relished the role of debaucherer, introducing them to scenarios via stories, photos or videos, greeting their vehemenent protests at such filth with immense sadistic delight. Each of them responded differently to my tactics, and each required a specific, custom-made approach to drawing them to a place where the mere sound of my voice or look in my eyes brought them to a deep, safe, and indisputable submission. Something about interacting with these girls, all of whom were/are strong spirits and otherwise vivacious personalities in the outside world, felt incredibly natural and right. I acted precisely as i knew i had to and wanted to, which to an outside observer (and in the initial stages with most of these girls) would appear stubbornly arrogant. I made assertions and demands that they were not accustomed to that insulted their liberated sentiments. In fact, this issue contributed to the biggest challenge i faced. I learned an incredible amount about myself as i made mistakes and miscues. However, the most important thing i learned was simply because i desired to dominate females did not necessarily mean i was fully aware of the responsibility i'd be dealt once i gained an intensely strong and assertive creature's submission.
As i said, each one of these girls gave me their submission in different ways, but there was one thing that united all of them, which told me the exact moment i had it. We simultaneously experienced the same physical sensation of an intense field of energy throbbing in our chests that can only be described as a current running between our two bodies. It expanded out into our arms and hands, up our necks, and the more we breathed within the same space, it flooded over us. We became intertwined. The first time i felt this, i was hooked. It was the greatest high i'd ever experienced, and i would do what i could over the years to get back to the moment. That it came as a result of intense degradation and objectification of the girl struck me both as cruel and beautiful.
Incidentally, in my journey to continually re-experience this sensation, i found, as a result of my greed, a very appealing and efficient method that delivered "The Gain" more succinctly than anything else in my bag of tricks. I'll consider sharing it later.
*this continues on here
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)