Indications

You would think at this stage of the game that i don't need further evidence of my position on the dominant side of the SM coin. And honestly, it's largely true. I don't seek further validation of my place in this dynamic (despite the myriad reasons that crop up, reminding us that we're still not in the "green zone"), yet i cannot stop those instances in my life where such validation occurs.

We were preparing ourselves for our dinner date. That evening, we would have the pleasure of sharing a meal with meg and her beau. My girl was rifling through her various outfits, trying to find the one that wouldn't overstate her appearance, but would also not misrepresent it. In the end she chose to wear her tuxedo corset, with an accompanying long, black skirt and heels. I remember that i needed to remind her of the exchanges meg and i had engaged in regarding this double date, only because these details are largely left omitted from her, and that it would make for smoother conversation if she had more background. One of the things i'd mentioned was that i'd like her to discuss the phenomenon of cumming on command with meg.

"Why's that?"

"Why's that? Well, i think it would be really interesting to - just bring it up. You know this is something i'm interested in."

Already, it became evident to me how this topic would be something that wouldn't have my girl's full attention, thus making it all the less likely that she'd bring it up over dinner. I sat a little while and fumed over this, knowing that i was in an untenable position. Certainly, i could force my girl to chat with meg (who she was just meeting for the first time) about her ability to cum on command, but there would be one thing that was severely lacking in the discussion: my girl's desire to cum.

It's true. My girl doesn't have a burning desire to masturbate. In fact, it wouldn't be a complete misrepresentation to say that more often than not, i've suggested that she go into the bedroom and masturbate several times more than i've ever "caught" her masturbating (truthfully, such a discovery hasn't happened). Believe me when i say this, i would LOVE it if i were to "catch" her curled up in a fetal position on our bed, making the dirty and nasty with the Hitachi shoved firmly between her legs. Alas, it just isn't her priority.

This doesn't mean we don't have an active, feral sex life. Quite the contrary. But what it does mean is that i've never been able to withhold orgasms from her as a method of correction or punishment. Honestly, were i to ban her from cumming for a week's time, she'd simply look at me with a look that registered one single word:

"Really?"

Turning back to that evening, i reminded her of how meg is one who really responds to the withdrawal of permission to orgasm. She finds it both frustrating and exciting. I waited...let a few beats pass into the air, to see if my girl would offer her accordance with this point of view and then i remembered, it doesn't have the same impact on her.

And that is when the reaffirmation began to materialize.

"Darlin, what do you think of the idea that i might forbid you from masturbating?"

"Well, i think the idea is interesting. I really like the idea of somehow being controlled, even if it's not something i regularly do."

I smiled, and then i thought about it myself. How would i react if my partner suddenly decided that i couldn't masturbate for a week, a month, or even an entire year. I WOULD BE PISSED. And that's when the clarity plopped me hard upon the head. I know for a fact that i wouldn't react in any sort of positive fashion should someone decide that they wanted to control my masturbatory behavior. And, honestly, i can't think of a clearer indication of one's side of the SM coin.

Even my girl, who doesn't really enjoy or have a drive to masturbate, found something stimulating in the idea of control. Whereas, i bristled, bucked and battled with the idea. There might be those of you out there who feel that this is just an isolated example, but for someone who isn't looking for reasons to define myself as the dominant in my partnership, this one came across loud and clear.

-------------------------------------

For the record, we didn't speak about this in our outing during our dinner date with meg and her amazing beau. It didn't even occur to me to bring it up (nor would it have occurred to my girl - NEXT time) because we were having too much fun breaking the ice and chatting about topics all of us do not normally get to chat about in person, live, and engagingly.

In reflection

Throughout my life, i've often heard from others that i'm starved for attention. In many ways, this is true. When i'm at a party, i tend to be the one regaling everyone with stories and and having them in stitches. At lunch, the subject, if it's not on something general that we all can discuss, is usually about me and some aspect of my life. In public, i make sudden loud noises when i stretch, i don't mind singing a song at high volume, and i'll goof on my girl and say something like "No, i will NOT kiss you on the subway. God!" very loudly. When i was younger, i was frequently nominated to represent our class in school-wide speaking events and had very little problem presenting in front of large groups. I enjoy the spotlight, in fact when in it i feel a very similar sensation as when i'm being served by someone. But, to say that i'm attention starved, i'm not sure i agree with that statement. In fact, when you put that in the framework of my power exchange, it doesn't fly. I quite frequently give a great deal of attention to my girl - certainly it is in the service of my appetites, but it is also servicing her appetite to submit. It is her rump i spank, her dress code and look i manage, her limbs i bind, and her entire body i cocoon. This is not attention that is reciprocated. All of this had me pondering what exactly it means to seek someone's attention.

Is it merely just someone becoming your audience? That wouldn't seem to be enough, really. If they just stood there, blankly staring at you, not offering any emotional response or feedback. We want kind words, pleasing and complimentary words. We want validation, we want applause. We want to see evidence of joy created in the person, but even that isn't the root of what we seek. We want to know that we offer this person, the world, something valuable, intangible, unique. What are we really after?

Our reflection.

Attention from someone is the kindest mirror we could possibly encounter. I remember as a kid, i used to have a notebook-sized mirror i would take off my wall and put on the floor and pretend it was a doorway to another world through the ground. And i would visit with this person, and ask them what was in their world, and i would eventually come to learn that the world in that looking glass was the idealized version of the world i lived in. The "me" in the mirror was giving me the kind of attention i so often sought because he was ultimately validating me - in fact resembling me identically. I'd laugh at myself, make silly faces, but where i really enjoyed these moments was when i stared into the reflection of my eyes and felt a deep connection with that "self".

Maybe that's what attention gives us - a connection. Despite all these new, digital ways we can chain ourselves to people diluting our lives of interpersonal interaction, it hasn't made that desire to connect any easier or any less potent.

Routine

My body doesn't react well to heat. Neither does my mind. It invades the crevices of my brain like a slowly, slithering droplet of water that rots away the wooden foundation of a house. I get irritated. I'm cranky. Most unfortunately, intimacy with my girl suffers. I've tried my best to wrestle with these annual demons, hoping to not let this weather that i cannot control get the best of me. As a result of this struggle, my girl's weekly maintenance has not materialized while the humidity super-saturated the air. I'm not proud of this, and sought to correct the absence of her corrections.

---------------------------

"What are you hungry for?" I asked her while leaning against the doorjam of our living room.

"Oh, gosh. I don't really have a taste for anything," The air wasn't moving in the apartment, and it was very easy just to remain stationary. I could tell she was fully sedentary - a state not conducive to her having a preference for much of anything. "Well, what do you want?"

"We really need to address a more important matter first." I gave her a quick wink with my left eye.

"You mean - oh...yes, spanking. How do you want me?"

I turned and left the room, walking back along the hallway, "Come to the bedroom - and remove those damn socks."

The socks were off before she entered the dark chambre. I guided her to the end of the bed, positioning her differently than what she's used to. Instead of her gripping the footboard, i laid her body over it so that her torso rested completely on the mattress, and her feet anchored to the floor. Lifting her dress, i took note that she'd also already removed her panties. The contrast of her pale, white mounds in that dim setting immediately aroused me.

"Please lay as still as you can," I told her, as i abandoned her backside for the bedside table. Pulling out the drawer, i retrieved the trusty - and hated - wooden brush. I developed an immediate kinship for this device, it being a long time since we last collaborated. He felt confident, secure, and solid in my hand. I brought him to her right buttocks, and stroked her snowy skin. My ears delighted at the familiar sound, rough abrading sighs of bristles sanding her cheeks. Over and over. Stroke. Brush. Burr and shine. The electricity of my movement soon came alive in her flesh, filling the area with a vibrant rosiness. I flipped the brush over and pattered her ass with a chorus of swats, inviting more of her blood to rush onto the corporal scene. When finally my favorite cherry color satisfactorily covered her derriere, i asked her for a number.

"12...?"

It being so long, i felt a lenient ambassador speaking on her behalf inside my head. I took his advice into consideration and made my determination.

"16 - and don't forget to count."

I placed the brush on the bed, near enough so that he didn't miss the festivities. I gave the air a few moments while i flexed my naked palm. It too hadn't been called upon for awhile. Pulling back my arm, i landed the first swat upon her left cheek. Because of how i'd positioned her over the metal frame, upon impact, her mid-section slammed into the black scrolled steel, magnifying the pain. Perfectly as designed.

I greeted her ass cheeks with an assortment of strokes - a collision of the full meat of my hand across her flesh; a downward onslaught from the top thirds of my fingers; a wicked, lightning-quick whip of just the tips of my fingernails (easily the most painful). Her response was remarkable. In a very short time, i spent my 16 lashes. Both of our breaths spilled rapidly into the atmosphere. I desired more.

Grabbing her by the hair, i pulled her up from the bed to face me, then pressed with both of my hands upon her shoulders, moving her to the floor. Her mouth opened and instantly accepted my rigid phallus. Hungrily, her head bobbed up and down, knowing that at the end of this, her full rewards awaited. For a moment, i held her head still, allowing her mouth to just nurse on the flesh gagging it. Finally satisfied with this act, i pulled out with a salivary pop. I lifted her from her knees and quickly swung her, stomach-first, over to the side of the bed. Without discussion, she opened her legs with an inviting lift of her rump. Filled with guttural excitement, i entered her from behind.

"Say: Thank you for fucking me."

Her voice raspily complied,"Thank you for fucking me."

"Repeat it. Don't stop." I continued to pound into her hind quarters, over and over.

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

I remember them all

The appetite is a peculiar and most unforgiving fuel. Many things we long for, few are necessary. Some might even say that our tastes are largely artifice, creations of our environment and our history. The small list of necessities - food, water, sleep - makes for a rather simplified diagnosis of how life should be lived. All of our behaviors should be molded so that they can deliver us these bare essentials, and yet the essence of life is very imbalanced and stacked not in our favor. Not only will we never find satisfaction, we will also be faced with this punishment for the entire time we stand on this rock.

But it can be easily said (as evident by those of you who are performing an act that falls outside of "necessity" in order to read these words) that life carries with it much more complexity than just the need for caloric sustenance of our bodies. If the entries i have posted to this site are worth their measure, it can be said that feeding the body is only accomplished in order for us to then feed the soul. I eat life so that i can feast on life.

With that in mind, if we were to examine the banquets i attend or create, there exists a certain number of prerequisites. Among these treasure trove of trinkets and pleasures i pursue, nothing exceeds my desire for beauty and my fascination for decay. When brought together, you get the very spinal chord that houses the central nervous system of The Lustful Quality.

Shelved amongst the inane bits of information and trivia i have gathered over the years, one would find a dozen or so stories of girls who suffered, endured and survived my chemical experiments where i mixed the holistic gift of beauty with the wrenching qualities of decay. Some of those tales would be rather tame, where i fiddled with an adorable chestnut-haired novice for a few days, only to release her back into the wild - unscathed and only mildly marked. And yet, others would turn the most open-minded person's stomach as i retell how i made the innocent (and sometimes not so innocent - but always consenting) girl grovel, prostate, plea and suffer just because i was obsessed with the process of denigrating the gorgeous female form.

I'm not entirely pleased with myself when i think back on these episodes, but i accept them as the collateral damage that i needed to rack up in order for me to understand who i am and what my appetites are. However, let there be no mistake of the cherished place that each of those girls holds in the catalog of my mind. They've made achieving these twisted appetites an honor and a thrill.

Request denied

Anyone who listens to the radio, watches the news on television, navigates to their counterpart websites or picks up a daily paper knows that the US economy is struggling. Faced with, for the first time, gas prices that are on average $4 a gallon (which, for our European counterparts is nothing compared to the $7+ per gallon they pay), the common American is feeling a pinch. Jobless rates are up. Inflation rose at an incredibly high rate over the past 6 months. The mortgage crisis continues to rear its menacing face throughout the country. Let us not forget to mention the weakening dollar, which exacerbates some of these issues. Clearly, Ma and Pa Yankee are grappling when it comes to their pocketbooks.

I knew things were bad, but i don't think i was aware of just how bad they are. For the past seven years, i have participated in the Regents' Internship Program with great enthusiasm. Around this time, we would've selected a candidate for the 3 month assignment, sent her off for training, and happily greeted her to her new desk and shiny new office supplies. Mid-March, i typically perform an inventory of tasks as yet incomplete or new projects that need a fresh pair of eyes. I give this list to my secretary, who in turn translates this into an assessment of our need for a set number of man hours to complete it, which then gets forwarded over to the Director of Human Resources. Based on the number we provide, a pool of candidates gets selected by their backgrounds, the focus of their college majors, and their skillsets, which are all pre-screened by my esteemed assistant.

March came and went, and a list of potential field hands never crossed my desk. I asked my secretary if she'd heard anything regarding the Regent candidates, indicating she had not, she immediately saw the larger ramifications of this. By mid-April, i became very (perhaps all told, overly) concerned when nothing such as a question regarding openings in my schedule for interviews came from upstairs. I took matters into my own hands and made a visit to the head of our HR. I asked if she'd received our laundry list of projects. She had. I asked if she had any questions about it. She didn't. Flummoxed by her nonchalance, i inquired with sharp-bladed precision whether or not we were going to be participating in the Regents' program this summer.

That was up in the air.

Two weeks ago, as if she were announcing the mundane news that a daisy in some Spanish meadow had lost a few petals, the HR Administrator casually informed me that our company would not be participating in the mentoring project.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Hardly."

"Why on earth would we not participate?"

"Have you seen the news about the economy?"

I wanted to yell out at her "What the hell does that have to do with this?" as she walked away from me, taking her dejecting attitude and painting it like a vandal all over the walls of our office. Apparently, because there are some tough financial times, we're not able to open our doors to young, underprivileged college students, offer them knowledge transfer about working in an office environment and pay them on the cheap.

Yes, i realize i am being an incorrigible brat about this. There are people out there for whom this downturn in the economy is impacting much deeper than this episode i describe. That i believe my company is using the economic turmoil as an excuse to pad poor decisions it made when it over-compensated the executive staff is honestly not the point.

I enjoy every stage of handling my interns. From interviewing the female-only group, and looking forward to their diligent allegiance to my dress code, to reviewing their typos in the inaugural memos i ask them to type. But most importantly, their presence, their raw, electric feminine life that comes and goes in such wistfully jubilant strides will be something that my summer will inherently lack. As it should be clear, i am a massive fan of the fairer sex, and spending these hot months cramped up in an office without my annual girl pageant is something i'm not quite prepared to handle.

En vacance

Ahhhhhhh...

I can feel the relaxation already. I'm stretching my limbs up towards the cloudless, crystal blue sky. I'm carefully cleaning the gunk from my sunglasses. I'm rummaging through my untouched stack of literature, looking for the one or two reads whose leaves will be easy to thumb through as my attention gets drawn out to the rolling surf bubbling up over my sandaled toes.

I'm leaving for the next two and a half weeks, and won't have any access to these pages until i return. But don't worry, my dignified readers.

Stormy, my beautiful and eloquent amie de coeur, has gallantly offered her gracious tutelage over this site in my absence. I look forward to the path Her Erotic Demise will take under her steady and (often) playful guidance.

So, without much regret, i depart. Enjoy the broadcast of TransformHer under different management. I know i will.

Internal affairs - saying goodbye

Those who know me, understand my abject distaste for the heat, mugginess and sweating that arrives with the Solstice. Thankfully, i do not feel as though the dog day's ever arrived because the weather has not been arduous or unendurable. The fact that we've had a rather mild hot season out east, makes me considerably less irritated (and irritating). But, i would be remiss if i didn't also attribute the ease and comfort i've had during this most recent summer to the service provided me from, easily, the best intern in my entire tenure.

Her last week having just passed, i feel compelled to address her progress as a tribute to her. But i also face, which i tend to not remember when, in the spring, my cheeks fill with the ruddy excitement of beginning another internship program, the reality of saying goodbye to someone who had once served you. To others who do not relish this commodity, it may miss notice. For me, the corners of my mouth curl in a Seussian splendor when i feel that i am the focus of someone's labor.

*this continues on here

She delighted me nearly everyday, slithering more and more under my skin. What i saw as rigidity in the interview process, i was privileged to see soften as she grew more and more comfortable around me. AND...the girl could wear a skirt. Not like some ladies who toss them on as nods to their office protocol, or like mannequins stationed in a window whose immobile anatomies never warm the fabric and give it shape. She wore them like a flag wrapped around its pole in a summer breeze. She wore them like a ballet dancer wears a tour jete - flawlessly, effortlessly.

I take pride in the little impact i had on her overall prowess. I gave her a place where she could comport herself a certain way, and have an excuse for her reasons why. I enjoyed thinking of the social hours spent back at her local pub engaging her gaggle of twentysomething sex-in-the-cityers who demand to know why her hands were now a constant pageant of manicured art. She would roll her eyes and confess "It's a requirement for work." I removed her of a rather tragic habit of referring to herself or an action of hers as "stupid" - at my insistence, she was never allowed to use the word around me. I gave her the strength to enjoy her state of apprenticeship. So many moments of youth are spent anxious and impatient for growing up and excelling. I gave her an environment where she had plenty of opportunity to learn, but also a sense of accountability for when she made a mistake.

Of course, this reared its rather humorous, but unfortunately pungent side one time when she needed something from me at the end of the day. She had a habit of relying on the phone to communicate with me, rather than face-to-face. I was on a conference call for the better part of an hour, and several times throughout the call, i saw on my call-waiting that she was trying to get a hold of me. I ignored it. About a quarter to four in the afternoon, i heard a light rap on my door. Again, i ignored it. Shortly following, i saw on my call waiting that my secretary was trying to get through. These i never ignored.

"Yes?"

"K needs to speak with you for a moment."

*sigh* "Fine."

The door creaks open and in walks what looks like a brow-beaten version of my usually perky and adorable intern. She carries with her a folded piece of paper. I hold out my hand and she delicately places it in my palm. I unfold it as i let the chatter of my conference call go on in the background. What i read must've been easily the third or fourth draft of her message, because the wording is impeccable.

"Mr. D,
My mother has requested that i go and collect my younger brother from day camp. Would you be at all open to me leaving a tad early in order to do so?

"yes"___ or "no"___

Regards,
K

p.s. please do not widen your eyes or yell."

I chuckled as i held onto the note, waving her out of my office. The next day, i would, of course, commend her for asking first, but tell her that she could've asked my secretary, instead of trying to get through to me. This level of attempting to please i have not seen in an intern for several years. I know i will miss this energy.

I've said goodbye to several interns. I seldomly enjoy it. When i've taken on a soul i perceive as submissive, it is not an easy thing to release them back into the wild after such a short and specifically constrained period of time. I feel each of them has taken a part of me with them. Yes, part of that is my impact on them, but also their impact on me. I grow very attached, and knowing that tomorrow morning i will not see her eruditely cherubic face as i go trudging down the hallway or will not again get to hear her creative pronunciations of words (for example, at her farewell lunch, she proudly ordered the "Sall-mun"), it makes me a bit sad.

Right before she left on Friday, she came running into my office to say farewell and share with me some exciting news she learned from our HR department. She's been invited back for next summer's program, which means, as she puts it, i'll have her as an intern again.

"Lucky for you", i told her.

We hugged eachother goodbye, holding on longer than perhaps boss and employee should. I looked her in the eyes and told her she'll be fine.

I know she will be.

*this continues on here

The Circle

In the early stages of my career, i was quite fortunate for two specific reasons:

Firstly, due to my inexperience, i felt the need to alter, stretch or even fabricate what knowledge i had in order to get me in the door.

Secondly, i had the luck of encountering potential employers who couldn't tell i did this or didn't care.

Either way, my early jobs, as a result of my embellishments, were often more fantastic than i probably deserved. I travelled all over, spending long spans of time going from one locale to the next. I remember one notable 20 day period had me dashing through no less than 15 different cities. It was exhausting, but for a young man my age, equally exhilirating. Over time, i learned how to find the basic comforts and needs in any town that i'd grown accustomed to having back at home. Except one thing: companionship.

Unfortunately, the kind of female company i sought wasn't outfitted by calling a local escort service. For several reasons, you just can't hire a submissive girl. This unique problem sent me on the difficult course of finding a submissive in as many of my ports of call as possible. In retrospect, as i type this now, i can see how arrogant and mostly unpragmatic this pursuit was.

In all, i had a girl i could call on in Chicago, Tampa, Philly, San Antone, Toronto, New York and Nawlins. When i knew far enough in advance that i would be visiting, i'd call up my host and arrange some time with her. Usual protocol would be for her to begin wearing a buttplug that i had given her early on in our exchange, at least a day before i arrived. I wanted to make my unique impression on her. There is something about meeting with a girl who's been plugging her ass for you for a period of hours that just builds this insane level of anticipation. She knew i had put so much thought and energy into her stationed this way, and i knew she felt the constant pressure. Most visits were rather calm, and would not have filled the shelves of the erotica section of your local bookstore, especially since i usually just wanted her to serve as company. When you are in a city all by yourself, peace comes in a familiar face. Very often, i would have her sitting near me as i drank a cocktail to unwind, her beauty and grace serving as a shield against the day's stress.

My favorite girl was my Toronto hostess. We connected on so many levels, but she also served as the most mysterious. She would ask me to pick her up in the most random of spots. A busstop out on Dundas. In front of a vegetable vendor in St. Lawrence. I didn't ask. Well, until it got in the way of being served. After she stood me up once, i insisted on knowing why. What she told me i still haven't fully grasped.

I know i risk exposing myself to a kind of unwelcome attention by merely having the title i've chosen for this post. Should i speak of this subject as if it were false and it proves not to be, i've put myself in an unfortunate position.

She told me that she was a member of a society known as "The Circle". This was a collection of incredibly wealthy men who have their various representatives approach incredibly gorgeous young women proposing them the opportunity to live very comfortably in exchange for their liberty. These young, consenting women are then taken to a remote location, drilled in the rudiments of sexual service, and then traded amongst the spokes of "The Circle".

I know, preposterous. But, why did i want to believe it? I remember asking her only one question about it. Why was i able to enjoy her company if she was essentially a slave to this group? She said it was part of her ongoing training. That satisfied me. I didn't want to know more because i didn't believe her, and her company was a luxurious oasis in a desert of hostile faces that i was unwilling to do without. I also felt myself wanting to believe her. I wanted to believe that an organization such as this existed. It was incredibly arousing to think about. The powerful feasting on hand-selected and made toys.

Years later, after i'd relinquished my claim on these girls, i found myself coming back to the idea of "The Circle". I'd grown tired of my local SM scene. It was overrun by social rejects and folks who believed that kinky=freaky. I realized that the biggest problem behind these clubs and parties i would occasionally frequent was that there was no screening process. Anyone who wanted to explore could come and clog up the floorspace. I understood that not everyone raced along inside their deviant behavior at the speed i did, but i grew tired of having to share the same racing track with the beginners and finding few attractive submissives in the largely male-dominated chapters. I longed for some covert fellowship, where an intense, highly scrutinizing review took place for potential newcomers. I sent out feelers to various contacts within the lifestyle, asking them to *wink-wink* level with me. I got no nibbles. And then it hit me, "they" would not want you to look for them. They'll find you when they want to.

I've always said patience is one of my best characteristics.

Internal affairs

Every summer, the Director of HR comes down to tell me that i've (mysteriously) qualified once again for the annual Regents Internship Program, and that in the next few weeks, i'm to interview the list of candidates whose profiles met my seasonal needs. She will shyly wink at me as i inquire into the "quality" of the crop this year, assuring me that i will find several qualified applicants.

The following two weeks, my secretary will arrange interviews every afternoon from 2-4, wherein i will meet the various candidates who've among all of them, never had experience in an office or department like mine. My secretary, who i would know not what to do with my daily industry were it not for her diligent inspection and filtration of anyone who would try to get a moment of my time, has further whittled down the list to ensure that the right fit will be among them.

Every single person i interview, it should come as no shock, is female.

During each screening, I see a complete spectrum of red tones flushing their cheeks, a display of the various acrobatic skills their fingers have as they nervously twirl them on the conference table, but almost never the whites of their eyes. Out of the handful that i interview, one or two will stand out. They are the ones who tilt their head as they softly but with some grip to it, shake my hand, offering a smile that lifts my gravity up from my ankles. They laugh at my dry humor, and appropriately stifle a forced chuckle when i'm being absurd. They are the ones that stick in my mind, leaving me with an excitement at the idea that they might flit around my office all summer.

Once i've selected the one i want, i have my secretary draft letters to all who came in. Polite dismissals to those who didn't earn the position, and a detailed list of guidelines and expectations to the one who did. And yes, there is a run-down of the dress code i expect.

I do not mention the dress code at all beyond the correspondance they receive in the form of an offer letter, but, not a single intern in the last seven years has failed to comply. There have been those incidents where i know for a fact that the intern was testing my resolve, and i have had to send them home for the day as a result. Some have even gone home crying. But, they've always returned, and by the end of the summer, we've developed quite a deep and sincere rapport. A good handful of my past interns keep in touch with me even to this day (one flattered me two years ago by asking me to walk her down the aisle).

I provide them with an exposure to an office environment, especially one that deals with as diverse a cross-section as government officials, union representatives, stodgy accountants, and high-level management. But something tells me, that's not why i continue to have success with the interns i've selected over the years. There are those days where i will call her into my office, ask her to close the door and just sit in the chair as i work.

She knows why she's there, and so do i.

*this continues on here

Commissions

I walked into the store, dressed in my usual above average apparel, stopping just a few steps inside the door. I waited. I put my hands in my pocket, looking as relaxed as possible. I scanned the well-appointed boutique, eyeing the gentlemen who prided themselves on their ability to make a man feel special. Not a single one approached me. I hadn't made my intentions clear enough for them to engage. My station right at the front of the store didn't signal commitment. I loved this sort of verbal-less exchange. In the short time i'd stood there, every single one of them had sized up my seriousness at indulging in a purchase and the size of the purchase simply by the quality of my shoes, the cut of my pants and the stitch on my lapels. What they hadn't discerned out of these visual cues was that i wasn't there with the goal of getting the perfect suit boxed up and sent on my way. I was there to be served. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the emporium, engaging the entire staff, regaling them with stories, building a camraderie with them as they fit me with suit after suit, even complimenting my tastes (as if i chose the designs myself).

Once in awhile, i will leave with one of those suits (of course negotiated for a price more to my liking), but most times, i leave with just a single tie. I don't need the threads. I do however need the catering to.

I love being fitted for a suit. I get tingles that run up and down the back of my neck when i am the center of someone's consultation. Sitting in the chair as i get my shoes shined, i just melt, closing my eyes and sizzling with euphoria. The same sensation massages my head when i get a hair cut. I am perhaps the only person who isn't interred and elderly that picks up the phone when the caller ID indicates that it's a telemarketer on the other end. I listen to their pitches, i ask them questions, i inquire about their careers, prying them out of the narrow script they've been trained to follow. It becomes their pleasure to entertain me with their pitch, meanwhile, i'm secretly lavishing this personal attention.

It doesn't just have to involve me as the sole focus. You may also pamper my girl and i get the same thrill. Just the other day, we were at her corsetier. She was being fit for a new underbust s-shaped corset*. I sat in a chair and watched him tug the muslin over her midsection, taking out pins and notching them at spots to get the right action from the temporary boning. He would hold up swaths of different patterned fabrics, demonstrating color combinations he thought would please her. He completed what he needed to do for the corset fitting, and was going to move to the next item, but i stopped him before he removed the mock-up from her body. I wanted him to proceed with it still on. He pulled out the custom latex armbinder (that i had designed), with attached boned bustier, and slipped this up her two arms clasped behind her back. He laced it until her elbows met in the middle, then buckled the dozen straps further anchoring her immobilized appendages to her body. I got up and walked around her, examining the device. I pointed at certain areas where i felt a few inches could be lost, other areas where the contour of her beautifully gloved hands could be more pronounced. He made notes as i finished my inspection, taking dictation of my wishes. I've commissioned many things from him, and the attainment of the objects matches the pleasure i derive from him serving me only because what he crafted ultimately symbolizes my specific desires.

These types of exchanges happen on a daily basis, entering into negotiations and fulfilling contracts. Every time i find myself in one of them i think the following:

"You are looking to get something from me, when all i'm looking for is to get served."

*(not pictured on his site)