Awhile back, i opened the forum up for readers to ask questions either through my comments or privately through e-mail. Frankly, i was quite touched and overwhelmed by the number of questions that landed in my deviant inbox. Because they took the route of personally reaching out, i personally replied to their inquiries through private e-mail conversations. Some of the questions made me smile over the bashfulness in the questioner. Others stunned me for their sheer bluntness. And still a select few touched me for the amount of thought and reflection they caused me to undergo in order to properly address the inquiry. I present the following as the initial entry into a series of posts i hope to author that exhibit the stimulation i experienced from those of you who were curious enough to send me a list of questions (and if there are those of you who still would like to ask me something, please don't be shy, the window is still open).
"When did you realize that you had a desire to both adore and reduce a female?"
Oh boy, that was an early one. I remember having the biggest infatuation with this daughter of a family friend, and we would often play privately together. Off on our own, she would try to direct the narrative of our play, and i would firmly take it back in my hand. Many times, she would pout, and i would scold her for pouting, and even withhold my attention until she did what i wanted her to do. Lord, that seems so long ago. I think i'll expand on this in a post.
I've written about Muffy before. But i don't think i've ever thought about my attraction to her in such a duality as the gal who asked me this question phrased it. To both adore AND reduce. Is that what i was doing with her? I most certainly adored her. I remember when i first developed a crush on her, i was all of the age of seven, and after we'd returned from one of our visits to Muffy's family cabin in the mountains, i just sat for hours on the edge of my bed thinking of her. I couldn't bring myself to do anything else (including eating - i famously went three days without a single visit from my appetite after one of those visits), i absolutely had to consume every inch of her visage in my head. From the way she looked up at me through her arsenal of fluttery eyelashes, to the statement her bouncy pigtails made - everything about her was greater than the biggest bowl of ice cream or newest toy.
But, with all of my evident infatuation, it would be expected that when we found ourselves in eachother's company again, that i would spend all of my time pawing over her gentle flavor. As i dipped deeper into my memory cache to satisfy this reader's commission, i realized that was not the case. In fact, the currency i chose to demonstrate my attachment was cruelty, persecution and sadism. I pulled on her glorious pigtails, to the point of her wailing that summoned each of our parents. I would thoughtlessly knock over her tea set that she had so delicately prepared for us, snickering as she scattered to gather the fallen decolletage. Many a times, i held her favorite stuffed, yellow kitten hostage promising to do untold tortures to it only to watch her beg and plead that i release her plush friend. I was a terror. And yet, what made me so much more infatuated with her is that she took everything i dealt. We greeted eachother with equal amounts of glee and excitement, even though she knew what was to happen during our playtime.
It didn't occur to me what magical being i'd found until one day, after once again tossing her baby blue plastic china set to the floor, i had grown bored with her immediately responding by picking up the cups and saucers, and instead of watching, i lept to the floor and pressed my body onto her. I didn't want her to pick up my detritus. We struggled for a few minutes, her writhing under me as i reached for each of her arms in order to hold them still. After a moment or so, we looked at eachother - me on top, her beneath me - breathing heavily from the skirmish, and for whatever reason, we remained in that position. It felt so perfectly wonderful, yet odd and foreign as well, as if we'd glimpsed for a moment our mutual destinies. Excited that we might've seen where we'd end up, but also awkward in the moment of its newness.
Subsequent visits found us expanding on what we discovered that afternoon. She assumed the role of my puppet, i the puppeteer. And we flourished in this dynamic. Ask anyone outside of our relationship, and Muffy was the bossy, pushy girl who told others what to do and had wildly boundless ambitions. But in our little space that we safely discovered together, she relished the idea of me manipulating her limbs, restricting her speech and even withholding my attention only to give it back in tiny, delicious morsels.
As we grew up, that clumsy bigot known as puberty interrupted our fun. She became quite self-conscious of her reaction to our interaction, and i began to recognize the uncomfortable lower erotic undertone that it alluded to. Sadly, in order to preserve ourselves, we turned our once harmonic energy into an unhealthy competition where our scholastic and athletic achievements supplanted the acreage that our secretive choreography once occupied. What once existed between us would disappear by our teens, fluttering away like the last smoldering fumes of an extinguished campfire in the morning following.
Showing posts with label bitches. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bitches. Show all posts
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Under my wing
I've had several positions of employment in my life that cover various industries and vocations (i've been fired from a handful of those, all for the same reason - an inability to take orders from my supervisor). The jobs that i struggled in the most were those that had no social component to it, and instead left me isolated on my own either operating some tool or machine while performing some mundane, repetitive task. I require interaction. I thrive off the energy that occurs when you dance with someone conversationally. I need to be able to toss in a self-deprecating remark or be a complete smart ass while tackling a project, or i feel cold and inactive. I do best in a situation where i can serve as a mentor, a counselor and an expert of some kind.
I received my yearly appraisal for my performance at my job the other day. As i was sitting in my boss's office, listening to him laud my contributions and my dependability to always overachieve (his words exactly), i thought over the parade of stints i have undertaken. I've mostly enjoyed my periods of employment, some more than others, but one position stood out to me as the finest job i've ever held.
I put myself through college via a creatively assembled cocktail of student loans and work-study assignments. While my fellow students were busy pickling their livers with the trust funds dear ole Dad set up for them, i was shelving books, cleaning headphones and cataloguing rare copies of hand-written Sibelius compositions. I longed for a more fulfilling and fitting way for me to matriculate through my higher education. When i first learned of the position of Resident Advisor (or R.A. as it is commonly known in the States), it seemed like a glorified camp counselor which didn't at all ring any bells in me. But once i read past the job description and came upon the compensation details (free room and board), i was sold.
I was convinced that i needed to become an R.A. I finetuned every electrical impulse in my body to affectively adjust their frequency so that i would acquire a position as an R.A. Despite it being the job most competed for on campus, i was able to secure a role at the University's oldest and most prestigious dormitory. However, i learned that there was some flub in my paperwork, which delayed my hiring and in turn affected my floor assignment. Apparently, the least desired floor was the very bottom, also known as "The Pit", and since i was Johnny-come-lately, this was the one i got bumped to.
Me being me, i accepted my commission without question, but was intent on changing the historic image of the cellar dwellers. Before i even took residence, i instituted an immediate revocation of any nominal reference to "The Pit", and instead insisted people refer to the lowest floor as the "Garden Level". To my surprise, on the first day i moved my belongings into my spacious apartment, i discovered the single aspect about my duty that would dominate all else. Because of the potentially dicey security matter of the rooms being on the lowest floor, the administrators saw fit to make it exclusively male (this despite the fact that the rest of the residence hall was explictly co-ed) with the thought that no pervert would break through a window that had two guys nestled behind it. To provide the R.A. assigned to this detail with a well-rounded experience, the administrators jerry-rigged a portion of the building just above the 'garden level' (ten dorm rooms in all), making it the only female-only wing in the entire University housing system.
Now, i won't make false assertions that my time as an R.A. wasn't rift with diverse experiences that made the job completely fulfilling and worth it, because that would be false and misleading. However, having my own, secluded floor of young, freshmen girls where i could act as den leader, grand vizier and overall father figure is precisely the reason i held that post for two and a half years. I confess that every social program i designed, every media campaign i instituted, and every outreach i established was targeted at those ten girl-only dorm rooms, and only then did it sadly filter down to the 24 rooms below. Each of my girls received their own unique nicknames (I have a thing for giving people nicknames - the name you were given somehow isn't enough), whereas the same gesture was not extended to my Garden Level inhabitants. In fact, in two and a half years, i had well over 60 male residents, but i can't remember a single name of any of them. However, i can easily recall each and every nickname ever lent out to my female residents.
I won't say that hanky panky didn't occur between me and any of my girls (perhaps, unethically, far too much took place) but that's not what made that experience such a sweet spot in my library of experiences. I adored the young, uncertain, in need of trust, young lady who would knock on my always unlocked door to come chat with me about this homework assignment or that dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. What made this experience worthwhile wasn't that i screwed as many young women as conceivably possible, but that i was able to get closer - if just a few inches, and a over just a few minutes - to a bundle of feminine energy. Easily, my very favorite energy of all.
I received my yearly appraisal for my performance at my job the other day. As i was sitting in my boss's office, listening to him laud my contributions and my dependability to always overachieve (his words exactly), i thought over the parade of stints i have undertaken. I've mostly enjoyed my periods of employment, some more than others, but one position stood out to me as the finest job i've ever held.
I put myself through college via a creatively assembled cocktail of student loans and work-study assignments. While my fellow students were busy pickling their livers with the trust funds dear ole Dad set up for them, i was shelving books, cleaning headphones and cataloguing rare copies of hand-written Sibelius compositions. I longed for a more fulfilling and fitting way for me to matriculate through my higher education. When i first learned of the position of Resident Advisor (or R.A. as it is commonly known in the States), it seemed like a glorified camp counselor which didn't at all ring any bells in me. But once i read past the job description and came upon the compensation details (free room and board), i was sold.
I was convinced that i needed to become an R.A. I finetuned every electrical impulse in my body to affectively adjust their frequency so that i would acquire a position as an R.A. Despite it being the job most competed for on campus, i was able to secure a role at the University's oldest and most prestigious dormitory. However, i learned that there was some flub in my paperwork, which delayed my hiring and in turn affected my floor assignment. Apparently, the least desired floor was the very bottom, also known as "The Pit", and since i was Johnny-come-lately, this was the one i got bumped to.
Me being me, i accepted my commission without question, but was intent on changing the historic image of the cellar dwellers. Before i even took residence, i instituted an immediate revocation of any nominal reference to "The Pit", and instead insisted people refer to the lowest floor as the "Garden Level". To my surprise, on the first day i moved my belongings into my spacious apartment, i discovered the single aspect about my duty that would dominate all else. Because of the potentially dicey security matter of the rooms being on the lowest floor, the administrators saw fit to make it exclusively male (this despite the fact that the rest of the residence hall was explictly co-ed) with the thought that no pervert would break through a window that had two guys nestled behind it. To provide the R.A. assigned to this detail with a well-rounded experience, the administrators jerry-rigged a portion of the building just above the 'garden level' (ten dorm rooms in all), making it the only female-only wing in the entire University housing system.
Now, i won't make false assertions that my time as an R.A. wasn't rift with diverse experiences that made the job completely fulfilling and worth it, because that would be false and misleading. However, having my own, secluded floor of young, freshmen girls where i could act as den leader, grand vizier and overall father figure is precisely the reason i held that post for two and a half years. I confess that every social program i designed, every media campaign i instituted, and every outreach i established was targeted at those ten girl-only dorm rooms, and only then did it sadly filter down to the 24 rooms below. Each of my girls received their own unique nicknames (I have a thing for giving people nicknames - the name you were given somehow isn't enough), whereas the same gesture was not extended to my Garden Level inhabitants. In fact, in two and a half years, i had well over 60 male residents, but i can't remember a single name of any of them. However, i can easily recall each and every nickname ever lent out to my female residents.
I won't say that hanky panky didn't occur between me and any of my girls (perhaps, unethically, far too much took place) but that's not what made that experience such a sweet spot in my library of experiences. I adored the young, uncertain, in need of trust, young lady who would knock on my always unlocked door to come chat with me about this homework assignment or that dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. What made this experience worthwhile wasn't that i screwed as many young women as conceivably possible, but that i was able to get closer - if just a few inches, and a over just a few minutes - to a bundle of feminine energy. Easily, my very favorite energy of all.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sugasm #90
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 #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
Friday, June 29, 2007
The greatest inconvenience i've ever encountered...
...is that of a woman and my reaction to her.
He was so politically saavy. He had to be, to have held office as long as he had. Over 40 years. I was young and brash when i decided to go up against him. I thought that i had more than those hundreds of others who'd tried to topple him but failed. He completely embarassed me. He not only embarassed me, he handicapped me for several years, undoing so much progress i'd made in my own political career, sending me back to the land of the bureaucrat.
One night, following my political defeat, i was attending a civic party just like any other. The Mayor would ask us to stand by him as he gave his remarks on whatever token issue he had chosen to highlight that evening in front of the press. Then, we would be dispersed to mingle among the crowd, spreading the good word about our faithful civil servants. I decided to bide my time as close to the East Wing open bar for as long as possible, camping there out of sight of any mayoral staffers. Out of the side of my eye, a delicious young sandy blonde caught my attention, saddling up to the bar. I noticed she asked for two drinks. I asked her if she needed help. She politely declined, adding,"My husband prefers my company solely." Point taken. I followed her disembarkment from the bar, as she slid along the floor full of the city's socialites. Her final destination stunned me into a near paralysis. I couldn't believe the fortune that my revenge had just leaned her elbows up against the polished mahogany next to me. She handed the second drink to the very man who'd gleefully wrecked my name in public.
Through various channels, i found my way to her. She knew who i was, and i knew, now, who she was. We dispensed very quickly of the need for proper protocol as recent political combatants. I set the terms of my engagement early. I wanted to use her to get at him. She indulged my desire for one, as-of-yet, unpublicized reason: the man was completely impotent. Due to a bout with cancer (also unpublicized), he had lost his ability to perform any sexual act, meaning he'd completely lost his libido. This would explain his rampant voracity for political slaughter in the later years. For her part, she was caught. She didn't want to leave him because she genuinely loved him, but she also needed satisfaction in addition to retribution for his failure to disclose his handicap before they were legally bound to eachother. The situation kept on getting sweeter and sweeter.
At first, i played with her in mildly sadistic fashions. I would call her up, insisting that she be in bed with him next to her, as she played with herself. In the early stages, i just wanted the spectre of her masturbation to hang in the air. I didn't want her to make any noises or motions to draw his attention. As time progressed, i instructed her to let out soft moans, just low enough for him to hear her. This filled me with such dastardly joy. I didn't know if it bothered him, but i had a sense that he was experiencing a level of humiliation that his young, sexpot of a bride was taking care of maintenance he was no longer equipped to manage. That sense went away pretty quickly. I came to learn that i didn't know if it was humiliating him like i'd hoped. Yet, more importantly, i didn't stop escalating the degredation with his sexy, unfulfilled wife.
If pressed, i attribute it to her incredible snottiness. She was a bitch of the highest class. I loved toppling her. I would devise scenarios where she would be forced to engage in awfully humiliating public scenes. I'd instruct her, the very public wife of the very powerfully connected senior political figure, to go to a shoe store wearing a skirt and no panties, with the objective to flash the poor, unsuspecting salesman as many times as possible. My absolute favorite was when i commanded her to travel to my offices downtown in nothing but a trenchcoat and heels, well knowing that she would have to go through the metal detectors and security checkpoints just to get past the lobby. Once on my floor, she was to slowly walk to my office with her coat lowered onto her bare shoulders, only to come inside and spend the rest of the day posed underneath my desk, with her head between my legs.
As time moved on, i realized this wasn't about revenge against the Old Man. Our's was a battle on the field of politics, and he had performed more valiantly and won. I fought a different battle with her. It stemmed from my view that the greatest inconvenience i've ever experienced is that of a woman and my reaction to her.
He was so politically saavy. He had to be, to have held office as long as he had. Over 40 years. I was young and brash when i decided to go up against him. I thought that i had more than those hundreds of others who'd tried to topple him but failed. He completely embarassed me. He not only embarassed me, he handicapped me for several years, undoing so much progress i'd made in my own political career, sending me back to the land of the bureaucrat.
One night, following my political defeat, i was attending a civic party just like any other. The Mayor would ask us to stand by him as he gave his remarks on whatever token issue he had chosen to highlight that evening in front of the press. Then, we would be dispersed to mingle among the crowd, spreading the good word about our faithful civil servants. I decided to bide my time as close to the East Wing open bar for as long as possible, camping there out of sight of any mayoral staffers. Out of the side of my eye, a delicious young sandy blonde caught my attention, saddling up to the bar. I noticed she asked for two drinks. I asked her if she needed help. She politely declined, adding,"My husband prefers my company solely." Point taken. I followed her disembarkment from the bar, as she slid along the floor full of the city's socialites. Her final destination stunned me into a near paralysis. I couldn't believe the fortune that my revenge had just leaned her elbows up against the polished mahogany next to me. She handed the second drink to the very man who'd gleefully wrecked my name in public.
Through various channels, i found my way to her. She knew who i was, and i knew, now, who she was. We dispensed very quickly of the need for proper protocol as recent political combatants. I set the terms of my engagement early. I wanted to use her to get at him. She indulged my desire for one, as-of-yet, unpublicized reason: the man was completely impotent. Due to a bout with cancer (also unpublicized), he had lost his ability to perform any sexual act, meaning he'd completely lost his libido. This would explain his rampant voracity for political slaughter in the later years. For her part, she was caught. She didn't want to leave him because she genuinely loved him, but she also needed satisfaction in addition to retribution for his failure to disclose his handicap before they were legally bound to eachother. The situation kept on getting sweeter and sweeter.
At first, i played with her in mildly sadistic fashions. I would call her up, insisting that she be in bed with him next to her, as she played with herself. In the early stages, i just wanted the spectre of her masturbation to hang in the air. I didn't want her to make any noises or motions to draw his attention. As time progressed, i instructed her to let out soft moans, just low enough for him to hear her. This filled me with such dastardly joy. I didn't know if it bothered him, but i had a sense that he was experiencing a level of humiliation that his young, sexpot of a bride was taking care of maintenance he was no longer equipped to manage. That sense went away pretty quickly. I came to learn that i didn't know if it was humiliating him like i'd hoped. Yet, more importantly, i didn't stop escalating the degredation with his sexy, unfulfilled wife.
If pressed, i attribute it to her incredible snottiness. She was a bitch of the highest class. I loved toppling her. I would devise scenarios where she would be forced to engage in awfully humiliating public scenes. I'd instruct her, the very public wife of the very powerfully connected senior political figure, to go to a shoe store wearing a skirt and no panties, with the objective to flash the poor, unsuspecting salesman as many times as possible. My absolute favorite was when i commanded her to travel to my offices downtown in nothing but a trenchcoat and heels, well knowing that she would have to go through the metal detectors and security checkpoints just to get past the lobby. Once on my floor, she was to slowly walk to my office with her coat lowered onto her bare shoulders, only to come inside and spend the rest of the day posed underneath my desk, with her head between my legs.
As time moved on, i realized this wasn't about revenge against the Old Man. Our's was a battle on the field of politics, and he had performed more valiantly and won. I fought a different battle with her. It stemmed from my view that the greatest inconvenience i've ever experienced is that of a woman and my reaction to her.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Friday, June 8, 2007
Making sense of it all
Much of what we do with our submissives involves hands on treatment. Whether it is by our hands or those objects (collars, shackles, canes, insertions, piercings, etc.) that serve as extensions of our hands, the activity usually involves manipulating them to create some level of stimulation. That being said, there are those of us who truly enjoy the process of also "putting away" our toys.
As children, we all heard, i'm sure, the oft-spoken command to tidy up our playpen. I quickly learned that i enjoyed installing my individual toys into their carrying cases as much as i enjoyed extracting them. In later years, i expressed a similar exuberance, taking much care in putting my submissive toys back, in the precise condition and place that i found them.
One of the earliest restrictions with my girl involved me binding her up in a rigorous hogtie, while she was trussed beautifully in stockings, lingerie and gloves. I sat in the next room for 15 minutes, then came back and checked to see if she felt she could manage this position for a longer duration. Securing a confident affirmative, I left her bound and immobilized while i ventured out to a social bar-b-q next door. I loved this. I was nervous as i always am about safety, but i also tingled as i was feasting on bratwursts and skirt steak while thinking of her with her wrists yanked behind her back, anchored to her ankles which were firmly tethered to the steel frame of my bed. Basically, she was put away. At one point, a friend asked me why she hadn't come with me, and not willing to miss the opportunity to unknowingly put the joke on him, i responded "Oh, she's tied up with something." I kept a clear eye on the passage of time, and once a few hours rolled by, i decided to retreat home, and rescue my damsel from her strict bonds.
Conducting my post-bondage interview, it became clear that opportunities for further behavior modification could be pursued by exploiting my girl's attraction to sensory deprivation. She owns enough scuba certifications to qualify her as part marine mammal and often discusses the complete shift in her mind from her terrestrial existence as she's floating in the warm waters, surviving on a synthetic blend of oxygen. I've discussed my fascination with extreme objectification. In those times, i've enjoyed removing the human qualities of my girl, but then using what remained. This internment would serve a different purpose.
I've read so many erotic stories on sites like mcstories.com where a girl was (by choice or coercion) put into a state of suspended animation and then subjected to a multimedia barrage of sounds, sights and scents depicting another girl's slow diminishment into sluthood. These contraptions employed by the (mostly not good) authors are quite elaborate, having devices that provide physical stimulation that is meant to positively (clitoral, vaginal and anal stimulation) and negatively (shocks, pinches or thwacks) reinforce. Now, i'm not one who believes you could sit someone in a chair for hours making her watch trashy bimbos sucking and fucking in the hopes that she would soon develop similar desires. As i expressed earlier, the desires you want someone to act on for the most part have to exist in order for their behavior to be instinctual. Nonetheless, i spent many hours contemplating the rigmarole i could devise to perform the mental transformation of a bitchy brat to a compliant slut.
The first exercise in submerging my girl into a tight, world-vanquishing cocoon served as the basic model for every inducement since. "Why mess with what works" is in full operation here. She is stripped, then each of her limbs, her torso and head are encased in shrinkwrap. The only things that are left exposed to the air are her ears and her mouth. Everything else is confined. She is further encapsulated in a layer of duct tape, and occasionally i'll wrap her in latex sheeting. Sometimes i elect to remove her sense of hearing with earplugs, to completely shut her out. Other times, i'll hook her up to an iPod. I'll feed into that white noise, Bach or on a few occasions, i've had her listen to these mp3s i found on the internet a long time ago that have this guy repeating sexual suggestions over and over (i consider these mostly as a joke. my girl considers them torture because she can't stand his voice and she finds their attempts at subliminal hypnotic techniques ridiculous). I've fiddled with the use of respiration but have not taken the plunge and have her use her regulator and tanks. I'm aching to advance to this. At some point, i will want to submerge her in liquid. One of my biggest fantasies is to have her suspended in gelatin. The "re-birthing" as she is extracted from that makes my chest throb.
All of this is an incredibly arduous and labor-intensive process to achieve behavior modification, when i could just instruct her on how i'd like her to behave. However, the process is part of the modifying, not to mention i get off by transforming my girl into a capsule. Her mind thinks at a thousand microns a second, and quite frequently i want her to escape into nothingness to relieve herself of her massive mental calculations. For these periods where she is entombed, since there is no sexual stimulation going on, her mind reverts to a point of utter, uninhibited pre-natal bliss. She's in storage, existing only as a biological system with no need to think.
As children, we all heard, i'm sure, the oft-spoken command to tidy up our playpen. I quickly learned that i enjoyed installing my individual toys into their carrying cases as much as i enjoyed extracting them. In later years, i expressed a similar exuberance, taking much care in putting my submissive toys back, in the precise condition and place that i found them.
One of the earliest restrictions with my girl involved me binding her up in a rigorous hogtie, while she was trussed beautifully in stockings, lingerie and gloves. I sat in the next room for 15 minutes, then came back and checked to see if she felt she could manage this position for a longer duration. Securing a confident affirmative, I left her bound and immobilized while i ventured out to a social bar-b-q next door. I loved this. I was nervous as i always am about safety, but i also tingled as i was feasting on bratwursts and skirt steak while thinking of her with her wrists yanked behind her back, anchored to her ankles which were firmly tethered to the steel frame of my bed. Basically, she was put away. At one point, a friend asked me why she hadn't come with me, and not willing to miss the opportunity to unknowingly put the joke on him, i responded "Oh, she's tied up with something." I kept a clear eye on the passage of time, and once a few hours rolled by, i decided to retreat home, and rescue my damsel from her strict bonds.
Conducting my post-bondage interview, it became clear that opportunities for further behavior modification could be pursued by exploiting my girl's attraction to sensory deprivation. She owns enough scuba certifications to qualify her as part marine mammal and often discusses the complete shift in her mind from her terrestrial existence as she's floating in the warm waters, surviving on a synthetic blend of oxygen. I've discussed my fascination with extreme objectification. In those times, i've enjoyed removing the human qualities of my girl, but then using what remained. This internment would serve a different purpose.
I've read so many erotic stories on sites like mcstories.com where a girl was (by choice or coercion) put into a state of suspended animation and then subjected to a multimedia barrage of sounds, sights and scents depicting another girl's slow diminishment into sluthood. These contraptions employed by the (mostly not good) authors are quite elaborate, having devices that provide physical stimulation that is meant to positively (clitoral, vaginal and anal stimulation) and negatively (shocks, pinches or thwacks) reinforce. Now, i'm not one who believes you could sit someone in a chair for hours making her watch trashy bimbos sucking and fucking in the hopes that she would soon develop similar desires. As i expressed earlier, the desires you want someone to act on for the most part have to exist in order for their behavior to be instinctual. Nonetheless, i spent many hours contemplating the rigmarole i could devise to perform the mental transformation of a bitchy brat to a compliant slut.
The first exercise in submerging my girl into a tight, world-vanquishing cocoon served as the basic model for every inducement since. "Why mess with what works" is in full operation here. She is stripped, then each of her limbs, her torso and head are encased in shrinkwrap. The only things that are left exposed to the air are her ears and her mouth. Everything else is confined. She is further encapsulated in a layer of duct tape, and occasionally i'll wrap her in latex sheeting. Sometimes i elect to remove her sense of hearing with earplugs, to completely shut her out. Other times, i'll hook her up to an iPod. I'll feed into that white noise, Bach or on a few occasions, i've had her listen to these mp3s i found on the internet a long time ago that have this guy repeating sexual suggestions over and over (i consider these mostly as a joke. my girl considers them torture because she can't stand his voice and she finds their attempts at subliminal hypnotic techniques ridiculous). I've fiddled with the use of respiration but have not taken the plunge and have her use her regulator and tanks. I'm aching to advance to this. At some point, i will want to submerge her in liquid. One of my biggest fantasies is to have her suspended in gelatin. The "re-birthing" as she is extracted from that makes my chest throb.
All of this is an incredibly arduous and labor-intensive process to achieve behavior modification, when i could just instruct her on how i'd like her to behave. However, the process is part of the modifying, not to mention i get off by transforming my girl into a capsule. Her mind thinks at a thousand microns a second, and quite frequently i want her to escape into nothingness to relieve herself of her massive mental calculations. For these periods where she is entombed, since there is no sexual stimulation going on, her mind reverts to a point of utter, uninhibited pre-natal bliss. She's in storage, existing only as a biological system with no need to think.
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
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Xmas dinner with the Stevensons
I drove up to the house in Faircrest Hills, arriving at the estate in my dilapidated pickup truck. The valet looked at me as i handed him my keys with what i expected would be the first of many "you don't belong here" looks. I felt the same about him. Who has a valet at their house? I walked up the path to the front door, which seemed to magically open on its own upon my approach. As i stepped through it, i saw the proud butler holding the door in such a way that most of his body was hidden by it so that arriving guests wouldn't need to be distracted by his bodily presence.
Curving upwards, as if taking off in flight from the landing i stood on were two long marble staircases, with a golden strip of carpeting flowing right down the middle of each. These staircases served to frame perfectly the first of eight Christmas trees that i would encounter in the Stevenson's mansion. It was easily the biggest Christmas tree i'd ever seen in someone's house. 18 or 19 feet high, yet it came nowhere near approaching the lofty ceiling hanging above. However, this wasn't the most spectacular thing about this ornamentation. Looking at the base of this gigantic blue spruce, i saw what i suspected had to be true. Thinking no tree holder could be large enough to support this tannenbaum on its own, without trying to register my surprise, i looked at the trunk sinking right into the oval of earth cut out in the floor. I wondered as i was escorted to the north wing where the guests were milling if the Stevensons had planted the tree or if they'd built this enormous house around it.
I'd been invited to this festive banquet by the youngest of the Stevenson girls who i'd been seeing off and on at College. I knew and she knew i didn't belong, but i accepted her invitation nonetheless. I really wanted to see the environment in which she'd been incubated that contributed to her incredibly sexy bitchiness. I don't want to give the impression that i was outwardly some rebellious looking wolf who the youngest girl of this upper crust family hoped would cause shivers in the stiff vertebrae of her parents. On the exteriors, i was and still am very clean and dapperly dressed (which has always caught off any girl i have revealed this tilted side to), it's just that the Stevensons were that wealthy. They were among four families in the area whose names crested institutions, government pavilions and of course industries.
Dear old Papa did his best to reinforce, during the glamorous seven course meal, the esteem and prestige that made up the Stevenson pedigree. I realized he didn't usually regale his banquet guests with accounts of the precedents and pioneering achievements struck into the roots of our entire community by the hands of his lineage. He was doing that for my benefit. I listened to every word, impressed at the fluidity of his speech and pride in his heritage.
I smiled at him while i listened, while in my head i contemplated the contrast of the image of this founding clan parading across the terrain and the image from just the night before of his youngest daughter (whose leg had been running up and down my thigh ever since the second salad course) crawling on all fours, completely naked, across the floor of my dorm room, carrying my homework in her mouth that i'd had her fetch for me.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Working back to the Big Bang
I was never drawn to the shy, meek female. The ones that grabbed my attention were the most popular girls who had a loyal following despite their unhindered bitchiness. And if it wasn't the icy cheerleader, it was the exceedingly independent "dark" girl who was writing on her tattered jeans words like "death" and "destroy".
Now, i start this tabloid about my sexual journey somewhere in the mid-point. The cheerleader and dark girl were only characters i encountered once i started Junior High school. At some point i plan on expanding in all directions from this period of my life (the direction dictated by my and any of my readers' interest). This will serve to illustrate what i believe is the overall anatomy of a man who has grown comfortable with the fact that he enjoys the struggles of a beautiful female (muffled or not), put in a predicament of his choosing.
At the time when my social clique dictated that i stick to the Honor Roll and Speech and Drama club for my teenage romances, i couldn't help but wander to the section of the hallway where the cheerleaders bubbly and viciously convened and the South wall of the rec yard where the dark girls poured over their notebooks filled with poisonous odes. I would linger, take a position that would not expose my observational purpose, and just watch. Occasionally, i'd get called out, by someone who (usually of the opposite sex) noticed i was not with "my flock", but most times, be left alone.
The chapters of my early teenage exploration of the female species consisted of short periods of bored "dating" with nice enough girls who broke the bell curve on tests. But most of it happily resided in this realm of observance of the bitches and the darks. Once my freshman year of high school came around, i had found myself in a few relationships with girls from these two groups.
What surprised me was a universal reality i came to discover about these girls. It wasn't a universal quality they all shared, but my uniform reaction once we started dating.
I wanted to transform every single one of them.
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