Multi-tasking

The thing that interests me the most about cooking is the chemistry involved. You can take an egg (a liquid) and apply heat to it, and it changes into a solid (an omelet). Because I'm able to understand these phase changes, I'm actually a very gifted cook. I can read a recipe once, understand the basic methodology the various chemical/physical reactions it's intending to create, and improvise. I'm able to open my fridge, scan the leftovers, jars and vegetables, and compile a quick meal that exceeds most courses on offer at higher end restaurants. I'm not saying this from my point of view. I'm saying it from the point of view of the countless dozens of people who have been the recipient of my cooking. They cannot help themselves but offer their joy and delight upon immediately tasting the cuisine in front of them. All it takes to make a good dinner is concentration and clarity.

So then, why would I fuck with this combination by putting my girl into a predicament bondage tie while I'm in the middle of preparing the main course for an upcoming dinner party?

It had been awhile since she and I had played, and we had both been able to take off some extended time from our jobs during the holidays. This left us with more leisure time than we're used to having. I was going to the Italian market that morning, to get the essential ingredients for the sauce I'd be serving for dinner. As I was leaving, my girl came to me and expressed her interest in being tied up at some point that day - and who would turn that down? I told her I would be able to work it in once I started cooking.

The afternoon arrived, and I led her to the bedroom. On the bed, I had already laid out four 7-meter lengths of hemp rope, her latex-strapped wand/vibe harness, and her baby pink latex hood from Kink Engineering. I quickly bound her arms at her elbows, then anchored these to her torso, encircling her tits, until all bits were well wrapped and squeezed. I moved to her left leg, and affixing her wrists to her ankles, bound up her leg so that it was pointing up towards the ceiling. I repeated this same arrangement on her right side, threaded the rope through the outer bars of her bed, which forced her thighs up and outward. She would not be closing those for the entire time she was bound. I buckled her Hitachi into the harness wound around her crotch, and rest it between her legs. The head of the wand rested firmly against her naked, anticipating cunt. The last thing I did was to pull the snug, pink latex hood over her head, ensuring the micro-cut nose holes were in the right spot on her face.
And then I left.

I wandered into the kitchen, set the timer on the oven for 8 minutes, and began preparing the ingredients for my tomato sauce. When the timer went off, I quietly entered the bedroom. I began to inspect the rope, to make sure her circulation remained vibrant. I checked to make sure her breathing in the hood wasn't too obstructed. Kissed her delicately on the shiny, pink forehead, then flicked the switch on the Hitachi to 'low', and exited the bedroom.

Setting the kitchen timer to 10 minutes, I returned to my task, sautéing the ingredients I had prepared. The scent of the aromatics in the pan finally burst into the air right as the timer went off.

Once again, I penetrated the quiet bedroom, but this time, I was met with the constant hum of the Hitachi, and the seductive myews of a girl slowly reducing into a sexual collapse. Immediately, I turned the wand off. I methodically checked the rope and her breathing, and saw that she could easily remain for a good time more. I began to walk myself back to the kitchen, but before I left the room, I felt the rhythmic throb of my erect cock tenting out my slacks. In fact, once I took a moment to notice, my entire demeanor had altered, and a hunger to torment smeared itself all over my face. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out my black, latex cock sheath, lubed up my pulsing member, and slid it into the sheath.

I went back to the kitchen to attend to the sauce cooking on the stove. Set the kitchen timer for 8 minutes, and tried as much as possible to not think about the bound, naked, writhing frame lying on my bed.

Over the course of 45 minutes, I would repeat the cycle of wand on/wand off, eventually building the crescendo of not being able to stop myself from sampling the pool of erotic energy that once was my girl.

Incidentally, the sauce turned out amazing. Our dinner guests couldn't stop praising its richness and vitality.

Risk taken

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Putting pressure on myself

The other day i was looking at a new corset maker i'd discovered, going through the usual evaluation process:

critiquing the corsets shape/construction (some really good S-shaped items, perhaps too many pipe stem corsets for my tastes); dissecting the corsetier's dedication to tightlacing (clearly, Fran is a practitioner herself of corset training); and ultimately will i purchase one for my girl (*sigh* yes, i probably will).

There is no doubt that my girl adores corsetting. In truth, she doesn't devote as much free time as i do to the research and exploration of the artform of restraint. I'm the one who usually introduces her to the latest device or accoutrement she will likely sport, and i understand that is how our dynamic has been constructed. But, i also understood that there are deeper, more integrated motivations for my passions.

I love restraint. I love bondage and confinement. I always have, but here's where it may not be exactly clear: i love restraint for myself. I recognize that hearing a Dominant male offer that in addition to restraining his submissive girl, he also likes to apply it to himself may result in a little head-scratching. I might even risk my membership in the Great Hall of Fierce and Ferocious Dominants by admitting these appetites. Alas, risk i must.

I've spoken in the past about exercising my own restraint, but what i'm referring to in this diatribe isn't self-control. In fact, it might make more sense if we used the slightly different word of "constraint" or also known as the application of physical pressure.

It's important that i convince you that this isn't something that i've just been walking around with in my pocket. In fact, it's somewhat of a surprise to me. I've been binding up pretty girls for so many years, i never stopped to recognize that there is some of this gesticulation that i like to do to myself. Let me be more clear.

As long as i can remember, since i was a kid, i have put tape on my fingers, wrapping it around each digit as an athlete or guitar player might. I love the constriction, but i also like how it looks, aesthetically. I also really enjoy how it feels to peel it off my skin at the end of the day, slowly revealing the ring of moisture-parched flesh underneath. Extending this practice, i have a collection of leather and velcro straps that i've accumulated over the years that i will, on occasion, wrap around my forearms, my biceps, or even my mid-section.

I remember one of my favorite things to do as a kid on a Saturday afternoon was to sneak down into our basement and burrow under the piles of freshly washed laundry. The more compression i felt, the more secure and at peace i seemed. I would lay there for hours, even falling asleep. I didn't want to do anything else with my weekend, just rest underneath all those layers, imagining that i was in some kind of factory, waiting patiently in the mold, until the moment when my raw materials had cured and hardened.

Even today, i still like wearing ultra-tight underwear, pants and shirts. I enjoy the rigidness and the restriction of the tight-fitting garments, but i also like how it makes me feel more cohesive and put together.

Oddly, none of this has any submissive applications. I've never wanted to be at someone else's whim, bound by them. That actually irritates me just to even think about it. No, for me, this is something i'm in complete control of, because it's not the position of power this places me, but the sensation of compression that i'm after.

That said, i do look at my girl, mummified in several layers of plastic wrap and duct tape with a little nostalgia.

Medium well done

The media

In some ways, it's responsible for framing my approach to my kink (some might even say it's responsible for the formation of it - fine, i'll allow that). Whether it's from viewing Popeye cartoons at a young age that involved Bluto kidnapping the hapless Olive, only to offer us brief scenes of her torture, then interrupted by the hero's spinach-laden rescue or the climactic finale of Young Sherlock Holmes where the adolescent gumshoe, in the nick of time, saves a mummified damsel from her waxy entombment - my introduction to the abduction of the female as a way to interact and commute with her came from this artificial construction.

I didn't know what i was seeing. In my real life, i wasn't seeing actual evidence of any kinky proclivities from the flesh and blood around me. There is no doubt that the media i encountered had a major impact on my sexuality. A certain image stimulated a part of my brain that up until that point was just agitated, an itch i couldn't scratch. But once it saw this image of a beautiful girl bound tightly by rope - ahhhhhh, relief! Suddenly, a visceral connection is made between my internal, secretive appetites and those broadcast through a wider medium of others. When i would encounter these familiar scenarios as a teen (again not in real life, but usually through a magazine or film), my mind made a pleasant association with the image before me, further reinforcing the hope that this kink of mine may someday be savored.

Because i am an animal with appetites, once i learned that there was a source for the kind of sustenance my lust required - the media - very soon, that was where i directed a great deal of my time and energy. But here is where it gets skewed. Since i was not producing any media (except for the written word, which is mostly all you encounter here), i was merely a consumer of what was available (still to this day, they have not made the erotic movie that i'd deign to make if i had the proper funds). Over time, the unabashed consumer will find their appetites and desires altered, reformed to fit the flow of consumable materials. So to was the case for me. I found myself aroused by things i never expected to be stimulated by, and after awhile, it became difficult to clearly delineate what were my own native impulses from those implanted by the media i voraciously consumed.

When i finally decided to create this site, i realized i was making an active step to participate in the very realm that forged my own internal desires. I contribute to it here by sharing my words and posting photos/videos that illustrate my point of view - but that's just it, they are just my points of view. I am just one (highly opinionated) man with a particular bent on the world that occupies a rather small corner of the kinky blogosphere. I cannot compete with the onslaught of images and stories that other high-profiled, commercially-focused and well-financed put out - nor do i ever intend to try to compete with this, but i recognize that i occupy a spot in the constant, unending stream. Even though, recently, me and my girl embarked on the exciting endeavor of actually creating media (photos specifically) of a professional nature (already, we've made it into a few publications), our transmission is a mere trifle compared to the largest and loudest voices out there.

It should also be stated that i continue to view SM media constantly, repeatedly, and emphatically. It is a daily treat for me - one in which i'm able to shut down when i realize i've wasted too much time plundering through the digital channels. One thing to note, however, is that the media is persistent and non-stop. We're under a constant barrage of imagery and motion that attempt to reinforce and stimulate deeply held fascinations of the opposite sex and the erotic theatre (for largely profitable enterprises), and it's up to us to decide what we're willing to let influence our psychology, and what we're willing to toss into the trash.

Putting the "shhh" in shackling

As i live in a very big city, like most urban dwellers, i reside in an apartment. My unit occupies the entire floor of our building, with a neighbor above and below sporting the exact same layout. The wood flooring that extends throughout the pad does little to insulate the pitter patter of the upstairs toddlers' amidst their play. Nor does the thinness of the ceilings - due to the 19th-century architecture of this brownstone - keep much of the constant hollering and caterwauling of those who live below confined to their own boxing ring.

Out my windows, on both ends of the apartment, i am no more than 100 feet from my closest external neighbor - both streetside and the rear of the building (think 'Rear Window') - which means at anytime, if my shades are up, a potential of over 100 eyes could be peering at the happenings of my humble abode (this is why they invented dungeons). Now, i frequently parade around my bungalow with only what the good Lord hath given me, to the dismay, i'm sure, of my neighboring eavesdroppers. Not because i'm a slob and unkempt - i'm rather well fit, i assure the reader - but because i so often flaunt my nudity to the point of overkill (there is a purpose for this). In this country that i love, it is mildly acceptable to be naked in your home without the shades drawn, however, it is not acceptable in any way to engage in the deprave acts that i pursue in mi casa.

This means that the many times i've mummified my girl, tied her up and whipped her, encased her in garish latex, or simply slipped a gag into her mouth, i've done so under considerable limitations. Shades drawn and a pledge from my girl that she try to hold in her screams (how taxing is that thought?) which usually puts an interesting dent into what we try to accomplish. We do not want to arouse the neighbors suspicions at the overflowing moans of agony pouring from these floors (but, i often wonder, how fair is it that i don't question the young parent's above on their neglect for having let their child scream bloody murder for 40 minutes?), nor do we want to interrupt our agenda.

There are times that we travel to remote locations for vacation, wherein we usually like to pick destinations that are far from anyone else, offering us seclusion and solitude. Here, we can be as loud and boisterous as we want, which reminds us of the interesting negotiation frequently entered back home with our surroundings. Silence may be golden, but for us, it's part and parcel of living in such close quarters.

Lifecast

Nearly done
Originally uploaded by GilesG

I want to mold you.
I want to press upon you with my hands.
Spread my rigid insistence over your body.
I want to freeze you, capture you, imprison you.
I want to build from your materials my sculpture, my art.

You will stand immobile, a reflection of my every want, every wish, every desire.
Your frozen form will tell others of the choices you've made, demonstrate to all that look upon your stationary corps your own passions.
This statue you have become will broadcast your life in one solitary, unmoving image.

Cradled

I waited until she'd started her shower, rummaging through my collection for the necessary equipment. In the background, i could hear the sound of water pouring forth from the shower nozzle onto her body, cleansing her. In a few minutes, i would provide my own form of cleansing.

I stood at the end of the bed, looking at each post, then studying the steel scrollwork that formed the footboard. I spread my legs as far as i could, until each foot rested against the bed's supporting trestle. I gathered my bearings, feeling how much balance i'd lost from when i was just standing straight up. I examined the thick, black railing that travelled between the two posts. I rested my wrists on it, spreading them as far out as i could.

More. I'd need more.

I leaned my torso forward so that my arms could lie against the railing. I noticed the arch in my back in this position.

More. I'd want more.

I folded my top half fully over the bar, pressing the center of my chest into it. This brought my entirety of both arms in contact with the rail, even my armpit rested on it, but more importantly, it caused an extreme, even taxing arch of the back. My butt peaked into the air like a mountain ridge - impassable, unavoidable, intense.

I'd found my posture.

She emerged from the shower, glistening with freshness. Truthfully, i adore every inch of my girl, but my favorite moments to put my hands and mouth on and in every crevice and cavity is right after she's bathed.

"Darling, are you gon-"

I interrupted her by grabbing her by the wrist and directed her to the bathroom. She followed silently, accepting of the transaction about to take place. I pressed her body into the bed's end and asked her to let me know if she should grow cold. I then set to work.

Feverishly, i grabbed a coil of jute, positioned her right ankle to the same spot my own was in modeling this posture. I quickly anchored her foot to the bed, traveling up her leg, attaching every twelve inches or so the rest of her thigh to the bed's frame. I switched to her other leg, and mirrored my rigging. I specifically pulled the rope that ran just under her ass cheeks on both sides particularly tight for three reasons:

-this cradle would provide an inordinate amount of support and security to her, allowing her to lean back in the bondage
-it pinched the meat of her ass, causing it to bubble out and protrude in a cartoon-like fashion
-it would trap more blood in the sub-cutaneous levels, resulting in dramatically-enhanced markings from the cane

I fashioned her arms to the railing with as much greediness as i had enjoyed on her legs. In fact, several times, i had to pause and re-adjust the sizable erection straining upward in the crotch of my pants. When i was finished, she sat there completely immobilized. Her naked flesh angrily conversed with the rope that bound it to the steel bedframe. It was an inviting picture, her body hung like captured prey in my trap, juxtaposed by the very furniture she and i sought for re-energizing and slumber. It reminded me of the a rhyme from my childhood days:

Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Once i'd sufficiently fastened her to the bed, i stepped away, examining my handiwork. I thought of the wind, and its blows, its strength, and its damage. I exited the bedroom and walked down the hallway, knowing i'd leave her hanging there for a few minutes before i returned, cradle and all.

Working the kinks out

As i write this (and i usually write my posts, instead of type them. I use the typing portion as the editing stage. Did someone say intern?), my girl is in her den click-clacking away on her laptop. She doesn't know that in about two hours from now, i will call for her, wherein she will expeditiously respond by coming into my den. I will be situated in my comfortable chair, exposing a large amount of lap for her to situate her little tummy right on top. Before she stretches herself over my knees, she will lower her panties (perhaps even remove them), and gather her skirt over her hips. There is much i enjoy with taking her over my knee. It paints such a beautiful image.

-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.

However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.

Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).

And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.

But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.

de ma femme

I've been milling the decision about on how i can get my girl's perspective onto these pages for nearly the entire existence of "The Lustful Quality". Recently, the light bulb illuminated in my head.

"Eureka! I'll give her a writing assignment!"

(Not another assignment - Good God, man, aren't you hard enough on her?)

I know what i think and feel (mostly) when i mummify her. I wanted her to write out how she reacts to it. This will be her first writing assignment for this site. There might be more, there might not be. Rather than her crafting directly onto transformher, for now i'll re-post her writing*. That way i can keep her...

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Under Wraps

Usually the way I know it’s going to happen is because he tells me. As his girl, I wait for his cue, and he’s not shy about giving it. I’ve been mummified a few different ways — sometimes it’s a layer of cling wrap followed by a layer of duct tape, other times it’s gauze bandages — but every time, the medium is his choice. Part of the excitement for me is that I am but a pawn in his game, the base for his sculpture. Were it not for the relationship between us, I might as well be just another girl from a classified ad, but the fact that I’m not changes the nature of the scene.

Cling wrap is typically used in the winter, when it’s already generally cool in the house, but even then we usually have to turn a fan. He often uses the green cling wrap, since it’s one of my favorite colors, but sticks to the plain gray or black duct tape when a more industrial look is preferred. On other occasions, he might not use duct tape at all, and just leave it at green shrink wrap. When the gauze is used by itself, my skin can breathe, and my body becomes a rainbow of bandages. Sometimes my mouth and nose are kept free for breathing (and other things), other times I breathe through a tube. As with everything else, it’s ultimately his choice. When I am his mummy, I am his creation.

For me, this is entirely freeing. I love sleeping, so being forced to remain in one position for a long time and turn my mind inside of itself is both a treat and a relief. At the start of the session there is almost always a period where it takes some time for me to adjust to the fact that I am powerless, but eventually it comes to me that I’m actually powerless all the time. When mummified, I can do nothing but breathe, which is the very least I need to do to survive no matter what the case. The gradual acceptance that so little of my life is in my control is ultimately liberating, although frightening at first. Once I reach that point, my test is one of endurance. How long can I sustain having my legs bent backwards, my arms forced into a reverse prayer? How long can I go without being able to take deep breaths as I please?

Part of my responsibility as the mummified object is to let him know my limits. Boundaries being what they are, sometimes I don’t know where the line is until it is crossed, and that’s another facet of our play together. Throughout a session, he talks to me, checks in on me, and I can indicate my status with grunts that tell him whether I am okay or in need of release. Moreover, my head is usually one of the last things to be wrapped, and so while my body is contorted he asks me how long I think I can last in this position and works from there. This part is really important to me. I may be his subject, his work of art or even his victim, but at the end of the line my needs come first. Similarly, his needs are defined once I’ve named mine, which for my part are determined with his satisfaction in mind. If this sounds confusing, I don’t blame you. Where the wants and needs of two people are in constant flux and communication, that is where you will find the rarest of things--a true partnership of trust. For me, mummification is an expression of this trust, and I hope it is as positive and relaxing for everyone else as it is for me and my man.

*If you'd like to leave a comment for her, please do so. She reads these pages and the comments and loves feedback.

The Price

The other day, i was chatting on a completely benign subject with a friend of mine who resides on the complete opposite side of the continent from i, when a very vivid image of a scene came into my head. Amidst our amicable catch up, i started writing down the pictures and the narrative that came attached with it, fleshing out characters and actions and speech. What follows is the opening of the story that pronounces the imagery that had slid into my head.

I'm not certain what i'll do with it. I don't know if i'll continue it. I don't know if i'll make it a subscription-only piece of fiction. I have no idea what will happen beyond this post. All i know is that i offer to you, the reader, the opening to what i've come to think of in my head as "The Price".

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During the day, I work in the financial district of Lower Ambourdy. I've managed to amass a good amount of wealth by managing the money of the affluent. These upper crust members of the population acquired this surplus through various ways. Some entrepreneurial, a few through windfalls that brought a sudden cashflow, but most of it inherited. The old money came about through the hard work, the cheating, the conniving, the finagling, and backstabbing of their ancestors - but most importantly on the back's of indentured servants and slaves.

I can make this harsh pronouncement firstly because it's true - I've seen it in person. Secondly, because having my own expanding bank account, I too have relied on the fruits of bondage. Now currently, at the moment, I do not have any chattel in my possession. However, that will change come week's end.

For the past decade, I foreswore myself off the practice of human trafficking, and for many years, I'd been successful at keeping those yearnings at bay. Perhaps the pressure of my career (which is an excuse, I know) leads me to reconsider my prohibition. In actuality, I understand that it is the utter abyss of soullessness that surrounds me at every turn in my vocation - the pursuit of money and nothing else is a carcinogen of the worst form - that I find myself dialing dark numbers, recalling old cryptic passwords I once had set to memory, and making cash withdrawals from my bank in only small bills. I feel the same revulsion at my decision to go this route as I did years past, but I also feel a familiar sublime weightlessness that accompanied the guilt and self-doubt.

Exactly two weeks ago, I acquired in my possession a new charge through contacts I had in the underground market, and assuming her medical examination passes without any alarms, she is to be delivered to my residence by Noon on Sunday. I assigned my sergeant-at-arms with the task of personally conducting the search for the hired girl. In a period of five months, he examined well over 300 females, in different venues scattered about the Sound Staten proper. In regards the one he selected, his report has her as young, early 20's, very quiet and shy, and of exceptional refinement. He said that throughout the entire time he spent scrutinizing her, she only said - actually, yelled - one thing. She didn't demand that he stop his manhandling, or cease his drudgery, instead she insisted with four words.

"PLEASE - KEEP ME PURE!"

I can't imagine what this means, and it has me quite frankly intrigued. Is this creature's purity so precious that in the midst of being sold as an object, she must pronounce its sanctity to the evaluating audience? The urgency in her tone, aroused me, but her apparent acceptance of her fate gave me a deeper fulfillment. I allowed myself to sink back into old habits where each breath I respire has an immediate purpose. That of torment, pain, transformation. Every thought, every daydreaming moment focused on this girl's arrival and my preparation for it. Thankfully, I remembered lessons I'd learned from past experiences that stayed fresh on my mind as I continued to stretch my mental faculties. It's crucial that I avoid learning too much about these girls before they arrive, and I absolutely never ask for their name. Once they enter my chambers, their past becomes a shadow that only they can see.

Treading

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I won't need that for awhile."

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

Arms to the sky

From time to time, i will experience a period of introspection wherein i evaluate my dominance in the domestic power exchange that informs my household's operation. Lately, i have felt that i had not taken as stern a position as i could in the correction and training of my girl (of course, if you ask her, she might completely disagree with this, and rather categorize this self-criticism as a symptom of my perfectionism). Hearing the poor marks i give myself, there are those of you who visit this site and must wonder:

"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"

"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"

"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."

And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.

Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.

Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.

Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.

As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.

I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.

I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.

I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.

Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.

"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."

With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.

"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."

I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.

Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.

"Fowh."

"What?!? Are you serious?"

She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.

Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.

Water

He lifted the last glass out of the sink and held it beneath the faucet pouring forth the liquid:

Water, dancing over his hands, the glass, sliding into the drain below.

Such water does not arouse much notice for others, but he finds himself mesmerized by this fluidic force. It captures light, changes it, shifts it, makes it disappear completely. Objects submerged in water must immediately respect its movement, they must bend to its dictation.

He felt the crystal flow pushing on his hand, on the flesh and the muscles and bones beneath it, pushing them down, rolling over them, dictating. Mindless of its target. He instinctively wanted to push back against it, but the smoothness of its command and texture weakened his will to resist. He loved this sensation knowing that in the same body of water there can be gentle lulling and forceful torrent. He rubbed his fingers over the curved surface of the flute, using the water to vanquish the evidence of the night. Her lipstick upon the rim, her fingerprints around the neck, all of these remnants of their libatious cheers clinging like sediment to the glass. He pressed against the clear surface, squeaking the new and clean, closing the cycle of vanishment.

This 'clean', Man learned very early on. He learned that to remove his body of impurities, he must immerse himself in water, he must submit to its properties. Modern Man has turned his back on the purity water offered. Modern Man lathers himself in dyes and perfumes, but still, at the end of this ritual, uses H2O to remove these artificial potions from his body.

Not him, however. He exalted the sacrosanct nectar. He respected water's supremacy for he wanted it for his own. Reaching across the sink, he twisted the knobs to extinguish the flow. One does not waste such power.

He dried off the glass, placing it back in the cupboard. Exiting the kitchen, he turned into the living room, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table. With a flick, he doused the lights, tossing the handheld onto the couch. The satin glow of his fish tank wobbled like a gigantic areola, throbbing along the ceiling and across the wall. He walked down the hall, to the stairs, ascending each step one at a time, with a tap to the banister with his fingers. Stopping midway, he bent down, picking up her black silk negligee that had been discarded on the way up. He rejoined his ascent, fingering the frail material. In transit, a thought popped into his mind.

"She'll probably want this when she gets up."

He stopped, pausing for a second, and chuckled to himself while staring at the closed door at the top of the stairs.

"...if she's able to get up..."

*this continues on here

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 3

A man and his tools.

There is a very precise and precious relationship between the two. The first few items he acquires are usually found, inherited or errantly purchased just to satisfy his immediate needs. But that does not diminish the man's connection to them. He uses them to craft, to tinker, to fix and repair. And he does this mostly in solitude - A man alone with his tools, jointly focused on the object to which they are applied. Over the years, he will acquire new additions, retiring old ones, finetuning his collection which serves as a non-vocal expression of himself.

A man rarely thinks about how he may appear to others amidst the use of his instruments. They sometimes take on the status of a secret mistress, where the man doesn't act the same way around them as he does around his friends. I myself witnessed this with a chum of mine i'd known for over a decade. One day, he invited me to his woodshop for the first time, to work on a project of my own design. When he first greeted me, he looked the same as he always had, but once set in front of the racks of tools hanging from his shop's walls, his appearance changed. He took on more the likeness of a little boy, with a gleam in his eye, as he greeted the numerous implements in his collection and contemplated their potential to create an object out of raw, uncut materials. He had no idea he'd come off differently, but he later offered that it was strange, almost difficult sharing that experience with me. He wasn't prepared for the vulnerability he felt inviting someone into his shed to view his intimate connection with his utensils.

Our last installment on the evening between me, my girl, K and his had us just at the beginning of our use of a newly ordered supply of jute rope. It wasn't until i was walking back to the living room with the rope-filled bag that i realized i felt odd, perhaps a little bare. Hundreds of times, i'd grabbed this satchel, digging in it for the precise equipment i required. In many ways, this sack represented a physical manifestation of my imagination, the ladder to the next level in my imaginary world. Once i stepped into the warm light of the den that cast on my girl and our guests, i would be exposing a very delicate entrance to my internals.

I undid the latch, and began to disembowel the case of its ropey entrails. Bundle after bundle of khaki coils piled up on the coffee table, wafting a sweet and rich aroma of seaweed and leather into the air. I called my girl to me, and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. Her proximity brought me comfort. I kissed her on the lips, then instructed her to disrobe. I didn't pay close attention to the other couple, but in my periphery, i could see a tender exchange of caresses and movements that eventually had K's girl in the same naked state as mine. I looked to K for his lead for what should take place next. I've bound my girl dozens of times, even leaving her tied for hours with confidence that my self-educated rope skills would satisfy the purpose. That night's activity, however, would require a level of acumen i didn't possess, and for that reason, K served (nobly, patiently and graciously) as my guide.

He grabbed a 7 meter coil and with it methodically bound the hands of his girl behind her back, starting what would become a basic but sturdy torso harness. I mimicked each tug and turn of the malleable jute, arranging my girl's limbs to resemble her counterpart's. I loved the friction of the rope's fibers across my flesh, leaving a slight trail of burn between my fingers and thumb. The detail-obsessed demon inside me found ample opportunity to commandeer the rigging, as it took meticulous care to make sure the rope lay beautifully across her skin, both lining it up and coiling it in a perfectly eye-pleasing way. In very short time, we had both girl's arms immobilized, as well as their naked tits bound tightly by the interweave of sea foam-colored rope.

At this point, K excused he and i from the bound bottoms in order to go examine the pull-up bar as well as provide a little more tutorial. The apex of the evening as we had planned it would culminate in my girl's inaugural suspension. Nervous but confident in my tutor, i reworked his oral instruction over and over in my head standing beneath the rigid rail that extended between the door frame of my study. When we returned, the strangest but loveliest of spectacles met our eyes. As we left them, constricted, topless and armless, the girls had found seats and taken up a conversation they'd started some hours before as if the configuration of their limbs were normal and warranted. This touched me for some reason. I believe it spoke to the level of comfort established by us all in that atmosphere, but also the pure peace each girl sank into when bound as such.

K led his bottom into my study and quickly anchored another length of rope to the back of the rigid harness trussed around her frame. Every inch of movement or action he took, he dictated to me the methods he employed, ensuring i understood why the rope was attached at that exact location or how to protect the submissive from being whipped in the face by the rapidly yanked lariat. In what seemed like an instant, he was ready to hoist his girl into the air. She'd mentally retracted inside of herself (or it could be seen as opening herself to everything and anything), that when he tugged on the lever that he'd created, lifting her from the ground, she responded as if that was the natural location her body was to occupy for the next few moments of time. He asked me if i caught all of that. I had not. He asked again, firmly, but patiently. Again, i indicated that some of it had been lost on me. With exquisite confidence, he then lowered her and raised her several times, until my mind captured the mechanics of the winch, allowing me to transfer the instructions to my hands that held tightly to my excited but uncertain girl.

K finally let his girl hang for a few minutes with her legs wiggling beneath her, giving her the pleasure of suspension, before he released her. Rather than immediately attend to me, as i awaited to repeat this effect with my girl, he ministered to his roped submissive, quickly checking to see if she was in order before proceeding. As he did this, i continued to replay in my head the step-by-step instructions he gave me, trying to implant my girl into the pictographic illustrations. When it came time to perform, i felt a sensation of calm firmly in my grip.

Without much intercedence, K observed as i used the rope to craft a halyard to my girl's harness. I stopped a few times to allow him to inspect, but otherwise, i could sense a momentum building in my hands. I squatted a little as i held the tackled rope, and placed my shoulder into the cavity of my girl's chest. I spoke quietly to her.

"Ready?"

She breathlessly indicated her affirmative, and i pulled, simultaneously lifting her with the rope while supporting her with my body. Once i was certain the suspension would hold, that the principles of Archimedes would indeed do all of the work, i held firmly to the working end of the line, and stepped out from underneath my hovering girl, leaving her hanging completely freely for the very first time in her life.

I was amazed at how little strain there was in the length of jute i held in my hand, yet the arrangement i crafted from the instructions i received looked suspiciously too simple. My darling submissive dangled in mid-air, completely unable to free herself from this predicament. Her skin sung a song of rosy awareness, while her cunt moistened her twin, exposed petals. I swung the girl-sack that hovered above me back and forth, snickering to myself at how vulnerable this item was in this position. A few minutes passed when, finally, i could detect a change in the composure of her physiognomy. It was time to come down.

As my nose picked up the effluvium of the not yet consumed, hearty soup drenching the air from the kitchen, i recognized that our evening was drawing to a close. I could sense how hungry my girl had become, and i accepted the fact that her time off the ground had ended. I knew she was done, there was not much more that i could purchase from her body. It was time to feed her and our guests the meal i'd been preparing all day. After all, i'd kept her in suspense quite long enough.

Wrapped up in herself

She'd had a particularly horrendous week. Her job had become a rather stressful environment as the rumor of multiple layoffs built steam - a job, it should be noted that she only works to pay the bills while she spends her free time pursuing multiple projects that fulfill her advanced degree and training. She'd also just endured this, not to mention that we had an upcoming visit to the corsetier, which is never a completely enjoyable event for her.

All of this fell upon us as we were walking back home from an engagement. It heralded in a much needed weekend, which led us to discuss what we might do with our "ample" leisure time. We individually keep our own calendars, taking great care in synchronizing them as our lives are robustly spent in multiple theaters, and both of us had set aside time for yet another quartet with my friend K and his girl. I hadn't heard from K all week, which led me to believe that our night of sundry behavior was not to occur. Taking this into account, i measured my own mental faculties and recognized i needed a replacement, some form of play that would satisfy my appetites. I weighed this against the kind of week my girl had tolerated, and then created a program in my head that addressed both our needs.

Realizing we had no obligations or appointments, she asked what i wanted to do with our now open and free evening. I told her i had a plan. In her agitated and overrun state of mind, this chafed her, which i could detect as well as anticipate.

"I have a vision for what i'd like to do."

She breathed a heavy sigh,"Baby, i don't think i can do anything too strenuous. Not with the week i've had. I don't think i could handle any serious spanking or flogging."

"I know. If you can believe it, i'd actually assumed you'd be stressed. But, you needn't worry. What i have in mind will be very calming. Trust me."

Those two words - 'trust' and ' me' - signaled to her my overall reflection on her emotional state. All negotiations ceased, she could tell i had the situation well in hand. Once we returned home, she slipped into the resigned state of a vessel that would allow my empathetic guidance to overcome her.

A while back, i had ordered a large amount of items that would permit a serious session of mummification. I know how my girl reacts to this method of entombment, and felt it a perfect fit for her current state of chaos and flagrant uncertainty. Upon entrance into our home, i told her to find a comfortable seat as i readied the implements of her next status. I laid out a dozen roles of 3M athletic wrap, a pair of surgical safety scissors, and her Hitachi wand. I then summoned her to the bedroom.

I asked her to remove her robing, positioning her at the foot of the cast-iron bedframe. I took a roll of the colorful permeable wrap, and wound it around her upper torso, followed by her neck, then fully encased her entire head. I then turned to a different color of the flexible dressing, and bound her arms to her mid-section, encasing the rest of her body in tight constriction. I then grabbed the Hitachi, positioned it with the business end right at her sensitive floral parts, and secured this with more 3M tape.

I then stationed her in the bed for her long-term internment. I grabbed the camera and started taking pictures.





































































Admittedly, i had a specific color scheme in mind (some of you may try to guess what that "inspiration" was). I examined her to make sure all of her vital functions could continue and then left her resting there in her tight fortressed cocoon. Checking on her periodically where i would fiddle with her exposed tits - tugging on her nipple rings and rubbing the soft skin of her bosom - and flick on the slumbering vibrator strapped to her cunt, i returned to release her after almost an hour of encasing. After this amount of time, she receded in my mind into an absolute object, one in which i unabashedly play with to satisfy my urges of manipulation and control. She was no longer the girl i converse with about our daily meanderings, but instead, she assumed the form of my full throttle sadistic design.

Once she emerged from these layers, she faced the world as one who had found a comforting center. Here, she was allowed to occupy a persona that sloughs off the hardships of her everyday life. No matter how many times i repeat this ritual, i welcome this rebirth. I thrill at the evidence of this renaissance, knowing that we will continue on to face whatever mediocrity all of us must encounter in this austere hardship we call life.

more Demands

It is very evident that you require a strict, regimented structure to keep you organized, otherwise you have a tendency to forget important tasks, let requests slip, or do things incorrectly.

I want you to begin keeping lists. I want you to keep track of objects i say you need to have on hand that are easily obtainable at your grocer, hardware store or art supplies dealer. You will put this on a 3'x5', unlined notecard. You are to make the list as neat as possible, using your best penmanship, each letter finely crafted, each line perfectly straight and evened out. You are not to make any spelling errors or miscues - even a single errant pen mark or drop of ink will require you to start all over from scratch.

When this list reaches 25 items, i want you to set aside a day where you will go and fetch every single one of them.

When that day arrives, before you dress, i want you to place the following items on your bed:

- one pair of foam ear plugs
- large black butt plug
- ankle cuffs, with 1' chain
- full length, black leather, over-the-mouth neck corset
- locking steel elbow cuffs, with 1' chain
- two miniature brass bells with clasp

You are to wear (and only) the following:


- thigh-high, back-seamed stockings
- white 12-suspender lace garter belt
- 4" black leather oxford heels
- floor-length blue worsted wool skirt
- powder blue turtle neck sweater
- elbow-length black cotton gloves
- long forest-green knitted poncho
- long creme-colored scarf
- tan wool beret

Before a stitch of clothing touches your skin, i want you to place the earplugs into each ear. I want you to notice the silence you are entering. It will not cut off all sounds, but you will be removed from normal interactions. Then liberally lube your asshole, the butt plug, and slide it inside. You should apply enough lube to ensure that, while snug, the plug can squeeze out of your anal passage. This will force you to clench your cheeks the entirety of your task. Pull the stockings on, one foot at a time, making sure that the seam is straight and orderly on the back of each leg. Next, lace up your heels, tightening the laces more than you usually would.

I want you to lock the ankle cuffs on, securing the 1' chain between them. Pull on your skirt, and then your turtleneck sweater. Slide your hands inside the elbow-length gloves. Position the neck corset so that it sits just beneath your nose, covering your mouth completely, then lace it shut. Pull the neck of the sweater as high as you can.

At this point, you are to lock the elbow cuffs on, again making sure to secure their 1' chain. Over your head, pull on your poncho. I want you to then attach a bell in the midpoint of each chain. Wrap your scarf around your neck, fully concealing the neck corset. Place the beret on your head, making sure it covers your ears.

You are required to keep all chains, bells, cuffs, corsets, earplugs completely concealed.

It is obvious, you are not to speak to anyone. If anyone asks you a question, politely wave them off.

I want each item purchased, precisely as i have described them. If there is any failure to comply with this task exactly as detailed here, there will be an appropriate correction upon your return.

*this continues on here

No country for old me

My interests have a very local component. The cheekbone that passes just near my shoulder, the heel clicking by my ankle, the thin wrist cradling the cellular conversation i overhear on the elevator. All of this occurs in proximity to my personal space. The transaction of these geometries excite and stimulate me. Since college, i've been fascinated with spatial relationships that exist between objects, people, cultures, and have thus evaluated every connection i make in my daily life via the rubric of how close it is to me and how much space it occupies. When i feel a sense of alienation, that somehow my energy and body do not fit in the geography it occupies, i can sometimes feel lost. Which makes the recent discovery i unearthed in my site statistics all the more unsettling.

I have it set so that i'm able to chart how many visits i get by not only the continent, nor just the country, but by the city. Without any bashfulness, i must declare that i receive stop-overs from one burg by more than 2-to-1 over any other city. The perverted metropolis in question?

London, England.

I am not by any means insulted by this overwhelming plurality of Londoners crawling the caverns of my cacophony, but the sheer imbalance over any other municipality strikes me as odd mostly because i myself am not from that fair, grey (or is it 'gray'?) city. I have never even visited it. Yet, somehow the material i post here at TransformHer tickles the cockles of my cockneyed brethren. Those of you who do call this blessed plot, this earth, "home", i'd value some theories as to why you and yours have chosen to click into my literary realm. Perhaps it's perfectly obvious, or perhaps you see my pro-Britannia nuance in amongst my regular kinky blather, and thus feel compelled to purchase a few moments of screen adoration via a visit.

For whatever reason that draws those oh so cultured urbanites, being an amateur detective myself (less Sherlock Holmes and more Philip Marlowe), i, of course, took it upon myself to float my own deductions regarding this quandary. The only thing that i could dig up was an early lesson (albeit culturally short-sighted, and ethically just short) i learned when i was trying to educate myself on the larger world of SM and fetishes. It turns out that my proclivities for localness do not reside solely with me. To bastardize a quote by Tip O'Neill, "All kink is local."

As i consumed the various kinky outputs from the then nascent Information Superhighway, perhaps because my mind is attuned to the layout of maps, i noticed very quickly that certain fetishes had their core followers in different regions and countries. From what i can tell, my very unscholarly evaluation assigned the following nation-states with the various fetishes as such:

Germany/Austria/Eastern Europe - heavy rubber/latex, military uniforms, medical
United Kingdom/Australia - latex outfits, crossdressing/maids, diapers/mackintoshes, schoolgirl, spanking
France - corsets, heels/ballet boots, dungeon, whipping
United States - steel bondage, mechanical contraptions, rope (Western/Cowboy influenced)
Japan - rope (Shibari), dollification, extreme feminization/body modification, Daddy/little girl

Of course, this is a generalization, and of course there are fans of latex in Japan just as there are practitioners of Shibari in Germany, but i think the dissemination of the kinks is relatively accurate.

(What is glaringly obvious about this list is the dominance of industrialized "Western" democracies, and few representations from the Second and Third world nations. Does this make the argument that those with disposable incomes and time develop kinky sexualities? Certainly such an argument can be made when someone notes the average cost of a custom-made latex catsuit, not to mention the ability to take photos of it, upload those photos to a website via a connection to the internet, and...wait, you probably have no interest in my sociological polemic. I don't blame you.)

What does all of this mean? Well, in a nutshell (yes, i will provide you voracious readers with a 'point') i should probably pack up these digs and ship me, the girl and the Castle of Deity over to London. Clearly, my public awaits me there.

Demands

When you go home, i want you to, at the exact instant you close the door behind you, drop everything in your possession right there on the floor in the hallway. Your purse, your jacket, your skirt, everything. I want you to stand naked, shivering in the comfort of your own home.

I want you to then move to your bedroom, pull out the tray of implements you keep stored beneath your bed. I want you to slide your feet into the 5" black, patent leather platforms. Pay close attention to the tinny echo of your heels knocking against the hard floor, as you thread a 6 meter length of rope through the side of the bedframe. Pull this rope to the opposite side, leaving a "v" of rope opening towards you.

Then, extend the adjustable spreader bar to the widest length, wrap each cuff around the corresponding ankle, and lock them shut with the small brass padlocks. I want your mind to envision the keys to these locks as they are, suspended in blocks of ice in your freezer.

Position yourself against the mattress, so that your naked backside points outward and upward. Grab the bottle of lube from the tray. I want you to squeeze a liberal amount of slick liquid into your palm. With the other palm, i want you to rub your hand in between your throbbing slit, feeling the increasing moistness. Smear this all over your cunt, in between your legs, along your thighs and against your asshole. Take the hand with the lube, and mix this with your pussy juice, preparing the whole area to be used. Shove one finger at a time into your puckering anal passage, filling that chute with as much moisture as possible.

When you feel that your genitals are well-prepared - to the level you know i would be satisfied - i want you to take ahold of a branch of the extended rope in each hand. Lay the top half of your torso on the bed, making sure to stretch it across the mattress and lift and point your ass up in the air, muscles tensed and firm. Twist the rope around your wrist, manipulating it as i've shown you, binding each of your hands in self-locking knots.

I want you to wait like this. Wait, and think of why you're in this position. Think of what use you serve, what your body serves, splayed like this.

And then, i want you not to make a single sound when you hear me enter.

*this continues on here

Sugasm #123

Sugasm #123

from Sugasm by Vixen

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

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 #124? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers
“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”

Breakfast In Bed
“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”

Inked
“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage

Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The great myth of the “Venus corset”

I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 2

When we last visited this subject, me and my dominant friend had established a date, location and agenda for an evening of four-headed playtime. The week leading up to the impending evening, i asked my girl every morning if she was excited, and every morning i heard the same response:

"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."

You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:

"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."

I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.

I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.

K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.

He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:

"No, i have no idea. None."

I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.

Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.

I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.

With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.

*this continues on here