Spank me, already!

This is a lesson in "be careful what you ask for."

My recent birthday had passed, and still no commemorative spankings. First a day or two, and then some more. We were creeping up on almost a week gone by, and not even something as much as a swat had materialized. My girl, apparently flummoxed (but not physically, as we've established) came to me.

"Why haven't we done your birthday spankings yet?"

"We haven't? Are you sure?"

"Stop...seriously, when are we going to attend to them?"

"Sounds like someone is rather wound up with excitement."

"No, not really. I'd just rather get them over with."

To the attending audience, this is NOT the tone in which you want to leave your dominant when it comes to presenting your perception of a celebratory ritual. You want your Top to believe you are excited, enthralled, rapt with enthusiasm. You do NOT want him to hear you approach the upcoming spectacle with a detached "get on with it" attitude. That sounds diffused, lacking emotion. It's likely he'll do something to reinvigorate the bottom. And that is precisely what i did.

A few days after her initial cross-examinating questions, i stationed myself into the bedroom and laid out several implements. I called her into the bedroom (a routine that hasn't, perhaps surprisingly, grown tiresome). Spread across the bed was a hairbrush, a rattan cane, and the floor hockey stick from my youth.

"You get to eliminate one of these. The other two will administer my birthday spankings."

Predictably (pssst...the game is and has always been rigged), she eliminated the hockey stick. This didn't surprise me. I knew how much she hated that device. And frankly, i relished the notion of even presenting it as a possible tool for her to choose to slap the back of her prone ass. However, tactically, she chose to endure the flat wooden hairbrush, and the thin wisp of the rattan cane.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, i present to you the evidence that shows the defendant was fully aware of how many strokes were to be administered across her backside. She knew that i had progressed another year, and that this number which was to be articulated in blows upon her ass was a number much higher than her weekly maintenance spankings. Yet, she still chose two implements that would impart upon her flesh the most damage, and subsequent corporal markings. I ask you, the gallant jury, if she knew what the outcome would be, why would she choose the hair brush and the cane?

Here's where the scenario gets an added injection of predicament. I had recently purchased for her a delectable penis-shaped gag. Knowing her proclivity for oral release, i thought it prudent and helpful that her mouth get outfitted with this newest obstruction. Perceptibly beneficial for her, she would have something to channel the energy she incurs when i rain blows upon her ass, and benefiting me, i would be able to think about her mouth stuffed with rigid, rubber cock while i thrashed her. The defendant and the prosecutor both win. One thing about this new penis gag is that it wasn't the most expensive, and thus not the best designed gag, so in order to keep it firmly set in her mouth, removing the ability for her to spit the gag out (which she loves doing just to get my grit). To compensate for its design flaw, i had to latch it to the tightest possible belt hole. I didn't expect her to try to use her hands to undo, but just to be safe, i threaded one of her brass padlocks we use on her collar through the accompanying locking ring, securing it firm and deep into her mouth (when it was finally removed, a trail of teethmarks had been cut into it by how tightly she bit into it for relief).

What followed has been told many times on this site (if we're going by "spanking" as a label, it has been applied 36 times), so you'll forgive me if i attempt to not avoid redundancy.

More importantly, actually, is not what happened during the spankings. Although, they were brutal, and there was at one point where the reddened flesh of her backside did start to bleed a tiny amount, what is more important is the beautiful bruising that blossomed across her cheeks.

If i had to pick a favorite part of my birthday spankings, the application of them would definitely be up there, but wouldn't win the top accolade. That honor would fall upon the markings and the evolution they make over time. My girl takes a great deal of pride in the physical evidence of what she endured, and being a former cutter, she gains peace from watching how her body heals itself. To me, as i get to see clear, vivid and bold stripes morph into a flowing cloud of dark, violet coloration, ringed with a hue of amber shading, i'm touched by the meaningfulness of this symbol. This is our union, our intimacy. Our love and trust gets set with a vivid stroke, and over time, as we pass through life, in and out of physical contact, that love and trust transforms. This spot where i've touched her with a calculated firmness at first expressed a flash sensation, but over time, it becomes merely tender - this too represents our love and intimacy. We are very tender towards eachother, despite what it may sound like through the writing on this black background. We have some very flashy, kinky and outrageous moments, but the baseline of our relationship and our dynamic is our mutual tenderness.

By now, you might be wondering "Uhm, where's the part where Deity demonstrates how this is an example of being careful what you wish for?". Yes. Sorry about that. I'll get right on it.

It just so happens that three days after the administration of the birthday spankings, my girl had a burlesque gig. Coincidentally, the bruising following such a beating reaches its peak exactly three days after. On the day of her gig, she came to me in the morning, and asked if i'd take a look at her ass. Members of the jury, you don't need to ask me to do that, i do it all of the time - but i digress...

"Looks great, darlin. Those are coming along nicely."

"That's not why i wanted you to look."

"Then why did you, sugarpuss?"

"Because i'm dancing tonight, and there's no way i can cover this up!"

"But don't you have that body makeup stuff? That should do the trick."

She looked at me for a moment, stunned by my complete lack of concern at her position. Then stomped off. The day passed, and the evening arrived. We transported her gear to the bar where she was performing. I kissed her and wished her good luck, then found a seat inside the small auditorium, in order to watch the show.

When it finally came time for her performance, i was very excited because she had been working very hard on this number, and had made an assortment of adjustments to it that i think the audience was going to go crazy for. She looked gorgeous, and her stripping and choreography did in fact get the crowd going. All the hooting and hollering was exciting. The music reached the point where she pulled off one of her naughtiest reveals - basically, she turns her back to the audience, and with her feather fans, slowly flutters them up to reveal her beautiful, alabaster backside.

The audience went mad.

I, however, had a very different and unexpected reaction. She was absolutely correct, the body makeup didn't do the trick, and staring me right in the eyes were the two sizable, oval bruises stretched across her buttocks. And for some reason, i turned red. I can't really explain why. No one in the audience necessarily knew i was her man, and it isn't certain they connected the contusions with any brutal act. Nonetheless, i felt a twinge of guilt.

After the show, i congratulated her on her wonderful performance, and asked why she didn't use the body makeup.

"I DID use it. I applied three coats!"

Perhaps that's the amount i should've applied to my own previously reddened cheeks.

Burlessque and less

I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).

As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.

Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.

That's it. That's the story.





Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.

A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.

Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"

***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***

Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.

But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.

All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.

Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.

There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).

For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.

Stripsleaze

It is a frequent past time of mine to take in an evening of burlesque - a task made much easier with the increased number of venues providing this risque showcase. However, it can be a costly outing as most places charge a door fee as well as require a two drink minimum. In these lean times, it is important to conserve, but it is also critical to not constantly surround yourself with gloomy news and warnings of disaster. We all need an escape, what better way then to shuffle on down to the clambering cabaret to watch the glittery gallivanting gams of gorgeous gals?

It's always a joy to watch my girl get ready for an evening out. I'd gotten her a pair of Natacha Marro shoes for Christmas, and she had yet found the opportunity to show them off. Seeing as they are a full 8" (with the 2" platform) i suggested she get in a little home practice with them before fully trotting them out. She settled for a more modest 5" pair of black leather heels, matching it with her white swing dress with red polka dots from DaddyO's.

When we arrived at the venue, even though we arrived early, there was still a line out the door. It never ceases to amaze me how popular this form of entertainment has become over the years, and at the time i remember feeling happy that such a showcase was drawing folks out on a cold Saturday night. I told my girl to go find seats and i would check our coats and get us some cocktails.

When i finally snagged two Manhattans (neat), i looked for my doll. I was pleasantly surprised to find her saving a chair for me right at the foot of the stage, despite the fact that it was standing room only at this point. I squeezed my way forward to find her engaged in several conversations with strangers on one subject alone: her look. She has a very striking, beautiful appearance without all the dolling up. However with a bonnet of tight ebony curls atop her head, white alabaster powder dusting her delicate features, bright brown eyes framed by long sinewy lashes, and her signature cherry red lipstick, she is one of the most stunning sights in any room. She gathers many stares and many inquiries as to where she gets her apparel. Always a modest and polite young lady, she deflects their compliments to the various vendors she patronizes and almost ALWAYS tells people that her waist is only as a result of her corset tightlacing (but for some reason neglects to inform them of her dedicated dietary discipline).

With all of this attention helping to pass the time, the show's start happened upon us much quicker than expected. So far, the night had been very enjoyable, and i looked forward to the evening's card of dancers as the stage's curtain pulled a part for the opening.

The famous Julie Atlaz Muz pranced onto the stage, performing a dazzling routine with feathers and dollar bills tossed into the air like confetti. Following her, a very pretty girl who called herself 'Queen Laqueefa'. Her act was a little more gruff, and eventually surprised me when she showed both her off-limits naked tits and cunt by the end of her appearance. A few more dancers went by, and then we were treated to one of my favorite girls in the circuit. Melody Sweets is a rare talent in the field of burlesque dancers as she not only teases the audience with the peeling off of her clothes, she also tantalizes our ears with her melodic voice singing along with her musical accompaniment. Her act finished the first set, leaving a 30-minute break of go-go dancing from Ms. Muz and Her Royal Highness Laqueefa.

I wish i could say with what had transpired so far, that the evening ended on a high note. However, that was not the case. Once the burlesque festivities re-took the stage, the theme of the routines took on a much grittier, even manic tone to them. A few of the girls performed garish acts of drunken clumsiness, and the glamor and grace of the first half was trampled by raunchy hip gyrations. Even the energy in the audience seemed to shift. Whereas before, the crowd hooted and hollered with supporting aplomb, they now roared with a vitriolic, gutty hunger that seemed to demand chunks of flesh tossed to them. All of this was a perfect setting for the next explosive performer.

Rosewood.

Out stumbled this metallic blue, mohawk haired trollop, a bottle of champagne wagging from her flimsy grip. She'd take a mouthful of the swill and then spray it outward into the audience. Nothing about this act struck me as funny, entertaining or endearing. She continued with this pageantry as if she thought it unique enough that no one on stage in the history of live performance had done the same. But, then, even the projection of her salivatized precipitate wasn't enough. She whipped off her tiny G-string, revealing her even tinier tranny member, and proceeded to piss all over the first row (including myself) of spectators. I couldn't believe what i'd just seen. People scattered, trying to avoid her trail of fountainous urea, and all i could do was sit there in absolute shock and disgust.

Nothing about this was entertaining or engaging. I'm a big believer in taking risks and challenging the established set of ideals and values (if anyone doubts this, please feel free to scan my archives), but this act was just plain trash. Burlesque, when it's good, presents the female form in a frollicky, fun and seductive manner. The tease is in fact its greatest asset. Skimming the bottom of the bucket by taking it all off and putting it on display like a cheap, down on her luck hooker is found in strip clubs across this country already. I find that extremely depressing, demeaning and idiotic. By the time i gathered my thoughts enough to realize what i'd just seen, i put on my jacket and escorted my girl towards the exit, sad that the evening had dipped so low.

Burlesque, boots and booze

I took my girl on a date to a burlesque show last night at a supper club. It's something we do every month or so, and with the recent renaissance of the art form, the options and venues are growing, which means there are ample selections to choose from.

I love the idea of dressing to the nines, taking in a show, going to a supper club, drinking cocktails instead of just liquor. It feels old-fashioned and sophisticated without being elite or pretentious. And what continues to thrill me are the little customs surrounding this entire outing. I usually don a suit with my sharp, brown felt fedora, which always receives mention for its too-rare of a common stance. Last night, my girl wore her tuxedo corset with pink accents, a nice long black skirt with built-in petticoats and her tall black leather boots. I watch her get ready from start to finish, relishing the methodical manner she employs to transform from frumpy weekender to roving pin-up. The whipped-cream-AND-cherry-on-top is when she pulls her boots on.

To say that i'm a sucker for a gal in tall black leather boots would be doing a disservice to all the other well-mannered suckers out there. I anxiously await this time of year for the annual blossoming of the knee high heels, erecting tribute to the person who first invented this fashion by giving their creation my full uninterrupted attention. No matter what i'm doing at the time, my eyes get ripped away from the conversation or activity i'm engaged in and follow the ebony gams swinging gorgeously beneath the passing female pedestrian. I gush when a gal wears attractively comported heels, but my reaction to boots is entirely more aggressive. I see them as such overt sexual objects which can be viewed in their common use in Halloween costumes, and by prostitutes and dominatrices. I imagine a girl wearing boots as attempting to affect a specific erotic aura when sliding a pair up her legs, which makes the item even more potent. I adore watching my girl put them on, slowly dragging the zipper up as if to say "These are the lines you will not be able to take your eyes off the rest of the evening", all the while giving me a slight, playful peek of her lingerie because her dress is hiked a little to accommodate the tallness of the footwear. I enjoy taking her to a shoe shine kiosk in the train station and stand off in the distance, watching her boots get a shiny gleam. This activity gives the boots the appearance as being part of her body, and the person handling them with his precise strokes strengthens this illusion.

Once we arrived at the lounge, i was delighted to see that our pre-paid tickets had us sitting right near the stage, which always makes the evening more enjoyable as invariably the MC when interacting with the crowd will, at some point, comment on my girl and her elegant appearance. The evening's host was one of my favorites, a drag-king who pulls off a great rendition of a 50's showbiz ham á la Don Rickles, who ridicules and heckles the audience (or "folks" and "kids" as he refers to us) with a faux-inebriated glee. And because the host is a lesbian dressed as a man, he can interact with the females on stage and in the assemblage in a lewd and objectifying way without coming off as creepy. I was thoroughly impressed with the girls and their routines: playful, provocative, feminine and very sexy.

I enjoy sharing this activity with my girl because we have such a shared appreciation for the art form and the culture that had originally birthed it. We can indulge ourselves in the pretty, costumed and made-up girls prancing to campy music or jazz standards without a need to hide this activity from the other as seems to be the case with visits my vanilla friends covertly make to strip clubs. These evenings usually involve a considerable amount of booze due to the atmosphere and the type of crowds that attend, and by the end of the evening i end up guiding my adorably tipsy girl into a cab, making sure i've collected all of her numerous accessories.

Oh, and i was right about the host commenting on my girl. He pulled her up on stage and made her participate in a contest to "out-dance" the other dilettantes. I smiled widely as i watched her wiggle around under the spotlights, taking great delight in the enchanted gasps from those in the crowd around me as they saw, upon her turning around, the knotted laces of her corset going from the small of her neck to her lower back.

How to make a pin-up girl

Ms. Dita Von Teese, the poster girl of this here journal.

On any given weekday during the summer, i could be found not rummaging through the tall reeds and pussy willows of the creek that ran behind my house, but instead stationed on a stool at the liquor store my grandmother managed for over 40 years. The things that seared themselves into my memory were the constants of this kind, senior matriarch perpetually behooved in heels and the tabloid-sized illustrations of 50's pin-up girls hung all over her back office as well as adorning her boudoir. I spent many a glossamer-veiled afternoon quietly watching the intricate and ornate rituals she undertook to achieve her own ressemblance to those sex idols matting her walls. It would only be once i was an adult, and making demands that my intimate partners prepare themselves similarly that i would realize the sizzling affection i had for the pin-ups.

We want to look, but we don't want to stare at gorgeous girls. That would be rude. Whereas, these girls didn't mind. In fact, they invited the stare, which for me made it much more safe, an open venue for me to gawk and gaze. I didn't need to pretend that i was or wasn't interested. My attraction could be met face-on as i studied the humorous and playful poses these girls accomplished, who in turn didn't seem turned off by the idea that someone was leering at them or turning them into a sexual object. I didn't seriously expect that any female would allow me to demand the look and feel to their appearance. I was as surprised as many of you may be that i live that reality. Yet, i can't quite put into words what it is like to create your very own, breathing, thriving pin-up, and i do know not a day passes without me blessing and praising the powers above that allow me this exquisite fantasy.

Now, let's begin.

The best place to start are to look at two of the masters at the art of pin-ups for inspiration. Mr. Gil Elvgren is one of the most famous of all pin-up illustrators and you can quickly see why. His drawings are candid, they catch their subject in a moment of surprise. But they are also flattering. They charm the girl by framing her in soft and inviting light. I've included a clever site that delves deeper into Gil's pinups and and his infatuation with celery.

Another one of my favorites is Alberto Vargas. His calendar currently hangs in my kitchen (right over the garbage can, just like my grandma used to do). His has a refinement that contrasts slightly with Gil's. His girls are almost more universal, more elegiac, and less personable. But this adds an element of class that holds these ladies on a very high and well-deserved pedestal.

Now, those of you who are looking to attain the look of a classic pin-up, i've listed a few places where you can begin to amass your wardrobe. And for those who've decided to keep reading (when instead of the nasty threesomes you'd hoped to find, you stumbled upon this thesis), i encourage you to also peruse the list. You may experience some inspiration to persuade your favorite gal to slide on some silk stockings. I assure you she'll thank you for them.

Daddy O's
One of my favorite online clothing stores. I could easily waste my bi-weekly payroll on over 40 or more of these frocks. Their cut, their lines, their skirts, the details, the shape. These dresses exude class and femininity. A girl can truly not go wrong to have at least one of these hanging in her cabana.

Agent (pronounced: Ah-jahnt)
If you have the opportunity to ever walk into one of Agent Provocateurs boutiques, the wave of scent that washes over you alone gives you a sensation of developing a crush. Everything they do at AP is about femininity. You will not see anything made of cotton here. No. Females deserve to have the finest silks and laces pressed against their skin, cradling their tushes, holding their soft tits. This is a store that believes lingerie shouldn't be just for honeymoons and anniversaries. Their stockings are durable and they come in all kinds of colors and differing constrast seams. Plus, they have a very naughty side. I adore their black silk blindfold that reads "Treat me like the whore i am" in pink cursive across the front of it

Secrets in Lace
SiL is another wonderful lingerie store. I can't emphasize enough the importance of a good pin-up girl's foundation undergarments. Countless times i've seen the change that occurs in a girl wearing a garter belt, seamed silk stockings and a pair of heels. They walk with express intent and focus. It's like they're armored. SiL carries an exclusive line of stockings designed and worn by Ms. Dita. My girl says that Secrets' stockings offer the most comfortable and divine feeling, but they do not last as long as AP's.

What Katie Did
I offer you one last site on lingerie just to demonstrate the plethora of options that exist. Katie offers vintage stockings, for those who are going for an authentic look, style and feel. Wonderful garments can be found here.

Besame Cosmetics
If you're beginning to think i'm a little overly obsessed with the way a girl looks, you're finally catching on. Besame isn't for everyone, but it is for the girl who wants to truly take on the overall appearance of a pin-up. They understand the appeal of classic beauty and provide numerous, charming options.

Staylace Updates and Pinups are well worth a look
I would be errant in my list if i didn't offer the mother of all corset sites. The Long Island Staylace Association (LISA) was my first jaw-dropping exposure to the array of corset-related media. In addition to providing you with images of females draped in corsets (and swear that they update daily), they also provide a tremendous resource list for corsetiers. I am a firm believer in the transformative and beneficial effect a well-made tightlacing device can have on a girl's attitude.

Whether you merely peek at a few of these links, or you seriously consider indulging in a purchase here or there, you have to admit that the pin-up girl has her allure and her flair. In one refined image, they capture the sighs, the throbs, the tugs and the thrills i've experienced when i've seen a pretty girl.

But, don't let me be the final thought on this. Go to the gal i see as the authority on the subject, Ms Kitty du Vert.

Motivations

The understanding of one's erotic reaction to things is sometimes tantamount to eating a bowl of soup with a spoon attached to the end of a pool cue. It's messy. It's clumsy. It's cold by the time you taste it. It's largely inefficient, and you don't really get an immediate satisfaction of understanding. The work it has taken to comprehend my own sexual stimuli has precluded that it's not easy to understand someone elses.

Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.

Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.

Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.

Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.

We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.

I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.

You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.

One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.

Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.