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Dominating the conversation

Recently, i was lucky enough to have fallen into a tidy sum of money that i wasn't at all expecting. I'm not a wealthy individual, nor am i poor. I make a reasonable salary, and our home is one of a few, but blessed comforts. What this all means is that this money served as an extraneous, imposing presence that couldn't simply be ignored.

I immediately called up my young nieces, asking them what it was they wanted most of all, right there, right now. One giddily shrieked "an iPod!!!", while the other shyly offered that she might like to have a brand new bike. Done, i told them. They squealed with their girlish delight. What next? I carved out a sizable sum and sent it off to one of my girl's favorite charities. Still left with a meritorious amount, i asked my girl if her dress code accoutrement needed any refreshing. How were her corsets? Fine? Hmmmm. What about her heels? Any pair in desperate need of replacement? No, all perfectly suitable. Stockings? Yes, yes, there are definitely a few pairs that she could retire and put out of their misery. However, that only ate up a few simoleons. What to do?

And then, suddenly, the thought occurred to me: I might be able to retire a number of items from off of my fetish wish list.

I exercised restraint (although not much) and hastily ordered some items that i have personally been lusting over for easily a decade's time. But here's the rub, since placing the order, i have been unable to think of little else, pondering the workshop where these items would be made, the shelves on which they sat, ready to be shipped to me, waiting, prolonging their arrival. And it has been killing me.

I have written very little explicitly about my status as a fetishist. In fact, of the 300+ posts i've penned for this site, only five contain the word "fetishist". Only 25 carry the label of "fetish", as if it weren't all that an important facet of my sexuality, when in fact it makes up the bold lion's share. It plays such a large role in how i verbalize my sexual desire, that sometimes it makes me question how "dominant" i actually am.

lg comes to mind when i make a statement like that, because she has recently revealed her own fluidity with the power roles she plays in her relationship with her Daddy. She has always represented herself publicly as a submissive girl, looking to be controlled and contained. However, she uncovered a desire to take charge, and demand worship. I applaud her exploration and discovery. This isn't exactly what i'm referring to, however.

I have no interests in acting like the submissive bottom in my dynamic with my girl. I am absolutely the Top, but i'm not so certain how "dominant" i am due to the ways in which my various fetishes can immediately take control over me. I could be in complete command of my persona, walking along the city streets, confident, bee-lining to every corner, and *BAM!!!* out of the blue, a cute girl with long, fake nails could wander into my view. All other thoughts evacuate from my single rail mind, and all i can do is stare, salivate and pant after this display of manicured perfection. Am i in control in this situation? Absolutely not. My body has an involuntary reaction to such a sight. The same goes with a gal lacing into a corset, sliding on a latex garment, or pulling on a pair of fully-fashioned thigh highs. I cannot control the instant arousal that overflows my body.

I will say it right here that having fetishes is not exactly a wonderful thing. To be instantly upturned the moment the fetishized object comes into view not only makes for some awkward public moments, but once someone learns about your fetish, depending on the character of the person, they'll attempt to either control you with it or embarrass you. Neither situation is enjoyable. I'm not ashamed nor distraught that i have these highly developed fetishes, but they do serve as a limitation, which is precisely the same impetus that a submissive might encounter when boundaries and rules for themselves have been defined by their Dominant.

The longer i live my life in this so-called realm of SM, the more i find myself turning away from prescriptive words such as "Dominant" and "submissive". They don't fit the reality of my experience. Because, as someone who deals with myriad fetishes, even though my girl goes and gets her nails done every two weeks exactly as i require (a "Dominant" decision), their appearance in my day interrupts whatever it was i happened to be doing at the time (an act of submission, if i ever saw one). They pester me. They demand my attention. And once they get it, all i can do is sit transfixed, succumbing to the overflowing desire to rapidly reach an orgasm.

Girl training

There are things that i should not know better how to do than women. Simply put, there is a deficit of femininity on display in this world, and i find it to be a travesty.

- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.

- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".

- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.

- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW

- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.

The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.

I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?

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.

Exhibition on training

Someone mentioned to me that i don't put up enough photos, that instead i rely too heavily on words. I can buy that. Words are much easier to own and create, whereas to craft a photo i'd be proud to put up on my site takes resources and talents i do not have easy access to. But, i'm not one to turn down a challenge, so i will try to do a post (following these brief messages, of course) of pure pictoral pontification.*

Nipple training (care of Master Y):















Posture training (care of Kink.com, with an appearance by Claire Adams):





















Limbless training (care of insex.com):









Patience training:




Proper storage following training (care of houseofgord.com and charlottefetish.com):





















*My humble thanks to those whose copyrighted material i've used to try to prove my point.

Thierry Mugler

It began, i'm almost certain, with a tag-along trip with my mother to her beauty salon one afternoon when i was young. In order to paint the most honest image of myself, i won't blithely say i was bored, as i usually carried with me a stack of books or comics, but i must confess that the overflowing piles of beauty magazines attracted my eye. I picked out a handful, and scooted my little tush onto the over-stuffed couch in the lobby of the salon. All around me, females of all ages, shapes and colorations were yielding to the expertise of the scissor-wielding maestros and their visions of enhancement. I flipped through the colorful periodicals, consuming every picture (which is a considerable task when you consider that the ratio of photo to print is astonishingly high for these magazines), enjoying the parade of beautiful vixens. I couldn't help but feel entranced by the hundred different displays of cosmetic-dazzled faces, high-fashion footwear and elaborate hairstyles. I wasn't too far into my exploration before i encountered the face that would dominate my mind for years following.

The face belonged to Cindy Crawford.



That one image launched a 5-year long hobby of mine that had me scouring every monthly beauty rag out there for shots of my Cindy. In that span of time, i accumulated four 3-ring binders of pictures of her. I used to sneak into book stores and quickly flip through their magazines in hopes of scoring me yet another photospread, where i would brandish the Exact-O knife i carried in my pocket to quickly extract the goods. I'm not sure what aim i was attempting to accomplish collecting all these images. I guess i'd made a claim on Ms. Crawford (i even set to memory every biographical piece of information i could about her), and felt the closest i would come to possessing her was through these binders.

Over time, the habit of scouring these advertisement-laden publications for Crawford kibble fluttered away. But what remained in its place was an appreciation for and attachment to the inner workings of the fashion industry. In these few years, i mentally catalogued every model, every designer and nearly every trend each fashion house put forth. In doing so, i was trying to explore the possibilities of robing the female body, accentuating its beauty, exciting the imagination through the adornment of the feminine curves. I appreciated the slender yet graceful approach to apparel the folks at Dior had. In the hands of Chanel, the female body had strength, wisdom and prowess. I didn't care for the syrupy style of Dolce and Gabbana, nor the fiery flare of Versace. However, all of these centres du mode came off as middlingly pedestrian when i first encountered the diabolically fetishistic styling of Thierry Mugler.



Monsieur Mugler's appreciation and utilization of PVC, latex and corsets in his haute couture shows might've been enough to make him the singular favorite of mine, but as i grew accustomed to his dark, bent aesthetic, it was then that i discovered his most profound creations that seared his imaginative work to my psyche.

As the photo above illustrates, Mugler, who burst onto the fashion scene in the mid 80's staying until his last show in the year 2000, replaced the typical en vogue wardrobe with his warped, twisted visions of the evolution and metamorphosis of the female creature. Literally. He took the sleek waspy lines formed by a tightly laced corset, and fashioned an alien bird creature with brilliant colorful plumage that surrounded an insect-like abdomen. Even her makeup expressed supra-human qualities. I remember my first peek at this ornithic humanoid, and the way she stood engrossed in the transformation of her body into a sleek, sexual creature, the way she leered out at the worthless homo sapiens in the audience penetrated me with such gross sexual urges.

Thierry Mugler explored this were-creature exercise multiple times throughout his brilliant but short career.



























Seeing this unabashed expression of the erotic qualities of transforming the female into another being, a different vessel, on such a public and revered stage allowed my young mind, which was grappling with my own intense desires to manipulate and convert the girls in my immediate vicinity, to relax in what i felt was camaraderie with a Frenchman i would never have the chance to meet.

The more research i did into Mugler's work, the more objectification and metamorphosis i encountered, and strangely, it was the fashion world (not exactly the bastion of machismo for most straight men) that gave me the bolt of confidence to explore and demand the specific sexual nuances i still insist on to this day.

In these female robot images, the aspect that stimulated me most was the idea of a proto-typical girl submitting to the conversion from human to part machine. She wanted her dynamic sexual fire to be preserved and amalgamated in a metallic suit, letting the rigidity of her existence as part machine alter and shape her behavior and movement. I've never found robots manufactured to look like females enticing, but rather the notion of a normal girl submitting (either forced or consensual - it didn't matter in my fantasies) to the mad scientist's designs that altered her body permanently, especially her mind, has for the longest time chimed my erotic bells.

I offer the reader these final two videos that show first the robot-girl, removing her human clothing, strutting around in her awkward, newly acquired metallic exterior, then followed by the bird-creature that stares into the audience (found approximately at the 2:16 point of the video), looking for it's first victim since its recent conversion into an aviary predator. Listen to the change in music, even Mugler acknowledges the psychotic statement he makes with this feminine beast, darkening the tone and the mood appropriately. I am so deeply grateful for this one man's contribution to my sexuality, it's hard for me to realize how fortunate i was to encounter his articulation when i did.

Unspoken

A lot can be said with regards to establishing and maintaining a power exchange. Lord knows, i've pasted myriad words up on that endless ebony scrim attempting to detail my own experience. But something occurred to me as i pondered that wall, my experience, and the words i've used to describe it. The more i reflected on this and the self-publishing tomes of other tops and bottoms, i realized that there is a lot that goes unsaid.

Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.

Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":

• immediate disposal of pants v. gradual, eventual weeding out

My girl's dress code is something i'm quite proud of and do not tire from the administration of it. However, it would be a complete fraud to present the notion that Day One she had a closet full of pants, and by Day Two she possessed zero pantaloons. In four years of our relationship, i have only overseen the last six months as totally pants-less. She got rid of the last pair late last summer. Now, i live in a part of the country that enjoys all four seasons (however shorter and whacked the colder ones are becoming), and one must account for the frigid wind chills that someone not allowed to wear leg-coverings will encounter. Enter legwarmers. Her stockings provide one barrier, but not sufficient when the temperature drops below 40 Fahrenheit. She has collected an assortment in multiple colors and styles that draws as much attention to her as does the fact that she's wearing a dress on a snowy, blistery day.

• piercings whenever called upon v. her gradual acceptance of the fact
  

I've known for quite awhile that i would want to mark any girl of mine in various ways as my possession, and one method i wanted to principally employ was piercing. Early in our relationship, i presented the idea to her that she would need to get pierced. For a girl who sported the fairly uncommon nose ring, she held a great deal of resistance to the idea of metal penetrating other parts of her body. I didn't consider her reaction as an indication of a hard limit, but she certainly wasn't budging on the idea. I left it alone for awhile, until one day, she surprised me by announcing that she'd grown very excited about the idea of doing that for me. Within a week, two beautiful rings hung from each of her tits.

• tightlacing v. our modified version of tightlacing

I love the idea of my girl strapped in her corset all day long. Her mid-section rigidly constrained, all the while exhibiting a fetching waspy waist. In the beginning, she in fact wore it 23 hours a day, even sleeping in it, and only taking it off to bathe and attend to her roughed-up skin. It became clear after a few months, that she was able to achieve the same reduction we both preferred (22") without needing to lace in it while she slumbered. It should become very clear that a power exchange of this nature has the elements to contend with, which we most certainly did when it came to tightlacing. It is nearly impossible for her to lace when the weather gets warmer than 75 degrees. We've explored many options to try to overcome the shear discomfort of a corset on the hot and humid days (even purchased a so-called Summer corset), but have had to concede that the months of July and August are corset-free (except for those occasional trips to the Artic).

These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.

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”

The great myth of the "Venus corset"

There should be little mystery that my female aesthetic focus has magnetically pulled towards the looks and attitudes of the 1940's and 50's. From the hairdos, the bright red lipstick, and the seamed stockings to the corseted waists, lack of pants and - yes - their fetish for bondage.

I adore cartoons. I watched them non-stop as a child, citing many of them as the provider for life's lessons. I can say without any doubt that the damsel-in-distress so often portrayed in hand-drawn animation struck a tuning fork deep in my chest. I also developed many crushes on the cartoon girls that pranced across the screen. From Disney's library of screen heroine's, the first of which i fancied was the sleeping beauty Aurora, to the big, doe-eyed fanciful creatures of Tex Avery.

I'll never forget the particular marvelous Saturday afternoon that introduced me to and the imprint it delivered through this playful update of a classic story.



Almost as if my burgeoning sexuality had been sent on a once-in-a-lifetime shopping spree, all the things that would eventually serve as the foundations for my fetishes could be found in this illustrated play. I was sold on the sharp, heavy outlines of the 40's and 50's, the long fairy-like eyelashes that fluttered an awfully enticing code, and the wicked, accentuated curves.

When i finally arrived on the complete ordnance of objects that would - revolving around in my head - bring about sexual satisfaction, i looked to this era for real life examples. To my young eyes, it appeared to be the last time period these sort of female accoutrements were seriously deployed. Women truly enjoyed the exclusive statement on femininity their hair, makeup, footwear, and, most importantly, undergarments declared.

I pushed myself to explore as much material that existed on this period of feminine constraint, and in tune pushed the range of my own desire further. My search brought me to the darker recesses of the quaint 1950's attitude. It was here i first encountered the artwork of Eric Stanton.

Very quickly, i swam in an ocean of wickedness, male chauvinism, aggressive pursuit, and hunger - pure, unmitigated hunger. In the privacy of my chamber, i enjoyed what my eyes flowed over, but were anyone to ask me in public if i endorsed this material, i would have abdicated. Gone were the peppy housewives of the 40's and 50's, replaced by the extricated female objects whose limbs were contorted and abducted, only to be corralled for the pleasure of their male master.

Among these shockingly arousing panels of the works of Stanton and others of his time, i encountered the device known as the Venus corset:



























The one just above and to the left does the best to exhibit why this corset is called the "Venus". Quite literally, it was imagined to also constrict the wearer's arms behind her back with the same lacing that cinched in her waist. The effect had the subject resembling the very famous Aphrodite sculpture from the ancient Greek town of Milo. Illustration after illustration demonstrated this innovative contraption. To my eye, every single female above is striking and beautiful in this pose, and seeing this, i was sold. I knew i wanted one.

And thus began the great myth. Over a decade of searching, i've never found one. Corset site after corset site, and no one, from what i've seen, has offered their own prototype. The closest i came was a corset that had an attached single-glove armbinder with integrated back lacing. But, alas, i have never discovered an actual arm-encapsulating device.

Perhaps someone could felicitously prove me wrong.

Forniphalia

I can't remember the exact first image that captured what i'd been murmuring deeply inside, but when i came across Mr. Gord's thorough exposition on the transformation of girls into furniture, i knew i'd found an ally, a beacon. As i navigated through the rivulets of his well-groomed caverns, i encountered all variables one could attempt with the female form. Yet, instead of being appalled, every arrangement that had the female form as some functional, but ornamentally gorgeous inanimate object captivated me. This is wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't i be confronted by columns of feministic bodyguards whose sole purpose is to eradicate the objectification of the feminine physicality? It's been well over 10 years since i first set eyes on this genre, and no such confrontation has occurred.

Perhaps, there won't be one. Perhaps those forces that seek to disavow any association between the female form and an ornamental item recognizes that those who practice this art are offering the ultimate honor and respect to the double-Xed chromosone.

After all, centuries of art have obsessively lingered on the female form, using the various iterations of womanhood as guides and stencils for creative outlet. It seems to make natural sense that instead of employing oil paints or marble to create works of art, borrowing the very anatomy that has inspired masterpieces and appropriating it as the medium through which one would express their utmost respect for women fits a natural progression of artistic auteurism.

Still crazy, isn't it? I mean, who are these people who think they can get away with turning a gorgeous girl into an office chair? Can't they see the complete disrespect and worse, damage they are doing to the cause of equality between the sexes (i've addressed this argument at an earlier time)? Let us not even address those females who wander willingly into the clutches of such an individual; nothing shall we say about their brainwashing, their ignorance, their betrayal.

I gave all of these thoughts some air to float around and expand inside my head. As much as a stubborn and somewhat chauvinistic man i can tend to be, i like to think of myself as open and intelligent. I'd do myself and those who oppose this form of expression a disservice if i didn't delve a little deeper.

In doing so, i came to learn that House of Gord is not the originator of this form of female manipulation. In fact, with just a little exploration, one can find numerous examples, emanating from every decade of the last century.

Here's some of what i found:

A classic Edward Stanton illustration...and an advert for Vollers Corsets.

To my surprise, i was able to find examples of forniphilia with my favorite director, Stanley Kubrick, in his film A Clockwork Orange:


I even was able to find an image of Ms Dita Von Teese, doing her best barmaid impression.


Ultimately, i cannot claim to understand or even concur with the positions that the individuals who imposed upon these above female figures their plasticine visions. They could come from a completely different school of thought than i. When i see these photos, when i contemplate the transformation of an already stunning beauty into an object of static existence, i feel a well of pleasure bubble up inside of me. I've wanted to collect and capture as much beauty as possible ever since at the age of five i pinned my first butterfly to the small cake of Styrofoam. I really do not have the faculties to address whether or not this desire is doing harm to the fairer sex that i lust and fantasize about so frequently. I can only assume that for me, damage is not being done, and in fact pure, uninhibited worship happens.

A convenient side effect

you order her coffee...because you're a gentleman, and because you're controlling the scenario;

you buy her a pair of impromptu stockings...because you like to treat her to a surprise gift, and because you are reinforcing the dress code you've mandated;

you hold the door open for her...because "ladies go first", and because you like to reduce the amount of autonomous actions she takes;

you compliment her on her heels...because she glows when she gets praise, and because you want to engineer a desire in her to wear heels more frequently;

you kiss her neck...because she's very sensitive at this spot, causing her to shiver, and because by avoiding her mouth, you are treating her like an object;

you tighten her corset...because it makes her look beautiful, and because you enjoy her restriction;

you brush her hair...because she sinks into a pleasurable purr when stroked, and because she fits the role of a doll;

you intervene when someone insults her...because her honor is your greatest concern, and because you want to accentuate her fragility;

you proudly show off photographs of her...because she enjoys hearing of the attention, and because these people are only seeing her in a two-dimensional way;

you give her little tush a swat as she passes by...because it excites her as well as stimulates her, and because you are further indicating to her that she is owned;

you forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyze, and because she requires the authority of a boss.

you bind her body in rope...because the respite from any movement frees her mind and soul, and because you know you must trap, confine and capture her.

you gingerly rub your thumb across her rectum as you finger her...because the dual sensations are double her pleasure, and because you are showing her new ways to think of her anal passage.

you bring her to a climax...because she deserves the solitary attention, and because it came from your hands, your delivery.

you tell her how much she means to you...because she needs to hear that she matters, and because she fulfills so many of your needs.

Blow-up dolls

As a child, i used to sneak into the upstairs hall closet to fish out a handful of sterile latex gloves from the supply my mom insisted on keeping in the off-chance that one of us rambunctious kids would incur a wound and need immediate in-home surgery. Safe in my room, i'd layer these rubber mittens over my hands, then go to sleep for what was a very restless slumber. A deep desire to find my extremities somehow transformed into rubbery appendages would wake me up frequently throughout the night. Come dawn, the only thing i would find would be thirsty, pale digits with pruney fingerprints once i sloughed the gloves off.

I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.

Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.

What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.

The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.

As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:

This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.

Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:



In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.










I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.

I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.




***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***

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.

And yet i cannot turn away

I've frequently travelled for work, which leads to me spending many a night in a hotel room, far away from home. In past times when i was younger, i found other means of satisfaction that my unattached and single status permitted. In the most recent years, when not indulging in illicit phone calls with my homebound girl, i've turned to the now abundantly prevalent high-speed Internet connection most hotels offer. I'm not sure what came first, the DSL or the hyperactive sexual appetites, but i find myself overcome with incredible horniness once i drop my attache on the floor and eye the broadband device stationed on the end of my desk for the night.

I don't know how i would've managed to satisfy these cravings in an age when endless arteries of erotic pulsation weren't made available to my fingertips by Ma and Pa Up-fer-thu-nyte. In fact, i think it is safe to say that the Internet itself has facilitated an intense exploration of my sexuality in so many public and private venues that imagining where i would be with my libidinous development without it seems impossible. I have catalogued many real-life experiences that inform who i am today, but i would be remiss if i didn't also acknowledge the significant contribution this global network of kinky provisions has made to my overall dominant, fetishistic self.

As a result of the ample supply of caboodle, i've amassed an immense collection of links, portals, libraries and warehouses that can be easily accessed through this Internet connection should an insistent hankering arise (which it always does). I could easily end this post like that, by just offering that i'll always be able to quickly satisfy any cravings i have, but I would demonstrate great irresponsibility if i didn't address the negative side to this unfettered access to the world wide web . While i could call up in a matter of seconds intense mummification scenes, galleries of corsets, damsels gagged and suspended, this has not come without a cost. To get to this point has taken a certainly unhealthy obsession on my part, where i've culled through reams of material which as a result has exposed me to entirely unappetizing images and scenarios.

Because i've opened up a dialogue with sites and venues that offer any and every fetish, my eyes have feasted on some incredibly raunchy material. Some of the stuff i've seen has dipped to such depravity, that i begin to wonder both about my own sanity but also the end result for those who seek this extreme filth. I realize i introduce the topic of de-sensitization when i criticize those who parade such seriously decrepit fetishes, but i can't help but feel that i straddle a fairly reasonable and sensible line (no matter how demanding my dress code becomes). The lewdness and despicable character some of these sites demonstrate on face value is enough to call in to question the overall benefits of an endless stream of cyber information. An inability to identify the source, the subjects being portrayed and their overall context underlies the debauchery of the stomach-turning expositions i've seen. Let us not even try to extract the legality or the ethics of the organization behind it.

Let's be honest, most horny men don't give a crap about the source (i admit, even i occasionally fall into this category), nor do they care about the context of the clip itself. It has been pointed out to me several times that we as a (male) gender have such a raw approach to porn that we can be blinded to the hurt, the suffering and the desperation of the subject that helps us get our rocks off. While i'm stuffed away in an isolated hotel suite, with an ample supply of tissues, these things are not on the forefront of my mind. What arouses me could have as little grounding material as possible, and it would still serve to excite if i'm in the right mood. Of course, as i think about this in the light of day and under a moral magnifying glass, guilt seeps into every pore. To assuage this guilt, i am quite overly critical of the material i do encounter, especially those that feature a dominant male in them, as opposed to the girl, alone, on her own, enduring her ordeal. I almost don't want to ever see the dominant. I'd rather not contend with this anonymous figure. I'd rather not critique his poor choice of fashion and style, and i would most rather not like to focus on his sloppy handling of the girl now entombed.

Instead, i'd rather obsessively stare at this vision, suspended in time and in image, struggling for the moment to breathe yet stay still and to represent the perfectly static beauty my soul really longs for in those moments of complete solitude.

Conjectural relations

Visiting family for the holidays does not in any way feel sexy or erotic. In fact, in many ways it sucks any urges i may have to indulge in my sexual needs. When i travel back home, i use the downtime that comes from driving from one widely spaced-out relative to another as a way to decompress from the often stressful experience spending time with the relations provides. Typically, i manage to pack in well over a dozen individual visits with a different person on my holiday sojourn, sometimes seeing a handful of people in one day (i have a humongous family and many old friends). Over the past few years, i've brought my girl along with me which has introduced variables i hadn't fully anticipated.

Most commonly, we stay at someone's house, sleeping in guest rooms, bedrooms of children momentarily discharged on our behalf, or even couches. Even though there are moments of arousal as we lie together in our temporary sleeping quarters, we do not dare act on them out of propriety and respect for our host.

To remedy this urge to consummate, i have taken the initiative to declare one evening out of our stay of pure solitude for me and my girl. We stay at a secluded lodge tucked away in the mountains. The bed and breakfast we escape to is a completely self-contained cabin that offers us total privacy. To me, this option serves as such a relief, as it permits a much needed outlet of stress and anxiety these visits with family always wallop me with. In preparation, i'll pack a TSA-alerting assortment of toys and equipment (without fail, every time we open our bag we find a little "how do ya do") that allows us to have a decent but modest play session, invariably replete with some much needed spanking.

Another variable involves how my kin reacts to us. I grow so accustomed to the way in which my relationship with my girl functions that i tend to overlook how it appears to others. Where i live, we have established such a comfortable niche that few interruptions to our sexual agenda present themselves. However, my family and hometown friends do not regularly see a corseted girl who wears nothing but skirts and dresses in the chill of winter or has inch-long artificial nails dangling from each of her fingertips. In this way, to these incredibly vanilla people, my girl comes off a little out of place.

I'm always struck by how much defensiveness i feel whenever a relative makes a comment about how odd her extremely hour-glassed waist appears or when their eyes grow big at the first sight of her manicured talons thrashing through the air as she gestures with her hands while relating some entertaining story of hers. I know that in the worst-case scenario they judge her, which always riles me up. I see these few disparagements as a rejection of our lifestyle, of someone i deeply love and, ultimately, me. Thankfully, these altercations are few, as most of my family members remain politely uncertain as to why someone would choose to "limit" themselves this way. My close family has grown accustomed to my girl's appearance and the occasional times i act in a dominant fashion towards her. A few have even inquired further, indulging in natural curiosities such oddities arouse, which have led to some gentle but eye opening discussions about power exchange. I value these opportunities to chat about SM with a selected set of family members because it allows me to be myself around them, more and more, but also gives me a thrill that i may provide insight into a way of life they themselves would enjoy. I can't be the only sadistic nut hanging from our family tree.

I'll assume i'm on the naughty list

Hardly long after the last plastic Lil Orphan Annie mask is discarded and the final Necco wafer has been scarfed at the conclusion of Halloween, are we suddenly inundated with the festive vandalism of Christmas green and red decorations stapled all over every disgruntled employee, surface and product. Coinciding this forced change of colors, i begin to receive the first of many requests from friends and relatives wanting me to compose my yuletide wishlist.

I don't care for this task whenever i receive it for two succinct reasons.

The first being that i don't like to accumulate "things". I long ago abandoned my childhood hobbies of collecting stamps, business cards and fossils. A half dozen years or so ago, i relinquished my shelves of most of my CD's, books and DVD's - a near total purge of my vast collection. My bare bones media library now consists of those options i turn to regularly, with views, reads or listens in the dozens or more for each that remain. I'm loathe to fill up a list with titles of movies that i will invariably only watch once or twice just so someone can include me in their holiday shopping.

The second reason i abhor this task is that the objects i would really want to ask for would most likely trigger Mr. Claus' (notoriously sensitive) naughty alarms, which would then result in not only me not getting these gifts, but me also suffering the intense, scornful gaze from family members at the eggnog bowl due to my audacious request. Let me state what might be the obvious: the items on this list would receive exponentially more use than all of the Da Vinci Code copies i've opened with a quickly following grimace ever did.

It's for this reason and because i don't feel i'll receive the same judgmental scrutiny here on my own site that i jot down the following "If-i-could-ask-for-anything-Xmas-list".

Dear Sanity Clause*,
I've been a really decent (and by decent i mean i have actually helped more elderly ladies across the street than those i've pushed down the stairs - i'm kidding!) boy this year, and i hear you reward those of us who are on our best behavior. Please find the following list of items as gentle suggestions to what i'd like to receive as payment for my year-long decency.

At the top of my list:
Ballet boots - I'd like a pair of Mary Janes, Gwendoline knee-high's, Justine thigh-high's - all patent black leather - and one pair of white patent Wanda's. Women's size US 81/2. Most of these can be found here.

Continuing on:
Latex gear - Corsets, hobble skirts, catsuits, mitts, straightjackets, inflatable butterfly gags, mummy bags, and hoods. I'm quite fond of the items at http://www.marquis.de/ and http://www.demask.com/, but i'm sure i'm not telling you anything you don't already know

Vacuum beds - These are a must-have item to properly store your toys, St. Nick. I leave you the following two illustrations that demonstrate what i mean.















Chick-wrapper - Kind of self explanatory, but i wouldn't want to deprive you of a proper image to stimulate your imagination. I thought the festive green color of the wrap was a nice touch from the folks at http://www.houseofgord.com/, don't you?




Fucking machine - i recently wrote about my passion for these here. Feel free to leave a comment if you're moved to, i love the feedback. Well, here's another photographic example of one of my favorite models, ms. mila from Insex.




This set-up is pretty close to the one i'd like, so there's no need to really go into detail when PD nearly perfected the arrangement.

The rest: (i can make just a quick list of them. I know you're busy, and i don't want to appear greedy)

a St. Andrew's Cross

a suspension frame

female chastity belt

1,000 yards of jute, hemp or cotton rope

a selection of gags, ring, inflatable, dental, etc.

2 pair of Large black leather police gloves

2 pair of Large black leather driving gloves



Oh, and one last thing, for the lass, a corset dress from Vollers.

I know it's a long list, do what you can with it. I'll make sure to leave some milk and cookies out because that's the kind of sport i am.

Happy Noel,
Deity

p.s. it's been a long year, i'm sure you're already exhausted, and it's not even December yet. Why don't you pick out something for you and Mrs. Bowl full o'jelly here. Go on, you deserve it.

*my sincerest apologies to the Marx Brothers, who i hold in the highest of esteem

Kiss and makeup

As i was doing my girl's eye makeup this morning, it occurred to me the oddity this would appear as to someone should they wander into my home. I don't always do her makeup, she's quite adept at it, but there are times when she's going for a particular complex effect or i get an itch to do it.

Exploring my fascination with transformation in my youth brought me to the art of makeup. I've mentioned many times how i enjoyed watching the females in my life dab their creams, powders and rouges onto their faces. It was a genuine pasttime of mine, where my mom would signal the commencement of her ritual by playing her favorite Ella Fitzgerald record, which she only listened to while getting ready. I'd hear the first few notes of "April in Paris", rush into her vanity, sit myself in the corner and just gaze. The process a female takes to enhance, diminish, and shape her features took on a metaphysical and meditative allure for me. Whenever we went to bookstores, the makeup books were always a popular destination for my thumbs to flick through. I probably read Making Faces more than 50 odd times. I soon set to memory names like Max Factor, Ben Nye, and my favorite, Joe Blasco.

When i learned that the fantastical animals, horrifying monsters, and adorable imps that fluttered throughout my favorite movies were the product of genius makeup artists like Mr. Blasco, i was ecstatic! The mere idea of exacting physical alteration from a human to a hideous creature or beast by simply applying a palette of grease paint and latex prosthetics stunned me. I read every book from my local library on the topic of special effects makeup. Needing more resources, i would walk to this store called Barnes and Noble that had just opened up. Their policy of letting customers grab a pile of materials and read through them in the comfortable chairs they provided allowed me to explore nearly every issue of Fangoria and Cinefantastique. I quickly realized that the kind of effects that infatuated me were called "creature makeup", as opposed to the gory techniques. I gobbled up all of this print information, studying and memorizing the various techniques, but i felt like i was missing something. Seeing the images of makeup transformations and reading the descriptions that guided you through the process had limits to their effectiveness as learning methods. I needed to see the process firsthand. One day, i was over at my best friend's house, he pulled out his older brother's recently purchased laser disc of Michael Jackson's Thriller. On it had the complete "making of", including the segment that detailed Jackson's transformation into a werewolf.



Seeing those red letters spelling out the word "Metamorphosis" to this day still gives me chills.

"You put this thing on, and you slowly metamorphosize into this whole other person. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you can't help but let the whole mood and the character come to life. You can see the way it should walk, the way it should react, the way it should move."

At this point, Michael Jackson roars at his reflection in the mirror and then turns to the camera, signalling that the beast has taken over. I watched this segment ten times, that night alone. Over the years, i have probably viewed it in the hundreds. With a single explosion of kinetic energy, it grabbed me in my chest, filling it with a passionate insatiable urge. I practiced the appliance of makeup on myself (when i didn't have a model) and others constantly, feeling the electricity of creation bolting from my fingertips whenever i did. For Halloween, my friends fought to have me master their transfiguration. I also did all of the cosmetics for my female friends before formal dances, and would later utilize these skills in the theatre department in college.

I considered pursuing it as a career, but i chose not to for a few reasons; the largest being my response to transformation. I had such a sexual reaction to doing someone's makeup, that i couldn't imagine it going over well with my model as she sat in the chair while i stood next to her with a raging erection bulging in my pants. I felt satisfied relegating this hobby of mine to the intimate relationships i had.

Now i get my thrills from applying my girl's false eyelashes, lacing her corset or giving her lips an overly full look. I get a kiss as thanks, but what really gratifies me is the chance to play a part in a perpetual transformation.