She was just here

Awhile back, i took a few of you on a tour of the House of Deity in order to demonstrate the ease at which one can conceal the kinky potential of their furnishings. Do any of you remember the wooden stool that normally resides in the kitchen? Good. Keep that on precipice of your mind.

Recently, i had accumulated so much paid vacation that i needed to take random days off in order not to lose them. I reluctantly took the Friday before Christmas off, to give myself a three-day weekend, but to also give myself enough leisure time to contemplate the minutiae of that evening's correction. Vesta had recently shared with me a story she'd penned that detailed a schoolmaster faced with testing out his recently acquired spanking bench. A detail from it had stuck in the soft gray material of my brain like a spoon in a cup of ice cream. To fasten the young spankee to the wooden bench, the schoolmaster had the craftsmen install a leather band that would be draped over the girl's back - holding her in place, but also positioning her prone buttocks pointing skyward. From this image launched my evil stencils, drafting and designing ways to rivet, bind, ply and adhere my girl's frame to the aforementioned stool. I tested the stool to find its center of gravity, to see how the weight needed to be distributed. I calculated how much rope would be required to accomplish my vision, setting out the required number of coils. I layed out a yoga mat, and placed the stool over it in order to reduce the chance of the stool slipping out from under her. Everything was ready. All that waited was for my girl to arrive home from work.

I greeted her at the door, opening it when i heard her in the stairwell. She plunked her bags onto the floor of her room, and immediately grabbed her back, as if in pain.

"Baby, my back is killing me."

The sound of deflated excitement wheezed into the air as i felt all of the carefully crafted plans slip into the abyss. In my head, i tried to devise ways my design would not tax her sore dorsal region, but they all felt contrived.

"Well, you do know it's Friday."

"Yes, that's why i'm telling you about my back right now. I can't do anything too taxing."

"Define taxing."

"The cane...i can't do the cane."

The cane! THE CANE! She couldn't do the cane! I didn't even plan on using the cane. When she identified that it was this kind of trauma she must avoid - the kind of jolts to the lower rump that caused her muscles to jerk in violent spasms - i realized my plans were not for naught.

"Meet me in my study, having removed your clothes in 5 minutes."

I switched on the stereophone player against the long wall, and checked one last time that everything was prepared. She peeped her head in, seeing the stool immediately. I held out my hand and guided her to stand next to it. I took a position behind her, and before proceeding further, hugged her. I squeezed her, caressed her naked flesh, feeling the raised indent of her just-removed corset. I took in her scent, her natural and boutique perfumes. All of this brought me closer to her. I'd been away from this, her, all day. I guided her down, bending her over the stool, and placed each of her arms parallel to the two forelegs of the stool.

Kneeling, i grabbed a coil of hemp rope, and quickly lassoed her delicate wrists to the black wooden stantion of the stool, affixing it with authority. I traveled up her arm and attached her elbow with rope to the hard wood. With haste, i mimicked this configuration with her other arm, wrist and elbow. Her flippers had become legs of a stool. Moving behind her again, i spread her legs, butterflying them around the stool's aftlegs, making sure her feet were positioned wisely so as to support her entire weight should it shift even an inch during her internment. I wrapped her ankles to the legs of the stool, then her knees. Taking the extra slack i anticipated, running the rope up over her outer thigh, i slid a tight line of rope slicing down into her buttocks, and in through her legs. I grasped a hold of her outer right cunt lip in my fingers, and with the rope, pinned it against the inner part of her thigh, tying off the rest of this line to the rungs of the stool. Her left side soon sistered her right, holding her cunt open and spread. Where was my girl whose presence had filled the room, but now lay conjoined with this piece of kitchen furniture? Where had she gone?

Satisfied that she could not move with much liberty, i grabbed the last coil. Starting at the small of her back, at the precise point she had grabbed upon entering our home, i anchored this section to the top of the stool, coiling the rope around and around, each pass further compressing her back to a completely static state.

"How do you feel?"

I caressed her cheek with my hand. Her form clamped over the stool with such beauty. I wanted to grab the camera, but i also didn't want to interrupt the flow that this rigging had established between us.

"I feel good."

I produced the wooden hair brush with the wide head, and bent down to show it to her. She sighed, a sign of pure relief.

"I thought you might still use the cane."

I scraped the coarse bristles across her rope-packed flesh, back and forth, quickly inviting a beautiful scarlet wave to brush across her ass cheeks. I turned the business end of the brush around and thwacked her cheeks, playing with their tautness. I enjoyed the sensation of the impact upon my hand. The target never moved, and for the most part maintained the same rigid texture. After several strokes, i could see her backside was ready.

"Give me a number."

She struggled at first to provide me with one. Her speech seemed to stick in her windpipes, perhaps constrained by the aromatic hemp strewn across her body.

"Sixteen."

"Really? Sixteen."

In my hands, i held the leather cat-o-nine, allowing its mahogany tendrils to twist in the air. With precision as my guide, i suffered sixteen blows across her bound flesh, pausing only twice to allow her to catch her breath. At the conclusion, both of us could sense our mutual excitement, and knew the next logical step.

"Do i need to undo these crotch ropes to fuck you?"

"I think you might."

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.

What sites have you memorized?

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