Showing posts with label gags. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gags. Show all posts
Monday, October 6, 2014
Sunday, February 1, 2009
If these demands go unmet
I wanted to surprise you today, so i slipped this note into your lunch bag before you left for work. You're probably wondering what i am upto. Well, at this moment, i'm making some alterations to your place that will make it appear unfamiliar. When you come home, you're going to do something for me.
Tonight, you are going to kidnap yourself.
When you leave your office, you will be followed. Don't try to discover the person trailing you, they will be very well concealed. Once you arrive, you are to leave your front door slightly ajar. Facing you upon your entrance will be a chair, situated in the middle of your living room. Lying on the seat, you will see two sets of locking cuffs, a thick locking leather posture collar, a heavy burlap sack and a white silk scarf.
You are to strip down to your underwear, leaving only your bra and stockings on. Sit yourself into the chair, then first, lock the ankle cuffs on each leg, making sure to run the connecting chain underneath the chair. Then, lock one of the wrist cuffs to just one of your hands. Take the silk scarf, and tightly gag yourself with it, tying it behind your head. Rest the posture collar in your lap, then, take the burlap sack and pull it over your head. Follow this with the posture collar, snapping closed the attached brass padlocks. When all is completed, take the other wrist cuff, and latch the free hand behind the chair.
Take note of your breathing. Feel how hot your captured breath makes your face. Open your eyes, and drown in the darkness. Listen to each footstep that comes up the stairwell. Will they stop at your door? These thoughts are the only thing you will be able to do. Otherwise, your fate is to...just...wait.
Tonight, you are going to kidnap yourself.
When you leave your office, you will be followed. Don't try to discover the person trailing you, they will be very well concealed. Once you arrive, you are to leave your front door slightly ajar. Facing you upon your entrance will be a chair, situated in the middle of your living room. Lying on the seat, you will see two sets of locking cuffs, a thick locking leather posture collar, a heavy burlap sack and a white silk scarf.
You are to strip down to your underwear, leaving only your bra and stockings on. Sit yourself into the chair, then first, lock the ankle cuffs on each leg, making sure to run the connecting chain underneath the chair. Then, lock one of the wrist cuffs to just one of your hands. Take the silk scarf, and tightly gag yourself with it, tying it behind your head. Rest the posture collar in your lap, then, take the burlap sack and pull it over your head. Follow this with the posture collar, snapping closed the attached brass padlocks. When all is completed, take the other wrist cuff, and latch the free hand behind the chair.
Take note of your breathing. Feel how hot your captured breath makes your face. Open your eyes, and drown in the darkness. Listen to each footstep that comes up the stairwell. Will they stop at your door? These thoughts are the only thing you will be able to do. Otherwise, your fate is to...just...wait.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Putting the "shhh" in shackling
As i live in a very big city, like most urban dwellers, i reside in an apartment. My unit occupies the entire floor of our building, with a neighbor above and below sporting the exact same layout. The wood flooring that extends throughout the pad does little to insulate the pitter patter of the upstairs toddlers' amidst their play. Nor does the thinness of the ceilings - due to the 19th-century architecture of this brownstone - keep much of the constant hollering and caterwauling of those who live below confined to their own boxing ring.
Out my windows, on both ends of the apartment, i am no more than 100 feet from my closest external neighbor - both streetside and the rear of the building (think 'Rear Window') - which means at anytime, if my shades are up, a potential of over 100 eyes could be peering at the happenings of my humble abode (this is why they invented dungeons). Now, i frequently parade around my bungalow with only what the good Lord hath given me, to the dismay, i'm sure, of my neighboring eavesdroppers. Not because i'm a slob and unkempt - i'm rather well fit, i assure the reader - but because i so often flaunt my nudity to the point of overkill (there is a purpose for this). In this country that i love, it is mildly acceptable to be naked in your home without the shades drawn, however, it is not acceptable in any way to engage in the deprave acts that i pursue in mi casa.
This means that the many times i've mummified my girl, tied her up and whipped her, encased her in garish latex, or simply slipped a gag into her mouth, i've done so under considerable limitations. Shades drawn and a pledge from my girl that she try to hold in her screams (how taxing is that thought?) which usually puts an interesting dent into what we try to accomplish. We do not want to arouse the neighbors suspicions at the overflowing moans of agony pouring from these floors (but, i often wonder, how fair is it that i don't question the young parent's above on their neglect for having let their child scream bloody murder for 40 minutes?), nor do we want to interrupt our agenda.
There are times that we travel to remote locations for vacation, wherein we usually like to pick destinations that are far from anyone else, offering us seclusion and solitude. Here, we can be as loud and boisterous as we want, which reminds us of the interesting negotiation frequently entered back home with our surroundings. Silence may be golden, but for us, it's part and parcel of living in such close quarters.
Out my windows, on both ends of the apartment, i am no more than 100 feet from my closest external neighbor - both streetside and the rear of the building (think 'Rear Window') - which means at anytime, if my shades are up, a potential of over 100 eyes could be peering at the happenings of my humble abode (this is why they invented dungeons). Now, i frequently parade around my bungalow with only what the good Lord hath given me, to the dismay, i'm sure, of my neighboring eavesdroppers. Not because i'm a slob and unkempt - i'm rather well fit, i assure the reader - but because i so often flaunt my nudity to the point of overkill (there is a purpose for this). In this country that i love, it is mildly acceptable to be naked in your home without the shades drawn, however, it is not acceptable in any way to engage in the deprave acts that i pursue in mi casa.
This means that the many times i've mummified my girl, tied her up and whipped her, encased her in garish latex, or simply slipped a gag into her mouth, i've done so under considerable limitations. Shades drawn and a pledge from my girl that she try to hold in her screams (how taxing is that thought?) which usually puts an interesting dent into what we try to accomplish. We do not want to arouse the neighbors suspicions at the overflowing moans of agony pouring from these floors (but, i often wonder, how fair is it that i don't question the young parent's above on their neglect for having let their child scream bloody murder for 40 minutes?), nor do we want to interrupt our agenda.
There are times that we travel to remote locations for vacation, wherein we usually like to pick destinations that are far from anyone else, offering us seclusion and solitude. Here, we can be as loud and boisterous as we want, which reminds us of the interesting negotiation frequently entered back home with our surroundings. Silence may be golden, but for us, it's part and parcel of living in such close quarters.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Further demands
Good afternoon, my dear. I know you told me that your phone was getting serviced today. That is precisely why i am calling right now. I don't want you to intercept my phone call. In fact, i want your stomach to sink as you turn your phone on for the first time, having just picked it up from the service center, and see that i called.
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Am i a fetishist?
Ed Wood.
J. Edgar Hoover
Fyodor Dostoevski
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What do they all have in common? They are renowned fetishists. The first two being cross-dressers, while the second divided their time between revolutionizing the modern novel and worshiping the female podiatric anatomy. Obviously the former share a somewhat shamed and scarred remembrance for their kink, whereas the reputation of the latter two largely survives any notion of their sexual deviations.
Growing up, i could do little to stop my halt-in-my-place reaction to any flaunting of an ultra-female variety. If i witnessed a lady stopping mid-stride to gaze into a store window to fuss with her beehive hairdo, i could do nothing but gawk. Or should some gal struggle with her makeup compact on account of her 1" long fake nails, i most assuredly had a courtside seat for this event.
When i explored the avenues available to me to satisfy these (what i believed to be) odd appetites, i came across the word "fetish". At first, it presented itself as an exotic term, something to be embraced like "denouement" or "piece de resistance". As i read more on the term, and as i heard those around me dropping it into conversations, it gained a negative reputation with me. I remember a girlfriend of mine at the time referring to fetishes as "freaky, disgusting, and altogether unacceptable." Various definitions (depending on the context of the source) can be attached to the term. A sexual attraction to objects and materials as opposed to persons. The substitution (for social outcast reasons) of things instead of persons as sexual stimuli (Karl Marx famously referred to materialism as a hard-rooted fetish of Capitalism). I heard that someone who had a fetish (God be with them) could not get aroused unless the fetishized object were present. It became something i myself fought to deny as part of my psychosis, that i didn't need the items that struck an immediate reaction from me should i encounter them, which had me quickly leaping over to the judgmental side of the fence that chastised those who were avowed fetishists.
This punitive approach i took got further compounded when i sought out materials that would satisfy my need for sexual (non-fetishistic, i swear!) stimulus. I searched for photos or videos of the use of mummification, breath play/gasmasks/rebreather bags, full latex enclosure (as opposed to simply a pair of panties fashioned out of the pliable material), inflatable gags, head-encasing hoods or masks, chastity belts, and so on. To my horror, the vast majority of the subjects (and the seekers, i found) were male, and a good number of them were transvestites. I WAS NOT A TRANSVESTITE ("The lady doth protest too much, methinks"). I knew i didn't seek to don woman's clothes and develop a feminine side to my personality, but i could clearly see some part of me responded to the matter found in these pigeonholes. And so i pushed myself further away from the possibility that i may have my own landscape of fetishes. For many years, i put this outlet that responded so strongly to this type of stimulus away. It lay dormant. I hoped it would suffocate and die, like an appendage with a rubber band wrapped around it, choking it of any blood flow, soon to rot and fall off. However, this was not the case.
I moved to a city where they practically established cultural institutions that manufactured walking and breathing models for every fetish known to man. Pretty soon, i could no longer ignore the effect the sound of a clapping high heel had on me. Nor could i just pretend that the altered sway a girl has when wearing a pair of these clod-hoppers (what i've come to call the "Lift-Move-Drop" action of the female buttocks when compensating for the shift in her gait a pair of heels causes) didn't make me want to abandon all plans and just follow this beautiful creature.
Still to this day, i cannot get on a train and not notice every gal wearing a skirt, every well-coiffed hairdo, every pristinely manicured hand, and lord i must look ridiculous the way i crane my neck to catch a glimpse of a girl who i sense is wearing a pair of heels. Why i do this, i ultimately do not know. Am i a fetishist? Frankly, i don't care if i'm labelled as one or not, i just know that far too much has been made about it, and i no longer care to weigh in on the issue like i once did.
p.s. I leave it up to the pure psychoanalysts in the crowd to make sense of the mess that is my ultimate fetishistic fantasy, which is turning girls into objects.
J. Edgar Hoover
Fyodor Dostoevski
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What do they all have in common? They are renowned fetishists. The first two being cross-dressers, while the second divided their time between revolutionizing the modern novel and worshiping the female podiatric anatomy. Obviously the former share a somewhat shamed and scarred remembrance for their kink, whereas the reputation of the latter two largely survives any notion of their sexual deviations.
Growing up, i could do little to stop my halt-in-my-place reaction to any flaunting of an ultra-female variety. If i witnessed a lady stopping mid-stride to gaze into a store window to fuss with her beehive hairdo, i could do nothing but gawk. Or should some gal struggle with her makeup compact on account of her 1" long fake nails, i most assuredly had a courtside seat for this event.
When i explored the avenues available to me to satisfy these (what i believed to be) odd appetites, i came across the word "fetish". At first, it presented itself as an exotic term, something to be embraced like "denouement" or "piece de resistance". As i read more on the term, and as i heard those around me dropping it into conversations, it gained a negative reputation with me. I remember a girlfriend of mine at the time referring to fetishes as "freaky, disgusting, and altogether unacceptable." Various definitions (depending on the context of the source) can be attached to the term. A sexual attraction to objects and materials as opposed to persons. The substitution (for social outcast reasons) of things instead of persons as sexual stimuli (Karl Marx famously referred to materialism as a hard-rooted fetish of Capitalism). I heard that someone who had a fetish (God be with them) could not get aroused unless the fetishized object were present. It became something i myself fought to deny as part of my psychosis, that i didn't need the items that struck an immediate reaction from me should i encounter them, which had me quickly leaping over to the judgmental side of the fence that chastised those who were avowed fetishists.
This punitive approach i took got further compounded when i sought out materials that would satisfy my need for sexual (non-fetishistic, i swear!) stimulus. I searched for photos or videos of the use of mummification, breath play/gasmasks/rebreather bags, full latex enclosure (as opposed to simply a pair of panties fashioned out of the pliable material), inflatable gags, head-encasing hoods or masks, chastity belts, and so on. To my horror, the vast majority of the subjects (and the seekers, i found) were male, and a good number of them were transvestites. I WAS NOT A TRANSVESTITE ("The lady doth protest too much, methinks"). I knew i didn't seek to don woman's clothes and develop a feminine side to my personality, but i could clearly see some part of me responded to the matter found in these pigeonholes. And so i pushed myself further away from the possibility that i may have my own landscape of fetishes. For many years, i put this outlet that responded so strongly to this type of stimulus away. It lay dormant. I hoped it would suffocate and die, like an appendage with a rubber band wrapped around it, choking it of any blood flow, soon to rot and fall off. However, this was not the case.
I moved to a city where they practically established cultural institutions that manufactured walking and breathing models for every fetish known to man. Pretty soon, i could no longer ignore the effect the sound of a clapping high heel had on me. Nor could i just pretend that the altered sway a girl has when wearing a pair of these clod-hoppers (what i've come to call the "Lift-Move-Drop" action of the female buttocks when compensating for the shift in her gait a pair of heels causes) didn't make me want to abandon all plans and just follow this beautiful creature.
Still to this day, i cannot get on a train and not notice every gal wearing a skirt, every well-coiffed hairdo, every pristinely manicured hand, and lord i must look ridiculous the way i crane my neck to catch a glimpse of a girl who i sense is wearing a pair of heels. Why i do this, i ultimately do not know. Am i a fetishist? Frankly, i don't care if i'm labelled as one or not, i just know that far too much has been made about it, and i no longer care to weigh in on the issue like i once did.
p.s. I leave it up to the pure psychoanalysts in the crowd to make sense of the mess that is my ultimate fetishistic fantasy, which is turning girls into objects.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sugasm #116
Sugasm #116
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 #117? 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
In Case Of Fire
“His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear.”
It was a long night…
“I gasped as he slowly pushed in one finger, slippery with oil, and began to wiggle it and spread me open.”
Sex Worker Confessions: Gracie Passette
“But underneath it all, sex workers are all about bridging, in body & soul, word & deed, the irreconcilable differences between realities and desires.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Persian Kitty Alternative
Editor’s Choice
Baker’s Birthday
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & FetishSight
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Sight
You sit immobilized, surrounded by absolute shadow. This is the kind of pitch darkness that weighs heavy, where even black is absent. Your arms are bound behind your back, but you don't know exactly how because you can't see a thing. You can't move your arms, but more importantly, you don't want to - out of fear. You see nothing. Light ceases to exist for the time being, which makes the "time being" feel eternally long. You sense, almost hear, something, someone near you. A few feet away.
"Hello?" you call out.
The space occupied by the sound of your words vanishes, sucked into the darkness. As quickly as you muttered that question, a rush comes, collapsing on you, hands pulling on your face, shoving, pushing. They abandon you, having shoved a thick gag into your mouth. You fight the urge to call out, to groan through the solid obstruction forcing your jaw open. Slobber, evidence of your increased duress builds around the orb between your lips, drawing an unseen trail that hangs from your chin. You jerk in reaction to a droplet of saliva splashing against the flesh of your thigh. Having not thought about it before this, you realize you are completely naked. Your sputtery breath rattles into the air. You try to hold as still as you can, but not being able to focus on anything with your eyes makes that incredibly hard.
You hear the presence of the voice just instants before it speaks.
"I control what you see. I control how you see. I give and take away any sight you may have. You exist through my will and desire."
The voice steps closer to you, and suddenly, you feel the frigid cold lifelessness of a thin metal edge pressed against the underside of your chin. Involuntarily, you gulp a swollen swallow.
"Shhhhh..." The voice strikes something against the object held to your neck, exploding the head of a match. The sudden burst of light burns your eyes. You squint them closed, shielding them from the piercing brightness. You open them back up slowly, and as you do, the voice pulls the implement away from your throat, showing you a long knife, illuminated by the flickering flame. Just as you size up the blade, the voice extinguishes the match. You hear the sound of steps backward.
The darkness feels more stark, contrasted against the brilliant fiery light. The vacuum feels like it's right on top of you, pressing against you, pushing into every bend and crease of your body.
You can tell the voice has left, despite not hearing any exit. You await quiet and still, nonetheless. You don't need the voice there to know you are not alone. You don't need to see to know you are aroused.
*this continues on here
"Hello?" you call out.
The space occupied by the sound of your words vanishes, sucked into the darkness. As quickly as you muttered that question, a rush comes, collapsing on you, hands pulling on your face, shoving, pushing. They abandon you, having shoved a thick gag into your mouth. You fight the urge to call out, to groan through the solid obstruction forcing your jaw open. Slobber, evidence of your increased duress builds around the orb between your lips, drawing an unseen trail that hangs from your chin. You jerk in reaction to a droplet of saliva splashing against the flesh of your thigh. Having not thought about it before this, you realize you are completely naked. Your sputtery breath rattles into the air. You try to hold as still as you can, but not being able to focus on anything with your eyes makes that incredibly hard.
You hear the presence of the voice just instants before it speaks.
"I control what you see. I control how you see. I give and take away any sight you may have. You exist through my will and desire."
The voice steps closer to you, and suddenly, you feel the frigid cold lifelessness of a thin metal edge pressed against the underside of your chin. Involuntarily, you gulp a swollen swallow.
"Shhhhh..." The voice strikes something against the object held to your neck, exploding the head of a match. The sudden burst of light burns your eyes. You squint them closed, shielding them from the piercing brightness. You open them back up slowly, and as you do, the voice pulls the implement away from your throat, showing you a long knife, illuminated by the flickering flame. Just as you size up the blade, the voice extinguishes the match. You hear the sound of steps backward.
The darkness feels more stark, contrasted against the brilliant fiery light. The vacuum feels like it's right on top of you, pressing against you, pushing into every bend and crease of your body.
You can tell the voice has left, despite not hearing any exit. You await quiet and still, nonetheless. You don't need the voice there to know you are not alone. You don't need to see to know you are aroused.
*this continues on here
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Toying with her
I've been entirely obsessed with the idea of complete female immobilization and objectification. Engrossed and focused - purchased a one way ticket for the one-track mind express. Every inference of sexuality, every indulgence in a video from my collection, every plot twist/device/structure of erotica i've read involves some aspect of a girl's entrapment in extreme total bondage, and then put away for her internment, only to be used later - once her confinement has effectively altered her mind and transformed her into a willing and desirous object. Unfortunately, this pedestrian approach to providing me the necessary nutrient wasn't enough.
I took pen to paper. I started crafting a narrative involving the most convoluted story about a girl who inherits an estate, but in order to qualify for it, she must live precisely like the person who had bequeathed it to her. Of course, as was wont to happen in the Victorian era, it turns out this person lived her life as a household object, constantly confined to some body-entombing sarcophagi - as a lamp, as a table, as a statue, as a fountain, etc. The girl, in order to enjoy her outrageously vast inheritance, would have to endure similar bondage. I wrote quite extensively on the subject, going into great detail over each imprisoning contraption, and dissecting her gradual metamorphosis. All very enjoyable, but not nearly satisfying enough for me. I needed more.
I pulled out my sketch pad and drew out illustrations of the images salaciously tantalizing my mind. Contorted feminine bodies, held tightly by wicked bindings, forcing their forms into extreme curvatures and postures. Each drawing progressed the captured female towards a greater reduction of identity and autonomy. I'd stare at the page, stimulated by both the bold and shocking portrayal and the parade of ladies galloping by the windows of the cafe where i sat. I compared the two contrasting exhibitions: One had the girl restrained and manipulated, while the other was a free form of lithe limbs and flowing fabrics. Sitting there, i realized there was only one way i could find satisfaction.
------------------------------------------------------------------
She came into my study to ask a general question about my plans for the day. I smiled because it just so happened that i was about to embark on my plans for the day.
"I'm going to mummify you."
She looked at me with a precious desire to be interested in my agenda but with the body language that lacked the resolve. An embarkation of this sort was the furthest notion in her mind of what to do with her rainy weekend day. Acknowledging her reticence, i proceeded.
I arranged her on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her naked body faced me, legs hanging over the side. I told her to bend her arms closed, laying her palms against her shoulders, which held her elbows aloft and pointed out. I grabbed the readied roll of shrinkwrap and began to encase her folded limbs in tight layers of plastic. Her hands sandwiched against her sternum, giving her the appearance of wings. I rolled the shrinkwrap over her chest, making sure to carve out exposure to her tits. Soon, her upper torso, rising up to her neck was completely cocooned in plastic. I then began to apply strips of black duct tape, which immediately erased the human quality of her features seen through the sheer layers of shrinkwrap. Each strip got meticulous application, to ensure the tightest seal, but to also allow the easiest escape should an emergency arise. Her armless, winged figure sat before me, taunting me with the voluptuous white droplets of her tits, a significant counterpoint to her now, blackened flesh. On to her head.
Her head. I always tend to leave this part for last. At this point, her confinement could resemble that of one locked in a nautical life vest - incapacitating, mildly inconvenient. The step of coating her head in thick anonymizing layers always ramps up the objectification. I put between her lips a piece of one inch PVC pipe, cut two inches in length, which had a long leather chord knotted around it, when anchored to the back of her head, holds the piece of pipe in place. I methodically spread constricting layers of plastic over her cranium, which covered up every millimeter of skin. The only access to her upper body remained her mouth held open by the round plastic tube and, of course, her exposed tits.
The first strip of black duct tape went over her shrink wrap-coated eyes, which symbolically put my girl away. I made quick work of the rest of her head, smoothing the foot long segments of tape to the skin-tight plastic skullcap. I coated her entire head and her neck, joining this cocoon with the one on her upper torso. I left the final encapsulating touches to the area where her mouth lay beneath, and the breathing pipe gag jutted out. By the time that i am satisfied with the entombment, there is no visual evidence of a human girl lying beneath these multiple layers. No, what remains is my transformed fucktoy.
I left the fucktoy lie for a period of time, returning to the work that had my attention when my girl had initially interrupted. I checked on the stationary object every ten minutes, to monitor all vital signs. A half hour into this session, i carried a digital camera with me on my rounds. I took a dozen photos of the inanimate toy lying completely still, breathing a heavy gust through the black tube of a mouth. The thing i enjoyed the most about taking these photos was due to her complete sensory deprivation, my girl had no clue i was clicking away with a camera until i showed her a few hours after her release. I put the camera within a few inches of the toy's face, and it gave no indication of sensing the flash exploding all over its black duct tape epidermal. I left the toy lying there a bit longer.
No longer able nor willing to withhold myself, i re-entered the room where my toy lay, surveying the state of its immobilization. I pulled back the covers that had served to keep the toy warm, exposing its naked, glistening cunt into the open air. I ratcheted up a vibrating g-spot stimulator, touching it to the exposed flesh of my toy's tits. I moved it quickly to the folds of the moist vulva pointing up at me. Parting the thick fleshy lips, i moved the vibrating penetration deep inside, pushing it up against the thick, spongy g-spot. My fucktoy reacted, lifting its hips in the air, its winged limbs fluttering a momentary desperation. I reached for a bullet-sized vibrator, applying this to my fucktoy's blushing and engorged clitoris. I palmed the large intruder, stroking it against the hungry internal humpspot, while tracing circles around the flaming pink mound of skin with the vibrating bullet. Locating a rhythm, i rode my toy with this onslaught until it erupted into hip-thrusting convulsions. I spoke to the thing jerking in my hands, asking it if it was my hole, my fuckslut, my cunt. Gasps of exasperated accord and exclamation burst out of the plastic tube jutting out of my toy's mouth.
I withdrew all mechanical forms of stimulation off of the throbbing sex organ, watching the tape-encased form shudder beneath me with erotic confinement. I pulled out my own erect and throbbing member, and extrapolated punctuation on what was the cap of an entirely fulfilling afternoon.
I leave the reader with the following two photos that document a little of what i enjoyed this afternoon (touched up for aesthetic reasons).
I took pen to paper. I started crafting a narrative involving the most convoluted story about a girl who inherits an estate, but in order to qualify for it, she must live precisely like the person who had bequeathed it to her. Of course, as was wont to happen in the Victorian era, it turns out this person lived her life as a household object, constantly confined to some body-entombing sarcophagi - as a lamp, as a table, as a statue, as a fountain, etc. The girl, in order to enjoy her outrageously vast inheritance, would have to endure similar bondage. I wrote quite extensively on the subject, going into great detail over each imprisoning contraption, and dissecting her gradual metamorphosis. All very enjoyable, but not nearly satisfying enough for me. I needed more.
I pulled out my sketch pad and drew out illustrations of the images salaciously tantalizing my mind. Contorted feminine bodies, held tightly by wicked bindings, forcing their forms into extreme curvatures and postures. Each drawing progressed the captured female towards a greater reduction of identity and autonomy. I'd stare at the page, stimulated by both the bold and shocking portrayal and the parade of ladies galloping by the windows of the cafe where i sat. I compared the two contrasting exhibitions: One had the girl restrained and manipulated, while the other was a free form of lithe limbs and flowing fabrics. Sitting there, i realized there was only one way i could find satisfaction.
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She came into my study to ask a general question about my plans for the day. I smiled because it just so happened that i was about to embark on my plans for the day.
"I'm going to mummify you."
She looked at me with a precious desire to be interested in my agenda but with the body language that lacked the resolve. An embarkation of this sort was the furthest notion in her mind of what to do with her rainy weekend day. Acknowledging her reticence, i proceeded.
I arranged her on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her naked body faced me, legs hanging over the side. I told her to bend her arms closed, laying her palms against her shoulders, which held her elbows aloft and pointed out. I grabbed the readied roll of shrinkwrap and began to encase her folded limbs in tight layers of plastic. Her hands sandwiched against her sternum, giving her the appearance of wings. I rolled the shrinkwrap over her chest, making sure to carve out exposure to her tits. Soon, her upper torso, rising up to her neck was completely cocooned in plastic. I then began to apply strips of black duct tape, which immediately erased the human quality of her features seen through the sheer layers of shrinkwrap. Each strip got meticulous application, to ensure the tightest seal, but to also allow the easiest escape should an emergency arise. Her armless, winged figure sat before me, taunting me with the voluptuous white droplets of her tits, a significant counterpoint to her now, blackened flesh. On to her head.
Her head. I always tend to leave this part for last. At this point, her confinement could resemble that of one locked in a nautical life vest - incapacitating, mildly inconvenient. The step of coating her head in thick anonymizing layers always ramps up the objectification. I put between her lips a piece of one inch PVC pipe, cut two inches in length, which had a long leather chord knotted around it, when anchored to the back of her head, holds the piece of pipe in place. I methodically spread constricting layers of plastic over her cranium, which covered up every millimeter of skin. The only access to her upper body remained her mouth held open by the round plastic tube and, of course, her exposed tits.
The first strip of black duct tape went over her shrink wrap-coated eyes, which symbolically put my girl away. I made quick work of the rest of her head, smoothing the foot long segments of tape to the skin-tight plastic skullcap. I coated her entire head and her neck, joining this cocoon with the one on her upper torso. I left the final encapsulating touches to the area where her mouth lay beneath, and the breathing pipe gag jutted out. By the time that i am satisfied with the entombment, there is no visual evidence of a human girl lying beneath these multiple layers. No, what remains is my transformed fucktoy.
I left the fucktoy lie for a period of time, returning to the work that had my attention when my girl had initially interrupted. I checked on the stationary object every ten minutes, to monitor all vital signs. A half hour into this session, i carried a digital camera with me on my rounds. I took a dozen photos of the inanimate toy lying completely still, breathing a heavy gust through the black tube of a mouth. The thing i enjoyed the most about taking these photos was due to her complete sensory deprivation, my girl had no clue i was clicking away with a camera until i showed her a few hours after her release. I put the camera within a few inches of the toy's face, and it gave no indication of sensing the flash exploding all over its black duct tape epidermal. I left the toy lying there a bit longer.
No longer able nor willing to withhold myself, i re-entered the room where my toy lay, surveying the state of its immobilization. I pulled back the covers that had served to keep the toy warm, exposing its naked, glistening cunt into the open air. I ratcheted up a vibrating g-spot stimulator, touching it to the exposed flesh of my toy's tits. I moved it quickly to the folds of the moist vulva pointing up at me. Parting the thick fleshy lips, i moved the vibrating penetration deep inside, pushing it up against the thick, spongy g-spot. My fucktoy reacted, lifting its hips in the air, its winged limbs fluttering a momentary desperation. I reached for a bullet-sized vibrator, applying this to my fucktoy's blushing and engorged clitoris. I palmed the large intruder, stroking it against the hungry internal humpspot, while tracing circles around the flaming pink mound of skin with the vibrating bullet. Locating a rhythm, i rode my toy with this onslaught until it erupted into hip-thrusting convulsions. I spoke to the thing jerking in my hands, asking it if it was my hole, my fuckslut, my cunt. Gasps of exasperated accord and exclamation burst out of the plastic tube jutting out of my toy's mouth.
I withdrew all mechanical forms of stimulation off of the throbbing sex organ, watching the tape-encased form shudder beneath me with erotic confinement. I pulled out my own erect and throbbing member, and extrapolated punctuation on what was the cap of an entirely fulfilling afternoon.
I leave the reader with the following two photos that document a little of what i enjoyed this afternoon (touched up for aesthetic reasons).
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball
Every opportunity i had to gather loose nickels and dimes, i took. A cousin taught me the trick of checking the coin return slot of pay phones for overlooked booty. My father instructed me on walking with my eyes trained to the sidewalk so as not to miss the orphaned pieces of silver currency. Everywhere i turned, an opportunity for treasure hunting arose. But it wasn't these doubloons i sought, rather what i could turn them into. Rubber balls.
Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.
I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.
She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.
I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.
Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.
I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.
I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.
Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.
I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.
She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.
I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.
Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.
I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.
I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.
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