They're here

I imagine that the hands that built them had no idea of the power the raw materials they used to craft them would possess. They were simply cutting along the lines of the pattern they had by now memorized, sending them off to the room filled with whirring sewing machines, to be stitched and shaped. To all the hands who had held them so far, they were just objects, articles of clothing - weird, even unnatural certainly - but simple garments nonetheless. Out of the factory, onto the truck that would carry them to the distribution center, these shiny assassins lay in domicility within their long, white cardboard box.

They still, at this point, were well over a month away from arriving into my hands. Final negotiations with the saucy supplier over which method of payment, followed by shipping preferences were to take place. And then, they would make their long journey from way down under, eventually, gradually, aggravatingly slowly to my door.

I conjur up a storyline that says somewhere along their voyage to me they were momentarily re-routed, landing themselves in the darkened lair of a malevolent sorcerer. In his hands, he would slowly dip them into some black magic liquid, chanting ancient, mysterious words, fully possessing them with a demonic spirit that would be unleashed upon the mortal in whose hands they would eventually land. This is the only way i can believe that they would have so much power over me once they finally did arrive.

I'd come home from work, having finished a very, long day, looking for some peaceful quiet with my girl. To my surprise, there, awaiting my arrival was the long, white box. I knew immediately what lay inside. My hands burned as i held the box and made the ascent to our apartment. I may not have noticed at the time, but slowly, a pool of saliva had begun to collect in my mouth. Even through their case, their power seeped, ultimately corrupting my mind. By the time i put the key in the door, my skin was tingling, my ears buzzing, my blood coursing. I quickly shut the door behind me so as to keep discreet the immense erection that had expanded in my suit pants.

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?

Lynch/fetish

From the first moment i heard the opening, tragic notes of this song, i was hooked. I wanted to escape to this world of simple, forest-inhabiting, cherry pie-ingesting, supernatural people. Each stroke of the cascading six tones, rising then falling, like the chest of an innocent child stopping to catch their breath amidst a game of hide and seek hypnotized me, putting me in a euphoric trance. It all seemed so innocent, the pristine woodland creatures, tumbling waterfalls, soft amber colors. And of course, there were the girls of Twin Peaks. Every single one of them angelic heartbreakers, with pin-up looks and well-concealed darker sides that threatened to burst at any moment. This world represented a place where the fulfillment of my appetites could occur - the rigid capture of romantic beauty - i just didn't realize how much this hunger would affect me or how frequently i'd need to satisfy it.

My favorite of all the girls was Audrey, played by the gorgeous actress Sherilyn Fenn:


This image of Ms. Fenn is an exact copy of one i stared at for many, many hours. I'm not sure what i hoped would happen by these lengthy staring sessions. Her mouth invited a kiss. Her hands at her neck spoke of surrender, as well as one lost in lust. Her eyes, the delicately slanted whispers, bore into you, challenging you to muster up the courage to even be near her. The mountainous, ebony tendrils of her curly hair gave her a regal look, but also made her look like she was falling - away from you, urging you to save her, to catch her.

Hours.

I had to know everything about this actress, the man who composed this music and the other people behind this show. Everything. Eventually, i learned all of the actresses names. And eventually i learned the man who created this dreamy world: David Lynch

It's been (and i can't believe this) almost 20 years since David Lynch first brought us his world of Twin Peaks. Since that time, i have obsessively sought out his entire ouevre. He has imagined very diverse, incredibly surreal landscapes. From Victorian freaks of nature, to a senior citizen taking a jaunt on a riding lawnmower in the Heartland. From a futuristic desert landscape to a neverending highway of nightmares. There has been one theme that has consistently materialized in his work, that of devestatingly gorgeous feminine beauty. Without saying the word, Mr. Lynch, in his cinema, has paraded a world of his spiritual and sexual fetishes. The women have curves as if they belonged in a museum of ancient Roman vases, and the perfection of their faces certainly worthy of heavenly Goddesses.

Recently, i became aware of a collaboration between the cinematic visionary David Lynch and the footwear fantastico Christian Louboutin. Now, i'm a little embarassed to say that this partnership happened back in 2008. How i could've missed this exhibit, i'll never know, but i hope that it escaped my clutches doesn't harm my reputation as kink aficionado with you, my readers.


It's not exactly clear what the full exhibit consisted of, but i gather that David Lynch took the photos of models wearing shoes that Christian Louboutin designed specifically for this project. With all high-minded intellectualism, i can sense a woundedness that each model expresses, that they are trapped by an insanely demanding ideal of femininity which truly only values their parts rather than the sum of them. However, one look at the shoes in this photo, and the fetishist in me completely starts to lose composure. These extreme heels are totally unwalkable - to someone who has a fetish for female objectification, having your doll mobile rarely seems to be a necessity.

This gallery shows the spectrum of shots and shoes these two created.

This has a video that shows the gallery space, and a bit more examples of Louboutin's creations.

I'm not surprised that David Lynch at this point in his career is being more outwardly obvious with his own kinky bents. The arc of his career has been a gradually ascending dialog on this subject. It's comforting, somehow, to have an artist that i've followed and adored for two decades "come out", even though all along, when i first encountered his vision of a sleepy logging town in the Pacific Northwest, i had my suspicions.

The autumn leaves me smiling

The crispness in the air that serves a pleasant note of chill to the skin has arrived, and with it comes my favorite season: boot season. In the past, i've dictated how i have a reflex reaction to the sound of heels upon the pavement. My head jerks in the direction of the click-clack percussive, for which i most certainly look odd, nonetheless my adoration for the heel-shodden female takes command at these moments. Most times, my instantaneous peek of excitement quickly turns to glib dissappointment because the chosen footwear doesn't fit my (admittedly) narrow aesthetic. However, should the shape and form match my likes, i will study them, examine how the girl's foot lays in them, the impact on her calf (if visible) and her buttocks, and how she holds her posture standing in them. If i'm truly smitten by the wearer and the worn, i've been known to take a 20 minute detour just to follow the lass so that i can witness the pedestrian pageant.

Another reason occurs to me why i enjoy this season so much. The cold weather discourages a practice that i've come to revile. It's rather tough to dress in tight, revealing, midriff-exposing rags when the windchill drops - and thank God for that! My male colleagues relish the Spring thaw because with the rising temperatures comes rising hemlines, and frankly, as i've often stated, this rush for females to sluttify their appearances greatly diminishes their power over other women, men, and sadly, themselves. They've removed the anticipation and imagination about what they might appear like in their bedroom, and paraded it around like a stripper who's only absent their pole.

I was recently reminded of this distinction and the real power a lady dressing in a classy and elegant, yet still sexy fashion has. In my office, the environment is highly male-dominant, and the few females in the ranks feel the need to dress down and minimize their femininity in order to achieve their spot in the pecking order. One, however, stands out. Since her start here six years ago, she has always presented herself with excelled beauty and dignity, taking great care in her appearance. She keeps her hair very long, easily to the base of her back. Her costume usually consists of skirts and dresses and always heels. Her hands are exquisitely manicured, and her makeup subtle but striking. She has a very devout Christian faith that she allows to quietly guide her decisions and her opinions (e.g. she won't let her son celebrate Halloween), and she tolerates absolutely zero crude or sexist remarks (which is commendable in a very high-ego, macho environment).

The other day, i was picking up my mail, and she came scooting by me with considerable velocity. She boisterously greeted me as she passed. I returned her greeting by smiling, and instinctively scanning the floor to catch a glimpse of her heels du jour. 5" stilletto heel, knee-high, black leather boots with constrast grey lacing on the sides. Very fetching. I just had to have an excuse to engage in a longer conversation where i could catch a few more glimpses of her appearance (quite honestly, she has to, by this point notice how intently i study her chosen garments). Even though my girl has become quite the pro in maneuvering in rather high heels, i decided to play up my bewilderment at how any girl could manage.

"I have to ask, but how do you manage to whip by with such agility in those things."

I pointed at the boots that extended out beneath her desk. She looked up with a smile, hearing that it was my voice behind the question.

"It's not that hard. Have you ever tried?"

"Ha ha, uhm, i may have when i was in college, i don't really remember."

"Well, ladies are built for it. We have different physiques."

This qualified for a follow-up question of clarification that my smartass mind conjured but quickly contained.

"I agree. Just this morning, my girl put on her maroon, patent leather, mary jane platforms, and i marveled at how effortlessly she could navigate our stairs."

"Exactly. With practice, it's easy enough to do. You like how she looks in them, don't you?"

"Without a doubt."

We smiled and laughed a little longer, while my eyes finished their meal. Knowing how reserved and dignified she was made this exchange even more enjoyable. I wouldn't have had nearly as much a thrill had she shoved her cleavage in my face and sold her wares with loose urgency. Her restraint, the indications she gave that her body was off-limits made her all the more attractive. I excused myself as a little hint in the back of my mind told me she had an inkling as to what portion of my appetite she'd help satiate.

more Demands

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

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

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

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

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

You are to wear (and only) the following:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*this continues on here

Since when was naughty the opposite of nice?

'Tis the season where well-meaning girls are faced with spending a little time tied up beneath the christmas tree.

I'm leaving on an extended tour of the jolliest yuletide venues, and won't be back for awhile. But don't you worry, my devoted and slobbering readers, i will not leave you unattended.



I have asked a dear and beloved friend of mine to watch over the workshop for me in my absence. Those of you who drop by during the holidays are in for a treat for not only is she a devilish mind, but also an incredibly gifted writer.



When i first approached my friend 'stormy' with the idea of babysitting the site over Christmas, she balked at the idea, not sure her take on things would fit these hallowed pages. Au contraire, i told her. My first introduction to her was through her written word, and immediately, i was addicted. Her take on and passion for this realm continues to stun me, and i am honored that she would care to offer it to my audience.

To my readers and those just casually passing by, Happy Holidays. I look forward to a brand new year through which i can further explore my debauchery.

With that thought in mind, i leave the beautiful Kay O'Hara and a Vargas pin-up as my presents to all of you.

Second skin

I credit the internet for many things.

It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.

It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).

Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.

When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.

I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.

The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.

Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:

Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll

Windmills

If the weather permits, i usually like to spend my lunch hour outside, sitting on a bench that positions me in a well-trafficked corridor of this bustling part of the city. I constantly scan the currents of pedestrians for the female components dressed in their flashiest, hippest urban professional wear. For some reason that i deem remarkably masochistic, these girls who do more walking than their suburban counterparts universally insist on wearing high heels. I don't complain. I've always enjoyed watching how a female's anatomy responds to the hitch an elevated heel manifests in their step. But these are mere distractions from the real psychology operating in my head.

I see a girl sitting across from me on a bench, and i feel an immediate compulsion to dominate. I want to grab her stare with my eyes, draw out a long sigh from her mouth as she feels herself slowly slip into trance. She may, in the middle of this illusion, decide to get up. It doesn't matter. The next one will come along soon. Sometimes i feel almost clinical, like i'm observing them through glass. Happy to do so, i'm taking detailed notes of their behavior, noting how similar they act as a gender, learning from their body language, recognizing patterns. I find that i can get quite lost in these examinations.

But why females? I'm very very curious as to why the dominance of the female body is so enthralling. It's not simply because they have a cunt. Or tits. I'm not even thinking of that when i glance at them and quickly commute them to a sentence of intense bondage. Rather i'm admiring their small wrists, their lithe necks, the way they can press their chins into their shoulders to indicate interest. I'm imagining the sum of all of these parts bound and pleading. And it happens a hundred times a day.

The girl behind the Starbucks counter who hands me my coffee. I smile at her. I seek to make her blush. I'll read her name off her nametag, tell her how beautiful i find it, then just grin at her. I know, as i'm doing this, i want to hold a momentary place in her day like a shudder, a tingle, a chill.

The girl i pass on the sidewalk, turning the corner instead of keeping straight like me. She'll flip around briefly to see if i've stopped shadowing her, but not out of fear. She sensed that i was observing her from behind, non-threateningly, and yet, still somewhat predatorily. She briefly considers playing the game.

I'll walk the platform of the subway. Travelling to a point where i know i need to stand, and i'll pass a girl waiting for the opposite train, going in the opposite direction. She'll turn her face towards me, see me smiling, and she'll bashfully offer me a smile back. A genuine smile. A smile that says "Alright, so you caught me this moment. So, i'll smile back, but only because i'm going in the opposite direction."

Or the girl who comes onto the train, once i've caught mine, at the next stop. She looks around before she sits. My antennae lift into the air. I sense a female presence. I peer at her, waiting for her eyes to fall upon me as she scans her immediate vicinity. I hold her gaze, until she sits down and recoils into herself. We will do this several times. I will keep my head turned at her, waiting for her to look my way, only to sustain the stare. Not letting it fizzle. Making her stand behind her glance and not back away from it. The intensity of the energy that builds here between two strangers is incredible. But it goes nowhere.

I do not want to dominate the entire female gender. Nor is my mind conjuring up these images because i want a conquest between the sheets. Yet, my body's reaction to these girls seems to betray that notion. My dominant side asserts itself as if it were the one in control, not i, the consulate. It is hard to describe, but the dominant facet of my personality doesn't want sex as prominently as it wants control. Control of the beautiful female entity. Control over me. It happens, constantly. A hundred times a day. I'm surrounded by this feminine energy that i want to, in small ways, conquer - to saturate it with my desires, my needs, my impulses.

Playing with my Barbie

I had the worst hobby as a young boy. The kind that no "lettered in Football", Special Forces in Vietnam, self-made rags-to-riches father would ever want his son to have.

I played with dolls.

I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.

Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.

As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.

Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.

I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.

The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.

And then, i go further.

I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.

"barbie likes"

At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.

My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.

The greatest inconvenience i've ever encountered...

...is that of a woman and my reaction to her.

He was so politically saavy. He had to be, to have held office as long as he had. Over 40 years. I was young and brash when i decided to go up against him. I thought that i had more than those hundreds of others who'd tried to topple him but failed. He completely embarassed me. He not only embarassed me, he handicapped me for several years, undoing so much progress i'd made in my own political career, sending me back to the land of the bureaucrat.

One night, following my political defeat, i was attending a civic party just like any other. The Mayor would ask us to stand by him as he gave his remarks on whatever token issue he had chosen to highlight that evening in front of the press. Then, we would be dispersed to mingle among the crowd, spreading the good word about our faithful civil servants. I decided to bide my time as close to the East Wing open bar for as long as possible, camping there out of sight of any mayoral staffers. Out of the side of my eye, a delicious young sandy blonde caught my attention, saddling up to the bar. I noticed she asked for two drinks. I asked her if she needed help. She politely declined, adding,"My husband prefers my company solely." Point taken. I followed her disembarkment from the bar, as she slid along the floor full of the city's socialites. Her final destination stunned me into a near paralysis. I couldn't believe the fortune that my revenge had just leaned her elbows up against the polished mahogany next to me. She handed the second drink to the very man who'd gleefully wrecked my name in public.

Through various channels, i found my way to her. She knew who i was, and i knew, now, who she was. We dispensed very quickly of the need for proper protocol as recent political combatants. I set the terms of my engagement early. I wanted to use her to get at him. She indulged my desire for one, as-of-yet, unpublicized reason: the man was completely impotent. Due to a bout with cancer (also unpublicized), he had lost his ability to perform any sexual act, meaning he'd completely lost his libido. This would explain his rampant voracity for political slaughter in the later years. For her part, she was caught. She didn't want to leave him because she genuinely loved him, but she also needed satisfaction in addition to retribution for his failure to disclose his handicap before they were legally bound to eachother. The situation kept on getting sweeter and sweeter.

At first, i played with her in mildly sadistic fashions. I would call her up, insisting that she be in bed with him next to her, as she played with herself. In the early stages, i just wanted the spectre of her masturbation to hang in the air. I didn't want her to make any noises or motions to draw his attention. As time progressed, i instructed her to let out soft moans, just low enough for him to hear her. This filled me with such dastardly joy. I didn't know if it bothered him, but i had a sense that he was experiencing a level of humiliation that his young, sexpot of a bride was taking care of maintenance he was no longer equipped to manage. That sense went away pretty quickly. I came to learn that i didn't know if it was humiliating him like i'd hoped. Yet, more importantly, i didn't stop escalating the degredation with his sexy, unfulfilled wife.

If pressed, i attribute it to her incredible snottiness. She was a bitch of the highest class. I loved toppling her. I would devise scenarios where she would be forced to engage in awfully humiliating public scenes. I'd instruct her, the very public wife of the very powerfully connected senior political figure, to go to a shoe store wearing a skirt and no panties, with the objective to flash the poor, unsuspecting salesman as many times as possible. My absolute favorite was when i commanded her to travel to my offices downtown in nothing but a trenchcoat and heels, well knowing that she would have to go through the metal detectors and security checkpoints just to get past the lobby. Once on my floor, she was to slowly walk to my office with her coat lowered onto her bare shoulders, only to come inside and spend the rest of the day posed underneath my desk, with her head between my legs.

As time moved on, i realized this wasn't about revenge against the Old Man. Our's was a battle on the field of politics, and he had performed more valiantly and won. I fought a different battle with her. It stemmed from my view that the greatest inconvenience i've ever experienced is that of a woman and my reaction to her.

The Gain, pt. 4 - The Compromise

Most of my encounters with June followed the routine set in our first date. I'd provide guidelines for how she should dress, introducing a different hurdle each time. I would spend a few moments deriding her ineptitude, then leave in disgust. I noticed, however, over time, she was slowly starting to resemble the image i'd conjured from our initial crossing at her office.

We'd met for the very first time at the architectural firm she worked. I was there for a meeting to go over the project with the rest of the design team i was overseeing, when during the presentation of final plans, June came bursting into the conference room. She pulled the head architect out of the huddle, frantically explaining to him her "needs immediate attention" crisis. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was stunning.

Working in a field populated largely by men, it is rare to encounter a female who sits amongst the elite ranks of the highly skilled. It is even rarer that this female have obliteratingly potent looks. Upon her head sat raven black hair, which pulled tightly into a bun showed off the sleek, attractive shape of her skull. She wore a grey, wool skirt suit that spoke in a modest way about the boundless curves beneath it, with ash-colored stockings and black stiletto heels. She looked up once from her pow-wow to see me piercing her with my eyes. We didn't speak a word.

Later, after the meeting, i approached the architect she'd spoken with, asking for her name. When a week had passed, I called her. Contrasting this image with the one i'd seen put together on our dates told me the prey sought to draw out the chase. This gave me an idea for our next encounter.

"I can't dress like that."

I knew she would say this, Her modesty continued to serve as her overbearing chaperone.

"Then, there is no reason for us to see eachother again." I spoke very assuredly. A premature shriek caught in her throat. This both thrilled me and pained me to say. I felt so much desire to see her again, but i knew i had to make this gamble, "Well? I'm waiting...don't waste my time on the phone if there is no sense in this."

"Please - give me some time. I just need some time." Her words sounded rushed, abrupt.

"Will you do it?"

"...yes..." She said this with the smallest amount of breath needed to generate a sound.

"Do what?"

"What you said."

"I need you to repeat it. Exactly like i've told you to."

"God...skirt, heels. No - no....no panties." The delivery of the last word made me smile. "You're an awful, awful person."

"I know." And i did. But hearing her pronounce it made me understand her acceptance of our contract. I would make sure to get to the restaurant early, in order to pick out the perfect table for the presentation.

Motivations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

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

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

Playing dress up

When i was a young child, my only play pal was my older sister. Being four years my senior, she was well ensconced in the make-believe theatre of dolls - specifically Barbie. As early as i can remember, i was the "preparatory" stage of these productions. That meant i was tasked with costume changes in between sets. Very quickly i gleaned the stark difference between the clothes for the girl dolls and those for the boys (which numbered only 2 in her coterie of plastic figurines). The girl clothes had ribbons and shiny colors and materials. Different angles and patterns and cuts that actually flaunted and flattered their bodies. For my first formative and interactive play, i was deciding what the girls would wear and how they would ultimately look. I loved my role.

As i got a bit older, much to my father's dismay, i continued using dolls for stimulation. My mother had no problem supplying me with a contraband 'My Lil Pony' or a 'Cabbage Patch Kid'. I would enter into an intense relationship with these tiny feminine objects, treating them with delicate and meticulous care. In fact, my first crush was on 'Blueberry Muffin', the dark girl in the Strawberry Shortcake gang. But, as some may suspect, i didn't brush their hair or primp them in any conventional way. In fact, if you were to look at my small collection of dolls, they would look very different from how i received them. Almost all of them, if they didn't have it already, got their hair dyed to a dark color. I would take markers and draw longer lashes across their plasticine brows. Eventually, they would look as i wanted them to look.

Of course, as i reached adolescence, i abandoned my dolls. In fact the impulse to dress up a doll got locked in deep subterfuge, replaced instead by the less heady pursuit of real live girls and the flowery scents on their necks. It wasn't until i was dedicating my time to one of those females that i would begin to see applications of my childhood aptitude. I only went to three formal dances in Middle school and High school, and for each of them, i payed an unusually high amount of attention on what my date would wear. In 9th grade, i broke up with the captain of the Freshman cheerleading squad because one day she didn't smell the way i'd wanted. I even convinced the girl i dated for the longest amount of time in my teens to dye her hair from her beautiful natural blonde to deep, rich auburn. I still remember the whole body stimulation i felt when she came back from the salon with her newly tarnished locks.

Over the years, i've been able to explore different levels of feminine image manipulation. Most of my courtships have not taken the "ask for her phone number, set up a date" format. A few, those who i sensed would tolerate it, would be taken through a lengthy phone or e-mail interview - the equivalent of the stage director looking from the dark at the ingenue pinned by the bright spotlight, asking her to "turn around for him". The girls who permitted this odd evaluation wanted it. They wanted to be cast in my production. As a prerequisite to our eventual 'first date', the girl would consent to me choosing her comportment from head to toe. Some would be told to wear a certain length of skirt. Others with their hair up, and earrings that complimented the length of their neck. A very select few would be told to go completely without panties. And yes, a few of them agreed to that. All of them were asked to wear heels or boots, of a specific shape and style. These girls were not accustomed to dressing in the ultra-feminine way i demanded, and they absolutely were not used to being told how to dress. Over the years, through trial and error (some would come to the dates so enraged at me for my demands - yet, oddly still dressed as i asked - that i would usally get a faceful of the lady's beverage by the end of the night), i honed what i came to understand was my dress code, which i recognize serves as a hoop that a beautiful feminine creature must leap through in order to gain my attention.

My girl abides more or less to my dresscode on a daily basis. Except for the unbearably hot months, she laces in one of her custom corsets down to 22 1/2". We've been together for several years, and i still get incredibly aroused when on occasion she asks for my help lacing her up. She wears thigh high stockings, usually with seams, held up by a garter belt (or sometimes garters attached to her corset). She dyes her hair jet blue black, and keeps it long. Every two weeks, i treat her to a trip to the nail salon, where she gets a french manicure and fills for her 1/2" long acrylic fingernails. She does not wear pants - ever. Only dresses or skirts (i used to get such horrible looks from her in the early stages of our relationship when i would say "Men wear pants, darlin. Do you want to dress like a man?"), even in the colder months, where she employs the use of legwarmers, which i find much more flattering.

On the surface, she looks incredible every single day, and i look at her as a present to a world that suffers from not having enough beauty - to quote the theologian Vigen Guroian "We long for salvation, so that beauty fills our lives". When we are out, people take notice of her, stare, marvel at her tiny waist and her prim outfit. One elderly man stopped us and even paid her a compliment by saying "You are so beautiful, you remind me that there is the Divine." Underneath all of this, i know that my dress code limits her. She can only eat certain-sized portions when laced. She has grown intimate with the "Backspace" key, because the length of her nails causes her to hit the wrong one. All of this endlessly titilates me. I get a kick from the struggle, but i also admire, respect and cherish it.

Maybe someday i'll grow tired of enforcing this dress code. Perhaps, i'll find other passions to deploy my meticulous energy for details. For now, i enjoy having a living and breathing doll, who i can take out whenever i want, or keep her locked up in her case.