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.

Reason #48 for my anonymity

I had so many other things i planned to write about. Much more enjoyable things. Juicy. Tawdry. The kind of things that perhaps are the sole reasons most of you come to visit. But no. Instead, i had to read this article.

Anthrax. Whoa. Dangerous stuff, sure. But why exactly is it being mentioned on these pages? When i first read the article several days ago, it brought back many memories of 2001. Of that time, living in my city that had been attacked by terrorists. How we were just starting to adjust to the new landscape, how we were just starting the work we needed to do in order to heal and then - POW - those letters delivering their vicious white powder landed at several Broadcasting HQ's here in Midtown and at the doors of several U.S. Senators down in Washington D.C. More panic and terror set in. We didn't know how much we would need to recoil and fortify against the evils out there. It was genuinely a very scary, completely unsexy time. But it's not those memories that push me to write on this article. No. The reason came further down the page, when i came across the "profile" the journalist decided to fabricate of the alleged anthrax mailer:

They discovered his penchant for taking long drives at night, sometimes mailing letters and packages from distant spots under assumed names. They discovered his obsession with a sorority, Kappa Kappa Gamma, and with images of blindfolded women, hundreds of which were found on his computer, the report says.

I can understand the relevance of mentioning his penchant for taking long drives at night wherein he would drop something in a postal box several miles away. It establishes a pattern of behavior that can explain his ability to send those anthrax-laden envelopes from Princeton, NJ. I can even vaguely get why they divulge his obsession with a sorority (although they do not say which campus - i can't imagine he was just obsessed with this particular sorority, nationwide, but i digress). What i cannot understand for the life of me is why this journalist saw fit reasons to mention his "obsession" with images of blindfolded women. WHAT RELEVANCE IS THAT????!!??

I was so incredibly perturbed when i came across that part of the article. Of course they had to find some S&M aspect to fully complete the psychotic character that would commit such heinous acts. I closed the article. Forgot about it as best i could, and went on with my day.

But this bullshit statement wouldn't let me rest. It kept popping up in my head. Shoving its way into my eye, poking me. Causing me to grow increasingly irritated. I even tried my traditional methods of relieving anxiety and frustration: Run Like Hell. The weather has been gorgeous, so i took to the park and ran until my sides screamed. And yet, it didn't seem to do the job because i could still feel anger for this journalists irresponsible words in between my gasps for air. This wasn't just some pandering tabloid, looking to jolt its pages with some scandal. No, this was the New York Times, the supposed standard of journalistic excellence.

Why is it that whenever a beat reporter is looking to fill out his column, he sinks into the muck and chooses to capitalize on the alleged's collection of S&M porn? Why in articles about great men who have accomplished heroic deeds, we do not hear that they too had a vast collection of images of blindfolded women.

"In addition to raising millions of dollars for relief efforts in Haiti, George Clooney likes to relax and let off steam by picking through his sizable anthology of women gagged by rope."

I can quite easily say that i have way more than hundreds of images of material that, should a journalist with half a brain find them, could paint me as the Most Dangerous Man Alive. It's articles like this that remind me that it's not safe to express who i am in a public forum. That it's not safe to attach myself to these acts i depict on this site, despite the fact that every one of them are of a consensual manner. This is why i must be anonymous, despite my efforts to present SM as a responsible and loving expression of intimacy and vulnerability.

And to be honest, there are days i don't think it's worth it.

Christmas came early...or late

Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Quite frankly like a kid on Christmas Eve night. I finally heard from him.

After months of no replies to my weekly e-mails inquiring about an update, finally, my girl's corsetier got back with me. The custom patent leather neck corset and hood was finally completed. To tantalize me, he sent me a photo of it, laced onto a mannequin to shoe its full viciousness. If i could, upon viewing this picture, i would've taken a cab up to his place immediately, but, as it was, i had a wedding to attend and was heading out of town. I'd have to wait another week longer (some may say "what's another week after all this time?" and i would reply simply "uhm, another week, that's what it is.").

For those of you who recall, this contraption was supposed to be a naughty christmas gift from me to my girl last year. Twelve visits, thirty one e-mails, and countless fittings later, he'd completed the piece. We arranged to visit the following weekend. I didn't care if a monsoon hit the city, i'd trudge my way to his studio. I was going to have my toy.

When we arrived, we quickly dispatched of the most rudimentary social niceties (largely because the corsetier is an awfully socially awkward fella), not to mention i was a little peeved that he hadn't responded for so long. I scanned his long workbench on the other side of his studio, in hopes of eyeing my treasure. No such luck. The scoundrel had hidden it away from me.

"Okay, let me see it."

He gave my girl big eyes that spoke his incredulity at my tactless cut-to-the-chase manner. Without much hesitation, he opened a closet, and wheeled out the headless dress form where laced around the stem that served as its neck lay the beautiful neck corset. If i didn't gasp, i could've very easily. He produced the hood, handing it to me. I immediately responded to the tactile quality of the slick surface of the black patent leather. This was real. This item i'd envisioned, designed in my head and commissioned was finally in my hands. The garment was thick, stiff, and had considerable rigidness to it, despite its undeniable feminine qualities.

With haste, i positioned myself behind my girl, pulling her hair into a ponytail. I then slid the hood over her head. Even without doing any of the laces, the fit was exquisite. It literally was like pulling a second skin over her face, as it clung tightly to her slender cheeks and dainty chin. The lacing was simple, much easier than a corset, but i had to remind myself not to close the gap as tight as possible. We were just here for a fitting. There would be other times where i can test its tensility.

Next came the corset. I had to solicit my girl's help with this, as positioning this device was critical to a good, constrictive fit. I asked her, once i placed the chin piece over her mouth, to hold it still with her hands. It took several tries at tweaking the way it lay over her sternum before i felt comfortable with lacing it shut. Immediately, i noticed that the patent leather of the hood would cause some difficulties with exact placement because it would stick to the patent leather of the neck corset. Even once it was fully laced, the corsetier showed me that i could pull the collar even further up her neck to achieve a higher degree of immobility. I let my girl take a peek at herself in the mirror fully sussed up, and then latched the matching black leather eye mask over her ocular cavities - locking her in darkness, robed by soft, supple layers of pink, lambskin leather.

The corsetier and i spent some time examining the fit, seeing if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. I tested my girl's ability to breathe with and without the three leather buckles hitched closed on the back. Because of the restriction, she was not able to speak, only squeeze my hand to indicate any difficulties she encountered in her respiration. I was completely satisfied. More than that, i was elated. I couldn't wait to go home and play with my toy.






Here is a view of the front of the neck corset that completely covers her mouth, ending right at the bottom of her nose. Notice the pink patent leather trim that runs along the bottom and beautiful satin brocade lining. And don't forget the attached D-ring mid-neck (there is a corresponding one not viewed in the photo)





















This is a view of the back of the neck corset and the aforementioned buckles. Are they necessary? 100%.























Here is a profile view of the hood itself. The small pink slit just beneath the buckled eye mask is the only hole for her mouth.
























This is a fantastic view of the interior lining of the hood. A sea of soft pink completely surrounding her.
























Backside of leather eye mask that renders my girl completely blind.

I waited a few days before i pulled the whole thing out to suit up my girl. However, i could not keep myself from pawing it constantly throughout the day. It had such allure and charisma. It drew me to it whenever i happened to be in my bureau. I spent easily an hour just trying to figure out how best to store/display it while it wasn't being used. I couldn't quite place what about it made it so mesmerizing. It was just a garment, albeit a completely unique garment meant only for my girl. It entered my mind frequently leading up to the night i unwielded it.

Forgive the poor quality of the following photos. To say the least, i was incredibly excited, which made holding my hand steady at the camera quite difficult. I've manipulated the image to obscure the background.







I gleaned almost instantly what captivated me about the device before as i handled it. It was instantly transformative. It contained supreme power to alter the way i viewed my girl, and the way my girl viewed herself in it. Once on, once the last strap buckled, my girl vanished. The hood and corset made her my toy. I'd had only a glimpse of the cravings this object would well up inside of me before. Once on, my tempestuous urges exploded. Toy had no voice. Had no language. The blind object was wholly dependent upon me. For its safety and its purpose.

My cloud

I'm a huge fan of 'cloud tags', as evidence by my 'Lures' in the right sidebar. I was able to take my current slate of entries and parse them through Wordle's services, creating the above word cloud. The larger the word, the greater instance of its occurrence in the posts that appear on my homepage.

With that said, i'm particularly proud of the most prominent and largest term featured on "transformher.blogspot":

girl

Makes me proud. Check it out, and have fun making clouds from your own favorite sites.

**I would not be embarrassed if those of you out there chose one of your favorite "Lustful Demise" posts and made a wordle cloud out of it (and sharing it with me discreetly, should you prefer). I'd like to see the visualization, but i'd also like to know which posts you kind folks respond to the most.**

Deity's ode to OurNails.com

I am an unabashed fan of this site, and i have mentioned it and my affection for long, fake fingernails a few times before. It took me awhile to admit this to myself, let alone anyone else. I remember doing so for the first time on this portal and still feeling a little vulnerable about declaring my love for these freakishly long unguils. But, i've found myself going to OurNails.com so frequently these past few days, that i cannot hold in my love for it. I invite others to travel over there and see the beautiful models they've assembled.

In looking for more OurNails girls online, i've found a TROVE of replicated digitized doubles that will serve as the body of my ode to them. Without further ado:

Ode to OurNails.com

Here's to them having their own YouTube channel.

Here's to them letting Cassandra pop balloons on vuze.com.

Hip-hip hooray to their MySpace page!

And let us raise a glass to the slideshow that landed me the caketopper to this post (yes, i've watched it easily over 10 times).

Thank you, OurNails. You nails it every time.

She disappears

Half a Milk.. eeh... Million, originally uploaded by Allure+Desire.

It's just her hands, and her upper thighs.

The rest diminished, erased, leaving you wanting, drawing with your mental graphite the rest, how you want it to look, act, respond.

It's the absence of those other parts that starts to drive you mad. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your nostrils flare, until suddenly the civility you use as your mask has come off.

It lies there on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. You will return to it, eventually, but only once you've finished with her.

Mydentity

There are days that i want to plop a picture of myself, or my girl, onto the celluloid of this site, declaring once and for all a face to match the name, the words. For those of you who have paid attention, the only declarative image of either of us are those found in a few posts or the ocular avatar staring at you, the reader. All of these are meant to be obscure, indefinite and unadherent.

I've had a public persona, dabbling for awhile in the SM scene under this very same handle i ply here, but that's not quite the same. Few people "stumbled" upon the bondage clubs where i might give a demonstration of which of my submissive's buttocks were more tolerant than the other, whereas there are many who happen upon this site completely unintentionally. With that brings a greater risk of my professional life intersecting with my personal, and as i dabble in games of ill repute and social taboos, it is too much of a liability. I still remember the day when, while scanning the lineup of visitors to Lustful Quality via my site statistics, i came across a visitor who had the same IP address that was assigned to my office's network. I panicked. Had someone discovered my identity, these archives, was blackmail to ensue? Luckily, nothing came about it, and it turned out to be a glitch in the software, but it made me think.

It made me think how angry i am that despite my comfort and openness about this side of my life, i still feel the need to conceal it and hide it away from 98% of the people in my life. It made me confront the overall ignorance of society (i distinguish this from "people", because clearly, individuals have an inclination to SM-related material due to how often i find a new web journal popping up of someone exploring this avenue in their lives), and perhaps accept that there will never come a day where my professional life can happily fall in the comfortable shadow of this passion, this desire, this need.

I pursue SM and my fetishes out of a driving impulse to discover more about myself, which in turn is my way of not rejecting my appetites and nuances. I don't do this every few days, once a week, or even when the occasional moment strikes me. I do it every single minute of every single day. And sometimes it gets very old having to hide this albatross.

Sugasm #138

Sugasm #138 from Sugasm by Vixen Marlena courtesy of Badgirl’s Hotbox. 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 #139? 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 You’re going to come for me. “I imagined her, bound. Wrists behind her back, whimpering.” Champagne Orgasms “I cry out, begging for him to stop, begging him not to” Tie one on “He slipped his hands under my blouse and teased my nipples and breasts with his strong hands.” Mr. Sugasm Himself Sugar Bank Editor’s Choice The Look More Sugasm Join the Sugasm See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday. (Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.) BDSM & Fetish Chain A jagged soft puzzle

Exhibition on training

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

Nipple training (care of Master Y):















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





















Limbless training (care of insex.com):









Patience training:




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





















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

Thierry Mugler

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

The face belonged to Cindy Crawford.



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

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



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

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

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



























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

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

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

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

Train wreck

The definition of an obsession is one of cruel consequences for the individual who suffers under its jurisdiction. Should you come across any example of the object of your obsession, your mind becomes hostage to the stimulus, and your body is left dangling in the wind, to act without the calm and cool collectiveness of rational thought. This is how it has been for me lately with regards to induced lactation, and more centrally, the female mammaries, as apparent by the above illustration.

I have collected over the years many examples of tit transformation. Either from the monstrous enlargement as represented dangling above or from the metamorphosis a girl experiences when put through a session of self-guided tit torture. I've never really stopped to examine why i spent so much energy gathering this material. The obvious and immediate answer would be that i can't get enough tit. Every girl i've ever dated, been intimate with, played with or dominated had a decent endowment. Discount those jagged romps of my prepubescent years, and i can go on record that all of my female counterparts were at least a C cup. Now was this purposeful? No, not really, i didn't size a girl up by the proportion of her attic to her cellar. But clearly, tits have played an important role in my sexuality.

Perhaps too important a role. After all, their mutation has played a central role in my fantasies. But were you to stumble onto this site for the first time and see the aloft jpeg, you might be quite perplexed as to where i derive the enticement. The poor swollen boobed girl above offers no further information about her submissive predicament other than the fact that she has been (or let her self be) subjected to some twisted scientist's modification. But it's the extreme proportion of this singular alteration that grabs a hold of me. Who would want such a thing? What purpose would a girl with such gigantic tits serve? Who could even do such a thing?

This site's url, TransformHer, pretty much declares the focus of my exposition. Thus, a preoccupation with the conversion of a female's breasts from biological purposeful instruments into sexually freakish objects should come as no surprise to those who visit. We love to objectify here at the Chapel of Deity. And we also love to raise the ante.

Enter the fetish artist, Simon Benson. His drawings remain some of the more extreme representations of female objectification i've ever encountered. Even i have some reticence with regards to some of his more lurid fantastic illustrations, but there is one sector that he excels at that i cannot - with much effort, i do try - to turn away from: tit transfiguration.























There is not much difference between the first image i presented and these two Benson offerings, except that the two girls immediately above have been stripped ever further of their humanity, which, of course, i find even more erotic. They are fixtures, appliances, mechanisms.

A man who lets such things overcome him to the point of obsession eventually, over time, seeks more and more accelerated stimulation. Staring at these pictures over and over, attempting to feed this insatiable beast inside could only last for so long. Soon the creature within will want something new, a different kind of prey. This leads someone with my affliction to search and scavenge for ever greater examples of objectification accomplished, of course, through even more extreme mammary alteration.

What i recently found, i'm still not sure what to make of. The video that concludes this entry represents the strongest example of female servitude to the patriarchal hegemony i've yet witnessed. Despite that, i couldn't help but watch the entire video, and worse, i couldn't help but be entirely aroused. What turned me on was the idea that someone would offer their body - specifically this one part - to another human being as their treasure, their domain to master.

I don't even know if the magnitude of the girls' tits in this video are real or possible. I don't know if, actually (and perhaps, thankfully) these are fake prosthetics strapped to these females' backs. And as i came down from the erotic rush that such massive transformation injected into me, i began to feel some remorse and hope that they were indeed fake. I couldn't imagine a world where girls had to manage with tits this large. What has happened to these young ladies borders on deformation, and i struggle with the idea that any of it aroused me (several times).

I'm quite secure about how my mind reacts to the world and constructs my desires, but i also recognize, as a result of my real life power exchange with my girl, that there has to be a natural ultimate to fantasy. This video exhibits the possible overstep of that limit as a rational and acceptable boundary.

Discuss...

Wrapped up in herself

She'd had a particularly horrendous week. Her job had become a rather stressful environment as the rumor of multiple layoffs built steam - a job, it should be noted that she only works to pay the bills while she spends her free time pursuing multiple projects that fulfill her advanced degree and training. She'd also just endured this, not to mention that we had an upcoming visit to the corsetier, which is never a completely enjoyable event for her.

All of this fell upon us as we were walking back home from an engagement. It heralded in a much needed weekend, which led us to discuss what we might do with our "ample" leisure time. We individually keep our own calendars, taking great care in synchronizing them as our lives are robustly spent in multiple theaters, and both of us had set aside time for yet another quartet with my friend K and his girl. I hadn't heard from K all week, which led me to believe that our night of sundry behavior was not to occur. Taking this into account, i measured my own mental faculties and recognized i needed a replacement, some form of play that would satisfy my appetites. I weighed this against the kind of week my girl had tolerated, and then created a program in my head that addressed both our needs.

Realizing we had no obligations or appointments, she asked what i wanted to do with our now open and free evening. I told her i had a plan. In her agitated and overrun state of mind, this chafed her, which i could detect as well as anticipate.

"I have a vision for what i'd like to do."

She breathed a heavy sigh,"Baby, i don't think i can do anything too strenuous. Not with the week i've had. I don't think i could handle any serious spanking or flogging."

"I know. If you can believe it, i'd actually assumed you'd be stressed. But, you needn't worry. What i have in mind will be very calming. Trust me."

Those two words - 'trust' and ' me' - signaled to her my overall reflection on her emotional state. All negotiations ceased, she could tell i had the situation well in hand. Once we returned home, she slipped into the resigned state of a vessel that would allow my empathetic guidance to overcome her.

A while back, i had ordered a large amount of items that would permit a serious session of mummification. I know how my girl reacts to this method of entombment, and felt it a perfect fit for her current state of chaos and flagrant uncertainty. Upon entrance into our home, i told her to find a comfortable seat as i readied the implements of her next status. I laid out a dozen roles of 3M athletic wrap, a pair of surgical safety scissors, and her Hitachi wand. I then summoned her to the bedroom.

I asked her to remove her robing, positioning her at the foot of the cast-iron bedframe. I took a roll of the colorful permeable wrap, and wound it around her upper torso, followed by her neck, then fully encased her entire head. I then turned to a different color of the flexible dressing, and bound her arms to her mid-section, encasing the rest of her body in tight constriction. I then grabbed the Hitachi, positioned it with the business end right at her sensitive floral parts, and secured this with more 3M tape.

I then stationed her in the bed for her long-term internment. I grabbed the camera and started taking pictures.





































































Admittedly, i had a specific color scheme in mind (some of you may try to guess what that "inspiration" was). I examined her to make sure all of her vital functions could continue and then left her resting there in her tight fortressed cocoon. Checking on her periodically where i would fiddle with her exposed tits - tugging on her nipple rings and rubbing the soft skin of her bosom - and flick on the slumbering vibrator strapped to her cunt, i returned to release her after almost an hour of encasing. After this amount of time, she receded in my mind into an absolute object, one in which i unabashedly play with to satisfy my urges of manipulation and control. She was no longer the girl i converse with about our daily meanderings, but instead, she assumed the form of my full throttle sadistic design.

Once she emerged from these layers, she faced the world as one who had found a comforting center. Here, she was allowed to occupy a persona that sloughs off the hardships of her everyday life. No matter how many times i repeat this ritual, i welcome this rebirth. I thrill at the evidence of this renaissance, knowing that we will continue on to face whatever mediocrity all of us must encounter in this austere hardship we call life.

Sugasm #120

Sugasm #120

from Sugasm by Vixen

Suzie Carina courtesy of Badgirl’s Hotbox.

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 #121? 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
The Ache of Desire Unsatisfied
“J groaned in my ear, and I nearly pulled down his zipper then and there.”

Unexpected
“Tingles of electricity were set coursing up and down that side of my body.”

Part(y)ing shots
“I placed both my hands on the tiled wall in front of me, clammy and cold, holding myself up.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
The “Best way to make him felt hot”

Editor’s Choice
Who Is A Sex Worker?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

BDSM & Fetish
The administration of pain

Latex NOT sexy?

How could this be? In a comment to my liquid latex post, elle presented the notion that prior to my discussion about the paintable kind, latex had never appealed to her in a sexy way. I couldn't honestly fathom that. But i gave it more contemplation, eventually coming to the acceptance that for many people, latex must come off as a fringe, freakish material, worn by the most depraved and debauched.

While i agree that the rubbery textile can have its dramatically extreme and bizarre applications (i.e. like this), there are many examples of latex garments where they accomplish a sensuality and eroticism, yet still providing the edge of kink.

I present the following photographic examples of some very famous models and designers in the latex medium in the hopes of altering the opinion of those of you out there who don't find this kind of clothing sexy:

Two favorite Libidex dresses

Ms. Masuimi Max

great schoolgirl outfit from Skin TWO

Ms. Bianca Beauchamp (and Black Widow)

Stunning Syren dress

The gorgeous Rubberdoll

I rest my case.