Multi-tasking

The thing that interests me the most about cooking is the chemistry involved. You can take an egg (a liquid) and apply heat to it, and it changes into a solid (an omelet). Because I'm able to understand these phase changes, I'm actually a very gifted cook. I can read a recipe once, understand the basic methodology the various chemical/physical reactions it's intending to create, and improvise. I'm able to open my fridge, scan the leftovers, jars and vegetables, and compile a quick meal that exceeds most courses on offer at higher end restaurants. I'm not saying this from my point of view. I'm saying it from the point of view of the countless dozens of people who have been the recipient of my cooking. They cannot help themselves but offer their joy and delight upon immediately tasting the cuisine in front of them. All it takes to make a good dinner is concentration and clarity.

So then, why would I fuck with this combination by putting my girl into a predicament bondage tie while I'm in the middle of preparing the main course for an upcoming dinner party?

It had been awhile since she and I had played, and we had both been able to take off some extended time from our jobs during the holidays. This left us with more leisure time than we're used to having. I was going to the Italian market that morning, to get the essential ingredients for the sauce I'd be serving for dinner. As I was leaving, my girl came to me and expressed her interest in being tied up at some point that day - and who would turn that down? I told her I would be able to work it in once I started cooking.

The afternoon arrived, and I led her to the bedroom. On the bed, I had already laid out four 7-meter lengths of hemp rope, her latex-strapped wand/vibe harness, and her baby pink latex hood from Kink Engineering. I quickly bound her arms at her elbows, then anchored these to her torso, encircling her tits, until all bits were well wrapped and squeezed. I moved to her left leg, and affixing her wrists to her ankles, bound up her leg so that it was pointing up towards the ceiling. I repeated this same arrangement on her right side, threaded the rope through the outer bars of her bed, which forced her thighs up and outward. She would not be closing those for the entire time she was bound. I buckled her Hitachi into the harness wound around her crotch, and rest it between her legs. The head of the wand rested firmly against her naked, anticipating cunt. The last thing I did was to pull the snug, pink latex hood over her head, ensuring the micro-cut nose holes were in the right spot on her face.
And then I left.

I wandered into the kitchen, set the timer on the oven for 8 minutes, and began preparing the ingredients for my tomato sauce. When the timer went off, I quietly entered the bedroom. I began to inspect the rope, to make sure her circulation remained vibrant. I checked to make sure her breathing in the hood wasn't too obstructed. Kissed her delicately on the shiny, pink forehead, then flicked the switch on the Hitachi to 'low', and exited the bedroom.

Setting the kitchen timer to 10 minutes, I returned to my task, sautéing the ingredients I had prepared. The scent of the aromatics in the pan finally burst into the air right as the timer went off.

Once again, I penetrated the quiet bedroom, but this time, I was met with the constant hum of the Hitachi, and the seductive myews of a girl slowly reducing into a sexual collapse. Immediately, I turned the wand off. I methodically checked the rope and her breathing, and saw that she could easily remain for a good time more. I began to walk myself back to the kitchen, but before I left the room, I felt the rhythmic throb of my erect cock tenting out my slacks. In fact, once I took a moment to notice, my entire demeanor had altered, and a hunger to torment smeared itself all over my face. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out my black, latex cock sheath, lubed up my pulsing member, and slid it into the sheath.

I went back to the kitchen to attend to the sauce cooking on the stove. Set the kitchen timer for 8 minutes, and tried as much as possible to not think about the bound, naked, writhing frame lying on my bed.

Over the course of 45 minutes, I would repeat the cycle of wand on/wand off, eventually building the crescendo of not being able to stop myself from sampling the pool of erotic energy that once was my girl.

Incidentally, the sauce turned out amazing. Our dinner guests couldn't stop praising its richness and vitality.

Tunnel vision

Immediately, I feel the need to react.

There are few things like this in my life. I can pause my growing hunger for very long periods. I can perform throughout my day on very little sleep from the night before. I can run past the point of my fatigue.

But when faced with my girl taking that first step into the unfairly tilted game I've set up for her that evening, I am completely arrested on the spot and unable to ignore it.

We both love puzzles. We love the idea of tackling a challenge. But, these types of games cannot be put down, and casually picked up later. They demand an immediate solution.

I cannot see anything but her struggle. I cannot smell anything but the sweet poison of her warming sexual arousal. I hear only the whimpers and groans. Soon, my uncommonly strong restraint disappears, and my only choice is to react.

Only then do these blinders lift.

Dominating the conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spank me, already!

This is a lesson in "be careful what you ask for."

My recent birthday had passed, and still no commemorative spankings. First a day or two, and then some more. We were creeping up on almost a week gone by, and not even something as much as a swat had materialized. My girl, apparently flummoxed (but not physically, as we've established) came to me.

"Why haven't we done your birthday spankings yet?"

"We haven't? Are you sure?"

"Stop...seriously, when are we going to attend to them?"

"Sounds like someone is rather wound up with excitement."

"No, not really. I'd just rather get them over with."

To the attending audience, this is NOT the tone in which you want to leave your dominant when it comes to presenting your perception of a celebratory ritual. You want your Top to believe you are excited, enthralled, rapt with enthusiasm. You do NOT want him to hear you approach the upcoming spectacle with a detached "get on with it" attitude. That sounds diffused, lacking emotion. It's likely he'll do something to reinvigorate the bottom. And that is precisely what i did.

A few days after her initial cross-examinating questions, i stationed myself into the bedroom and laid out several implements. I called her into the bedroom (a routine that hasn't, perhaps surprisingly, grown tiresome). Spread across the bed was a hairbrush, a rattan cane, and the floor hockey stick from my youth.

"You get to eliminate one of these. The other two will administer my birthday spankings."

Predictably (pssst...the game is and has always been rigged), she eliminated the hockey stick. This didn't surprise me. I knew how much she hated that device. And frankly, i relished the notion of even presenting it as a possible tool for her to choose to slap the back of her prone ass. However, tactically, she chose to endure the flat wooden hairbrush, and the thin wisp of the rattan cane.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, i present to you the evidence that shows the defendant was fully aware of how many strokes were to be administered across her backside. She knew that i had progressed another year, and that this number which was to be articulated in blows upon her ass was a number much higher than her weekly maintenance spankings. Yet, she still chose two implements that would impart upon her flesh the most damage, and subsequent corporal markings. I ask you, the gallant jury, if she knew what the outcome would be, why would she choose the hair brush and the cane?

Here's where the scenario gets an added injection of predicament. I had recently purchased for her a delectable penis-shaped gag. Knowing her proclivity for oral release, i thought it prudent and helpful that her mouth get outfitted with this newest obstruction. Perceptibly beneficial for her, she would have something to channel the energy she incurs when i rain blows upon her ass, and benefiting me, i would be able to think about her mouth stuffed with rigid, rubber cock while i thrashed her. The defendant and the prosecutor both win. One thing about this new penis gag is that it wasn't the most expensive, and thus not the best designed gag, so in order to keep it firmly set in her mouth, removing the ability for her to spit the gag out (which she loves doing just to get my grit). To compensate for its design flaw, i had to latch it to the tightest possible belt hole. I didn't expect her to try to use her hands to undo, but just to be safe, i threaded one of her brass padlocks we use on her collar through the accompanying locking ring, securing it firm and deep into her mouth (when it was finally removed, a trail of teethmarks had been cut into it by how tightly she bit into it for relief).

What followed has been told many times on this site (if we're going by "spanking" as a label, it has been applied 36 times), so you'll forgive me if i attempt to not avoid redundancy.

More importantly, actually, is not what happened during the spankings. Although, they were brutal, and there was at one point where the reddened flesh of her backside did start to bleed a tiny amount, what is more important is the beautiful bruising that blossomed across her cheeks.

If i had to pick a favorite part of my birthday spankings, the application of them would definitely be up there, but wouldn't win the top accolade. That honor would fall upon the markings and the evolution they make over time. My girl takes a great deal of pride in the physical evidence of what she endured, and being a former cutter, she gains peace from watching how her body heals itself. To me, as i get to see clear, vivid and bold stripes morph into a flowing cloud of dark, violet coloration, ringed with a hue of amber shading, i'm touched by the meaningfulness of this symbol. This is our union, our intimacy. Our love and trust gets set with a vivid stroke, and over time, as we pass through life, in and out of physical contact, that love and trust transforms. This spot where i've touched her with a calculated firmness at first expressed a flash sensation, but over time, it becomes merely tender - this too represents our love and intimacy. We are very tender towards eachother, despite what it may sound like through the writing on this black background. We have some very flashy, kinky and outrageous moments, but the baseline of our relationship and our dynamic is our mutual tenderness.

By now, you might be wondering "Uhm, where's the part where Deity demonstrates how this is an example of being careful what you wish for?". Yes. Sorry about that. I'll get right on it.

It just so happens that three days after the administration of the birthday spankings, my girl had a burlesque gig. Coincidentally, the bruising following such a beating reaches its peak exactly three days after. On the day of her gig, she came to me in the morning, and asked if i'd take a look at her ass. Members of the jury, you don't need to ask me to do that, i do it all of the time - but i digress...

"Looks great, darlin. Those are coming along nicely."

"That's not why i wanted you to look."

"Then why did you, sugarpuss?"

"Because i'm dancing tonight, and there's no way i can cover this up!"

"But don't you have that body makeup stuff? That should do the trick."

She looked at me for a moment, stunned by my complete lack of concern at her position. Then stomped off. The day passed, and the evening arrived. We transported her gear to the bar where she was performing. I kissed her and wished her good luck, then found a seat inside the small auditorium, in order to watch the show.

When it finally came time for her performance, i was very excited because she had been working very hard on this number, and had made an assortment of adjustments to it that i think the audience was going to go crazy for. She looked gorgeous, and her stripping and choreography did in fact get the crowd going. All the hooting and hollering was exciting. The music reached the point where she pulled off one of her naughtiest reveals - basically, she turns her back to the audience, and with her feather fans, slowly flutters them up to reveal her beautiful, alabaster backside.

The audience went mad.

I, however, had a very different and unexpected reaction. She was absolutely correct, the body makeup didn't do the trick, and staring me right in the eyes were the two sizable, oval bruises stretched across her buttocks. And for some reason, i turned red. I can't really explain why. No one in the audience necessarily knew i was her man, and it isn't certain they connected the contusions with any brutal act. Nonetheless, i felt a twinge of guilt.

After the show, i congratulated her on her wonderful performance, and asked why she didn't use the body makeup.

"I DID use it. I applied three coats!"

Perhaps that's the amount i should've applied to my own previously reddened cheeks.

Burlessque and less

I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).

As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.

Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.

That's it. That's the story.





Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.

A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.

Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"

***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***

Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.

But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.

All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.

Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.

There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).

For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.

Can i join you?

I received her first package earlier than i expected. What a pleasant surprise. I turned the box over and over in my hand, looking at it as i walked into my kitchen. I dropped it with the rest of the mail on the counter, and forgot about it for the remainder of the evening. Right before i turned in for the night, the package popped back into my head.

-----------------

We'd met one evening, on one of my endless series of business trips. She approached me in a bar, she said, struck by my solitude yet not looking at all alone. I was ravishing my glass of whiskey, letting the auburn liquid swirl around, splashing up the side. Our eyes met, and instantly i approved of her gesture. She was stunning, but beyond that, i could see an immediate hunger in her qualities. She wore it like a tight-fitting dress. More importantly, it wore her. I told her that i didn't require her company. She rebutted.

"I didn't require your permission to sit next to you."

"Oh no?"

-----------------

When i opened the box, a waft of flowery fragrance immediately splashed against my nose. My fingers swam through the brittle cloud of shredded paper stuffed into the box for shipping, finally landing on a mound of soft, silky fabric. Clenching onto my prize, i retracted my hand from the package. Draped in my fingers were a lavender pair of satin panties - the conduit for the perfume. But i detected a different note than just designer perfume, a bolder, richer, hungrier scent. Opening up the lingerie, a white, texturous trail filleted the crotch which was the evidence showing, as asked, that she'd sent a used pair. I pressed this girlish output to my face, crushing it into my nostrils. I swam in the gorgeous contrast of sweet and dirty, inhaling deeply for several minutes.

-----------------

"What exactly do you mean you wouldn't phrase it that way?"

"Well, i'm a man for whom permission is a requirement."

"You can rest assured that i won't seek your permission for anything."

"Well, then, it was nice speaking with you." I turned my body away from her and resumed my position, hovering over my drink.

"Excuse me? You've got to be kidding..." A few seconds of pure silence passed, enough for me to tilt back the rest of my drink and to motion to the bartender for another one.

"You have GOT to be kidding!" My former companion huffily lifted herself from her chair and stomped out of the bar into the hotel lobby. I watched after her. I loved watching the angry protests of women. She'd come back. I took out a pen and grabbed a cocktail napkin, writing down something in preparation for when she did.

-----------------

She'd sent the panties, but it seemed she'd forgotten something else. Tipping the box upside down, i allowed the stuffing to fall to the floor. I was pleased to see the loose note flutter out. I bent down to pick it up, chuckling immediately when i read its pointed brevity.

"you're such a bastard."

Over the course of the next few months, i had the privilege of receiving similar presents in the mail. As agreed, each arrived by a certain date, containing the exact items i'd detailed to her. I enjoyed each delivery because they conjured immediate images of her and the lengths she went to satisfy my requirements. It was many months before i was able to make it back to her city.

-----------------

"You have some serious nerve."

"Why hello there." I looked at her with the side of my eye. Apparently, the hotel lobby wasn't as interesting as she'd hoped it would be. "You're back?"

"I had to let you know how ridiculous you are to insist that a woman ask permission to sit down and give you her company."

"Well are you going to ask?" The ice cubes in my drink broke apart from eachother, creating a little jingle sound. This musical interlude was interrupted by her heavy sigh.

"Would you," she shook her head, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "Would you mind if i sat down?"

"I would love it." I pulled the chair next to me out, guiding her in with my open hand. "Can i get you a drink?"

She ordered a glass of Chardonnay. As the bartender was pouring her drink, i slid over the folded napkin i'd earlier written on.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

Her eyebrows curled in perplexion as she unfolded the note and read.

A week following our conversation, you'll buy a brand new pair of satin panties. One evening when you're by yourself, you'll put them on, and wear only them all night. Before you go to bed, i want you to remove them and the next morning send them to me. I want you to include a note that details your thoughts as you slide the panties off.

The bartender placed her wine in front of her. She looked at the glass, then shot me with her eyes, "You know, on second thought, i think i'll pass on the drink." She pushed herself up from the table and charged out of the bar. I grabbed another napkin, and jotted down my next few demands.

Wandher off

I can't remember the precise thread of thoughts that led me to the designs for that evening's correction, but i do recall the instant the innovation popped into my head that a devilish smile painted itself across my mouth and the words "evil genius" captioned on my crown. Lately, i'd been craving predicament scenarios. In addition, i wanted to add some spice to our weekly routine. I intuited that a carrot needed to be inserted (into the scenario, you perverts).

"What do you have in store for me tonight?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"It's Friday. Time for my correction."

"Oh, are we still doing that?"

My girl rolled her eyes at me, apparently unfazed by my stonewalled face.

I escorted her back to our bedroom where she was met with the hairbrush and thin dowel cane i'd laid out onto the bedspread. I knew that the options were not equally evaluated by her.

"You get your choice between these two implements."

"That's simple, i'll choose the-"

"Before you choose, i'd like to add that only one of these will allow you to use the Magic Wand." Her eyes widened.

The Carrot.

Some of you may remember a while back, where i used my Flex Spending dollars on items that would bolster my kinky supplies. Even after my successful haul, i still had a considerable amount left over, and looked through the online drugstore once more to see if there was anything that caught my eye. I couldn't believe it when i came across the Hitachi Magic Wand at drugstore.com. I immediately purchased it, keeping it a surprise from my girl, and excitedly awaited it's arrival (talk about a stimulus package from the government).

My girl has long had issues regarding masturbation and achieving orgasm. It had always been a goal of mine to help her overcome these and allow her to experience the full pleasure of her body's erogenous reactions. When i first presented her with her brand new toy, she reacted with muted excitement, uncertain why i would "waste money on yet another vibrator". Dear readers, i've known the power of the Magic Wand for many years, and i knew my girl even better. EVERY girl should have one. It should be a right, we should have government-mandated grants or scholarships that provide every female in this country with their very own (kinda like using a pre-tax allocation of funds to purchase one). I knew precisely her reaction once she nestled it's magical head against the pink folds of her sex and flipped the switch.

Her wide eyes staring at me as i dangled the electronic incentive in front of her were those of a complete convert. She knew that if i was sweetening the deal with her Magic Wand, the cane strokes were not going to be light. Nontheless, a girl has got to have her candy.

"Well, obviously, i choose the cane."

I had her strip and then come to the side of the bed where the device was plugged into the wall. I told her to grasp the white shaft of the vibrator on both sides, with the business end pointing in towards her belly, ensuring that her fingers could not reach the switch that adjusted the speed. I then took pink, vinyl bondage tape and wrapped her hands, making her and the implement one. I then directed her to assume a position on all fours on the bed, leaning on her knees and her elbows.

"We're going to warm you up first. Place the wand against your cunt."

She touched the silent staff to her crotch. I began tapping her exposed buttocks with the long cane, repeatedly over and over, targeting small patches of her flesh. Normally, my girl would writhe in sheer pain at this form of attention, but because of what lingered at her pussy, she knew better than to make a peep.

"Would you like me to turn the wand on?"

"Yes. Yes, please."

Reaching between her legs, i clicked the switch that set the device to animation. She instantly moaned, moving her conjoined hands so that the vibrating head made the perfect contact. I continued biting her backside with short, quick swipes, gradually increasing the amount of surface area the cane flicked into her skin. Unabated, she ground her cunt into the white dome of the wand. By this point, her ass cheeks burned a cherry red.

"Would you like me to turn it on high?"

"uh...y-y-yes...yes please."

"Give me a number."

"16"

This offering raised my eyebrows. This was not my regular girl talking. Not when the cane is involved. This was not my demure, playful, frail little darling who feared the long justice of the thin wooden tail. This was a hungry, desirous creature tossing her safety away for more. More. This was a fire that burned the length of her suppined body. This was utterly incredible to see. This was climax.

And this was definitely going to hurt.

Tapped

I can feel it. It's like a slightly bad taste in the back of my mouth. Almost sourness.

I've been authoring the Lustful Quality for nearly two years, and my interest in continuing to do so waxes and wanes. I currently happen to be in a trough. A rather deep one, which can be seen in the delay between my posts (and perhaps even sensed in the words).

Well, one of the ways i know that rejuvenates my passion to share on these pages is to present myself with challenges. For a new challenge, i'd like to tap my audience.

I invite all of you to ask me the question you've always wanted to ask me, but were afraid to ask. The naughtier, seedier and riskier the better. I can't promise i'll offer an answer publicly (due to privacy issues) to all of them, but those i can, i will take the opportunity to spill my beans upon these cavernous walls.

Either leave your question in my comments, or if you prefer, you can e-mail them to me: dominantdeity (at) gmail (dot) com.

Now, don't be shy, let'em fly.

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.

I put my future in her mouth

Parading all over my hands, you would find at any random time minor cuts, burns, bruises and other evidence of me putting my appendages into precarious, and slightly risky situations. Slicing an onion incredibly thin; testing the temperature of a lamb tangine i'm cooking, and searing my skin on the edge of the lid; trying to do a pull-up using just the thin frame of a door. I view not just my hands, but all of my limbs as tools to be tested, stretched and challenged.

I remember when the idea for that night's correction flashed into my head. I was crossing a street i've crossed a hundred times before. But, this intersection rarely displayed a walk signal long enough for even the most athletic pedestrian to make passage. As i was bolting across, just missing the front fender of a speeding cab, the notion of risk popped into my head. I knew immediately how the evening's affair was to take place.

When i arrived home, i saw that my girl had preceded me by a few minutes. She knew that within some window of time from my arrival, the administration of whatever scheme i'd devised would occur. For that reason, rather than change out of her daily wear, she knew my preference was for her to remain fully laced until the conclusion of her correction. We kissed our hello's and i dismounted from the work posture i'd held all day, dropping off my satchel and coat in my bureau. Already, just glimpsing the prelude to the upcoming attraction, a thick bulge had grown in my trousers. I retrieved, from the corner, the wooden paddle with the long handle, placing it on my chair.

I called out to her in the living room, "Darlin, come into my room after you've removed your panties."

Sounds of a shuffle of undergarments came from the front of the apartment, replaced by footsteps on the hallway tile. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the paddle in my hands. In those moments, i'm curious what she's thinking. Is it dread? Is it comfort? I dare not pause the moment to inquire.

"Come here and kneel facing me. I want you to reach back with your hands, and lift up your dress so that you expose your buttocks."

I watched her unveil the white mounds whose curves dismantle most of my gentlemanly behavior. I unzipped my pants, and extracted the extremely rigid appendage, letting it point up towards her chin.

"We're going to have a lesson. Without using your hands, you will give me a blowjob. Throughout it, i will swat you with the paddle if i do not find any part of it enjoyable. Understood?"

She nodded her head, and opened her mouth. She swallowed me halfway, and then began to bob her head up and down.

*SWAT!*

"No teeth!"

She squirmed and groaned, continuing to stroke me with her mouth. Her lips bulged over the now fully erect girth.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

"I said NO teeth."

More groans. Her fingers clenched on the material of her dress. Her sucking took on an urgency, a frenzy. She wanted to perform well, but being corrected mid-performance drove her to an edge.

*SWAT!*

"Noise, make some noise."

Her groans yielded to moans, as hungry hums traveled around the gag. Drool slithered down her chin, as she looked in my eyes with an animal fire behind them.

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Faster!"

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Make me believe you like sucking cock, make me see you need this."

The slurping sounds sprayed across the walls of my bureau, which intensified the sensations of my approaching orgasm.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

Just before exploding, i pulled out, grabbed the back of her hair, pointing her head up to the ceiling. I bent down and kissed her soaked lips deeply.

I whispered into her ear,"You did very good." Then lifted her from the floor, and led her to the bedroom. The risk i took with this limb needed some rewarding.

What lies behind door number three?

She'd been complaining earlier that day that her breath was labored. Sometimes, she felt a sudden need to take a very big gulp of air, and when she inhaled, her lungs never felt satisfied. At one point, she stopped in mid-sentence, just to breathe in. Seeing this, i decided to alter the designs i had on the evening, tossing out revisiting the new hood or dipping into our rope supply. Instead, i decided to play a game with my girl.

I'd been out with a friend, going for a 4-mile run, then celebrating our well-winded constitutions with hot wings and a pint. I returned home to a checked-off list of completed chores, finding her seated on our couch, knitting. When i sat next to her, i noticed she'd slid on the thigh-high striped socks i'd purchased for her from American Apparel. This sent a very distinct signal that i happily received.

"What motivated you to wear those?"

"These? Oh, i was cold, and i knew you wouldn't like me wearing pants."

Grrr. Correct answer. She must've known what this was doing to me. She'd gone to the hair salon earlier where she re-dyed her hair a deep, oily black and got it fashionably styled. After such pampering, she always felt frisky. Without much internal discussion, as she purred against my chest, i decided to take the bait.

"Do you like games?"

"Absolutely."

"Would you like to play a game right now?"

"Yes. I would."

"Sit tight, i'll be right back."

I hopped up from my seat and moved to the rear of the apartment where i gathered the necessary game pieces, strewing them about strategically. Memorizing the location of all implements, i returned to the living room and my patiently purring girl.

"Congratulations! You've advanced to the final round. Come with me."

I grabbed her hand and led her into my study. I extended a finger in the direction of my closet door.

"This is Door #1."

I then pointed at the built-in drawer beneath my semi-closet.

"This is Door #2."

I shuffled us into the hallway and pointed at our closed bathroom door.

"And this is Door #3."

Walking her back to my study, i continued:

"Behind each door, there are three separate* implements with which i will use to swat your behind. Now, which door will you choose!"

She gave it some thought, pausing, letting the moment effervesce into the air.

"Well, for posterity sakes, i think i'll choose...i'll choose door number 3."

Now, before i showed my girl her fate, i knew as i was setting up this stratagem that she would choose "Door #3", so that she had fulfilled my expectations made me incredibly giddy. With great excitement, i anticipated the reaction she would provide once i swung open her chosen portal. I knew imbued with her choice was a sense of victory, but because i'd rigged the game, victory was not hers. Victory was mine.

"Are you ready to see your selection?"

"uh-huh."

I grasped the brass door knob and twisted it open to reveal the device that would be slashed across her naked flesh. The expected gasp came shortly after.

"Ahhhh! I hate that thing."

I of course knew this. Despite the fact that i'd called it a game, it really was a con, and she was the mark. I grabbed the three meter dowel rod, and moved the game's finale to the bedroom.

*I emphasize "separate". Because my girl reads this site and because i intend on engaging in this game again, i will not divulge the exact weaponry i had laid out. Just know that the deck was stacked heavily in my favor, and that she was certainly not going to 'win' no matter which door she chose. I know...at least i gave her a "choice".

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.

This is definitely going to hurt

"I don't care how difficult it is. Stay still. If the swats are too distracting, i can always give you something else to focus on."

Which in fact i did. Mind you, she had every reason to complain. I had her in an incredibly uncomfortable position. She was completely naked, and bent like an A-frame roof. Her feet planted firmly into the ground and her wrists sandwiched against the wooden slats of the floor. This caused her butt to be the lone prominent thing pointed up at me.

I don't take yoga, but i'm sure this would qualify for one of their more strenuous postures. Except, that wasn't enough for me. I needed more. I'd attached her adjustable vice nipple clamps to each perky nib, with the attached chain running between each gatored device pinching into her flesh. With her pyramided like this, the chain of the clamps dangled in the airspace between her tits and the floor below them. I'd also taken a leather strap and pulled it between her lips, latching it behind her head, rendering her incoherent.

I produced our mini-flogger with the long rigid plastic tendrils and began this week's correction. Immediately, either because of the brutal bite of the raking plastic or the position her body was in, she protested.

"OW!!"

She kicked into the air. Perhaps even at me, but certainly to exchange this energy thrust into her body. And moaned. I remember her moans. They were quite sharp and pedantic, but with fruity notes that dispelled their desperation. I sipped from them gingerly, wanting to drink more from their rich vintage. I uncorked upon her a new fury of floggings.

"OW!!!!!"

Wails this time. Pleading, sickened, angry wails. Undernotes of "You bastard", "You sick fuck" and "I hate you" filled out the vast landscape of these cries. I didn't blame her. I was being ruthless.

"Listen to me. If you do not stop, i will give you something to complain about, not for just today, but for the rest of the week."

I then took a double-headed metal clasp and latched it onto the chain dangling from her tits. This added weight, that with each jerk and spasm her body mustered would find greater articulation in this area. I returned my attention to her ever-crimsoning buttocks.

"OH-OW-AAAAA-AH-AH-AH!!"

She stamped into the ground. These sounds had definitely matured. They'd become cries. Tear-producing, deep surrendering, cries of desperation. Clearly, she was too focused on what was happening to her backside. I took another double-headed clasp and also a thick, heavy brass padlock, and clipped these onto the already taxed chain hanging from her tits.

"I do hope this is enough to keep you occupied."

Like a good girl who identifies the path to her salvation and chooses to take it, with the added weight tugging on her screaming nipples, she managed to remain as still as possible while i conversed with the white fleshy mounds of her ass. Well, not me exactly, but the very handy and sadistic plastic flogger.

Continuing demands

Hold on. Before you get comfortable, you will do one thing for me tonight.

Do you remember the vibrator i told you to put in your purse? Good, you brought it.

See that girl who's getting up from the table? Follow her into the bathroom. Pick a stall, and go inside.

I want you to take out the vibrator and turn the dial to its highest level. I want this to buzz into the air - open, loud, public. I want you to think about what it will feel like when you finally touch it to yourself, anticipating the contact of this device to your cunt. And then...

...I want you to bring yourself to the brink, to the edge, to the closest point of falling. Rubbing it up and down the folds of your slick pussy, pushing it inside, paying no attention to any traffic that may come in and out. When you feel you cannot hold off anymore, when you feel you're about to burst, i want you to turn it off.

Lift the glistening toy to your eyes and stare at it. I want you to reflect about what it felt like, how close you were, and how obedient you are being for not going further. Wipe it clean and put it back in your purse.

Then, i simply want you to compose yourself. Leave the stall without a word, without a look into someone else's eyes. I want you to immediately come back and rejoin me for dinner.

And i want you to act exactly as if nothing happened.


*this continues on here

The Price: fed

(This is part of a series. The previous episode can be found here)

A knock on his bureau door, tore him away from the file in his hand he'd been aimlessly studying.

"Yes?"

"Uhm, everything is as you asked," said the male voice on the other side of the closed door.

"Ahhh, yes. Good. Excellent."

The unseen person's footsteps sounded off their departure down the hallway that extended from his private den. Almost with a sense of gratitude for the interruption, he closed the manila folder, sliding it onto his desk. He stared intensely at a spot on the wall just beyond the oak appointment, while his fingers drummed out the patter of calculation. He'd nearly forgotten about these arrangements as their reminder came as a pleasant surprise.

He lifted himself from his chaise and stepped into the corridor. As he strode down the long, empty lane, with each step, he ran his fingers along the textured surface of the wall. Turning into the downward stairwell, he placed his weight on the top step, then flicked the switch just to the right of his shoulder. The quiet cellar beneath him illuminated with a dim, yellow glow. Cool air accompanied the silence as his escort for his descent.

A thin, dripping sound greeted his arrival to the cellar. As he gathered his bearings, his eyes fell upon the door marked "Arrivals", just opposite the landing of the stairs. He approached the door, and slid open the eye-level wooden hatch. Peering inside, he saw her.

Naked.

Curled up in a ball, squinting up at the intrusion of sudden light.

She'd turned, at the sound from the hatch opening, toward the thick wooden entrance, but as he had designed it, the imposing, luminating fixture aloft kept her from seeing anything of real recognition through the momentary slot in the door. He quickly sliced the panel shut.

Just to the right of the entrance to the cell, on top of a flimsy metal stand sat the interned inhabitant's nighttime meal. As instructed, he noticed a complete lack of utensils accompanying the tray of warm morsels. Lifting the coiled leather whip hanging from the wall, he grabbed a hold of the modest meal, and undid the latch to the door.

Pulling the loaded portal open, he stepped foot into the small prison. His presense - his warmth, his commotion, his smell - caused the collapsed girl to shrivel even more into her epidermal ball.

"Hello."

He didn't wait for nor expect a response.

He paced about the room, tray in one hand, leather flogger in the other, looking for a suitable place to rest her food. He settled for putting it right in front of her, on the cold concrete floor. The figure before him moved not a single inch.

"I'm not sure you understand what is to happen to you. As it has been told to me, you gave your full consent. However, i've come to learn, that isn't ever something the gift-giver completely grasps."

He crouched down to one knee, lowering himself so that his face hung just above her arm-covered head.

"Look at me." He spoke with a complete absence of urgency or contempt. She pulled her head out of the nest of her arms, and gave him a first-time view of her stunning, chestnut brown eyes.

"I've heard you are refusing to eat. That can't continue," on this command, she looked down at the aluminum tray of food at her feet. "I must apologize for the lack of proper utensils."

He took the butt of the whip's handle, and dug it into the scoop of beans occupying the upper right quadrant. Lifting this upward to her mouth, he held it in front of her face. Gradually, she opened it, allowing him to slowly place the thick, leather stave inside. With the smallest of movements, she cleaned the sweet, briny beans from the handle.

"Good girl."

He laid the whip over the tray, and stood back up. He brushed his hand over her head, feeling the warmth exuding from her crown, then stepped towards the open door.

"I expect to hear that you've finished all of that."

Sugasm #141

Sugasm #141

from Sugasm by Vixen

Tara Tainton courtesy of Porn Saints.

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 #142? 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
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”

Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”

A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Road Rage

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
Routine Maintenance, pt. 2

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

Routine Maintenance, pt. 2

Over the next 18 hours, the bulbous red slashes across her buttocks yielded to a siege of violet discoloration, morphing into a bruised stigmata that spread across the lower curve of her cheeks. A thing of pure beauty. A purple cloud with yellow accents that symbolized the storm that had raged across her flesh. I examined it while she slumbered in the early dawn of morning, stirred by the transference of my emotional energy into this hemorrhage.

My desire beget
cane in my hand, which beget
strokes across her ass, which beget
crimson welts, which beget
these anamorphic bruises

She wore, branded into her skin, my need in its physical manifestation. Every time she sat, the tinge of pain articulated the fever i carry to lash her behind. Her choice of dress, and even her embarrassment over the fact that were she to swim, someone might ask her about the bruises, magnified this intense intimacy we share.

I adored - and more - i was extremely grateful for this. Recognizing my gratitude as i studied the contusion, i realized my ego had softened which made me feel confident that we could proceed with the zipper as i had originally wanted. I didn't take dictation from a greedy, horny demon, but rather, a prescient need to connect with my girl stood behind the appetite for the device.

My clothespin contraption consists of anywhere between 18 and 72 wooden fasteners (depending on her tolerance level and my willingness to prep), threaded onto a 9 meter length of brown leather chord. Because of her previous episode with the cane, we negotiated for 36 pins. I had her strip, then wrapped a silk blindfold over her eyes. With a coil of recently conditioned hemp rope, i bound her elbows behind her back until they touched, and continued to secure her wrists together. I noticed that the temperature in the room had risen, and even though she was naked, her body radiated warmth which led me to turn on the overhead fan. Standing in front of me, nude and armless, her physical self let her mental entity slip deep inside. When i began clamping the pins onto her flesh, her minuscule reaction to the pinch confirmed how deep in shadow her mind had drifted. Even her verbal response sounded little, uncertain.

"ow..."

An afterthought, a formality.

I drew a sinuous line of leather and wood starting from her left armpit, attaching a clamp every few inches. I bit into the pink epidermis on the underside of her tit, following the round suggestion of her mammary.

"ow..."

When there wasn't much skin to pinch, i plied a fold with my finger and thumb and viced onto the base of this tug. Across her belly, down her thigh, then suddenly jackknifing up towards her panting, hairless cunt. I teased her, rubbing the coarse texture of the pin along her sensitive inner groin, inches from her slit before i took purchase with a wooden nip.

"ow..."

I stamped a pin on her left cunt lip, then mirrored this on her right. Looking up at her while paying attention to the elapsed time, i saw that her face showed no sign of cognizance. I counted out the number of the pin i was at.

"24, darlin..."

I continued to dress her with the zipper, when suddenly, she took a step forward, moving herself away from her held position.

"What are you doing? Get back to where you were."

She didn't respond. She took another, less certain, wavering step. I knew something was wrong. And then...

...she collapsed.

I caught her in my arms, worried that the pressure between our bodies was stabbing the attached clothespins into her. I spoke with her.

"Baby...baby, are you okay?"

Thinking as quick as i could, i ripped off the pins that remained. This jolt brought her to the forefront. She gasped, then mumbled some inarticulate phrase. I whipped off the blindfold, then looked into her eyes. Her pupils weren't dilated, she just held the gaze of someone in extreme relaxation.

"W-w-what happened?"

"You collapsed."

"I don't even remember anything after the first clip." I brought her to the bed, and lay her down, telling her to just rest.

I've always been attracted to the image of the hero that saves the damsel in distress, and many times my girl has said she views me this way when i release her from an extended binding. It's odd but also funny that i must put my damsel in the predicaments in order to play the role of savior. However, in this instance, i wasn't saving her from some scenario i placed her in. Rather, i caught her, without any thought, as she fell. If we hadn't spent all of these years learning eachother, growing close, and developing trust, who knows if i would've made the catch.

Concealer

I have a colleague at my office who has, gradually over time, gained knowledge of my kinky side. Whether it's from his occasional strolls into my den where he'll catch me gazing at a glossy image of some ball-gagged and bound gal in shiny black latex or he'll remark about my grasp of sexual slang like "Cleveland steamer" or "going Commando". When he sees the image blazing up to his eyes from my screen, he wants to see more, but i know better. I always decline his requests because i know that what i possess on my computer is considerably more perverse than a glossed-up rubber doll, and two things will happen should i take him down my rabbit hole.

The first being that it will shock him, similar to coaxing someone, who has never experienced it, to leap into the ocean in the dead cold of winter. It will attack their system. I've learned that in order to really allow someone to have a substantially beneficial experience with SM, you must gradually, slowly introduce them to the concept and its practice. Otherwise, flashing him a bunch of material would merely serve to startle him which is not at all interesting to me. It's bad enough that he thinks to send me every bizarre news story about some dominatrix arrested in Boca Raton, or makes a whipping reference ("we need to really whip them into action...") during a meeting and looks directly at me as if i should appreciate it. I don't really want to be someone's kink ambassador, let alone this guy who succinctly gets on my nerves more than anyone else in the workplace.

The second , and much more serious thing that would occur would be the potential loss of anonymity. I hold a place in my industry and my community that should my authorship of "The Lustful Quality..." be found out, my life would be dramatically affected. In fact, i had a recent scare where i was certain that someone at work had sniffed me out. I monitor, fairly regularly, the tracking software i initially installed on this site. One morning i came across the footprint of someone who had accessed this journal from the very same work IP address and domain that i use. Immediately, i thought it was the aforementioned irritating gentleman. I got very afraid. I printed out the web page of evidence, and then carefully stalked around my high-rise office floor, fully anticipating that at any minute some colleague would come up to me and offer me their sarcastic greeting:

"Hi, Deity."

For the record, it never happened. I can't explain how the tracking system indicated that some underling had landed on transformher.blogspot, but it brought up a larger point that i never forget, but sometimes don't address as much as i should.

I've been writing in this space for over a year now (yes, i recently, discreetly celebrated my one year anniversary) and while i'm mighty proud of the interaction, the community and the somewhat mildly heralded niche i've carved out in the land of kinky web journalists, i cannot for sake of my own longevity, share this with those in my everyday life. Basically, i hide beneath the cloak of a theistic honorific in order to explore what is essentially a prime component of my base material, but because we live in the society that we do, i must conceal this quotient of mine. Recent happenings in the UK offers further reason why those of us who regularly practice SM are not safe.

If you haven't heard about these developments, the usually forward thinking folks of the United Kingdom are on the precipice of vaguely outlawing any pornography that features bondage or, especially, corporal punishment (i.e. spanking and flogging). This saddens me on a personal level, because i believe that it is a drastic, albeit perhaps too late, response to some tragic events that happened which were loosely connected to the exploration of SM. On a larger level, it frightens me. It offers further reminders of the intolerant and misunderstanding world i live in, but more importantly, from which i must hide a certain significant part of myself.

Something new about the old

This post has been harder than i expected it to be.

I've been away for the past few weeks, relaxing in the oh-so-easy environs of Mother Europe, having returned just a couple days ago. In the time since i returned, i've logged into this here web portal many times and primarily gawked at it and the activity that has blossomed in my absence.

I just haven't been able to muster the proper meter and timbre that befits a TransformHer post, falling short of my own admittedly lofty standards. There are many reasons for this. When you leave for such a long time, it's difficult to fit yourself back into your regimented routine. I'm finding it hard to settle into any regulated aspect of the life i led before i left on vacation, let alone manning this outlet. Some responsibility for this falls on the incredibly relaxed lifestyle i grew accustomed to across the Atlantic. Right now, the pace i customarily sustained in the big metropolis feels alien, and that makes nearly everything associated with the lifestyle i carved out of the local grindstone harder to relate to.

I've no doubt that the passage of time will gracefully escort me back to the seat i occupied before i took my leave of absence, which leads me to not suffer from any panic at my current disembodiment. In fact, it offers me a kind of liberty. I'm able to look at the world that i had grown so accustomed to viewing as the default with a freedom of perhaps learning something new about the old.

---------------------

I'd like to thank Stormy for her caretaking during my vacancy. Reading her posts upon my return had me honestly wondering if i should remain or if perhaps i should check to see if there were any, as yet, unfilled rooms at the Venetian villa i spent the past few weeks reclining. Alas, i shall stick around these parts while offering my eternal gratitude for her stewardship.