A very, very bad girl!

You come to these pages to be aroused, don’t you? I know! I’m one of you; an avid reader. But, now I return to you here (as opposed to here ), to fill in for Deity whilst he is away. It was all a bit short notice this time, and he doesn’t know what I am writing, so let’s have some fun over the next week. It may lead to a tongue lashing later, but I’ll worry about that later. (“My God, she is so brave!” I hear some of you say. Or, stupid.)

I see that some of you girls loved being scared in a recent post.

“I imagine you sitting there wondering if I am speaking directly to you...”

Alfred Hitchcock could not have done it better, don’t you think? We girls love to be scared half to death. It gets our hearts racing a little faster, and yes, it gets us very wet between the legs. What a f**king rush! That’s why we giggle, right? Maybe they are saying the things they say and it is all a lark. And, maybe it is not. Maybe, they really are going to do the things they say. We don’t know and we love that we don’t know.

“Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?”

Well, girls, do you? Of course you do...at least in your thoughts. So, now you are at his feet. What now? Do you have any regrets? Are you just a tiny bit worried? What the hell is he planning to do with you, anyway? Do you care? Or, do you lay there, breath shallow, heart racing, wishing that he would just get on with it?

Well, relax. He’s going to take his sweet time. He’s going to ensure that you are well and truly worried. Just a little worried is no use to him. He wants you vexed. Yes, my sweeties, vexed!

He wants you to pause, and reflect on the fact that only a bad girl would be here, waiting to have clever tricks and wicked deeds done to her.

Only a very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to order you to undress. If he orders you to undress, then it is out of your hands, right?

Only a very, very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to make you bend to his will; to make use of your body for his pleasure (and yours, too).You know all this. You know what he will do to you, and yet you stay.

That door that is ajar, allows you to go. You may go. You are dismissed. And, yet you stay. (You are still reading, right?)

I think he may be right. You are a very, very bad girl!

Don't answer

I imagine you sitting there, wondering if i'm speaking directly to you.
The room around you is dark, the only illumination coming from the monitor.
Your eyes peel over every curvature of these words, looking for a hint at my meaning.
When it first comes to you, that darkness, that lack of light that surrounds you suddenly grips you.
It holds you firmly, like the words on this page, knowing my intent.
You read the previous sentences, over and over again, in order to distract you from the thoughts that now creep into your head.
But they are there, gathering outside your door, outside the confines of your safe, secure mind.
Lurking.
In the shadows.
Summoned by me, to do my bidding. To tempt and haunt you.
Do you let them in? Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?

Did you hear it? That door...it just creaked, as if something were leaning on it.

I remember them all

The appetite is a peculiar and most unforgiving fuel. Many things we long for, few are necessary. Some might even say that our tastes are largely artifice, creations of our environment and our history. The small list of necessities - food, water, sleep - makes for a rather simplified diagnosis of how life should be lived. All of our behaviors should be molded so that they can deliver us these bare essentials, and yet the essence of life is very imbalanced and stacked not in our favor. Not only will we never find satisfaction, we will also be faced with this punishment for the entire time we stand on this rock.

But it can be easily said (as evident by those of you who are performing an act that falls outside of "necessity" in order to read these words) that life carries with it much more complexity than just the need for caloric sustenance of our bodies. If the entries i have posted to this site are worth their measure, it can be said that feeding the body is only accomplished in order for us to then feed the soul. I eat life so that i can feast on life.

With that in mind, if we were to examine the banquets i attend or create, there exists a certain number of prerequisites. Among these treasure trove of trinkets and pleasures i pursue, nothing exceeds my desire for beauty and my fascination for decay. When brought together, you get the very spinal chord that houses the central nervous system of The Lustful Quality.

Shelved amongst the inane bits of information and trivia i have gathered over the years, one would find a dozen or so stories of girls who suffered, endured and survived my chemical experiments where i mixed the holistic gift of beauty with the wrenching qualities of decay. Some of those tales would be rather tame, where i fiddled with an adorable chestnut-haired novice for a few days, only to release her back into the wild - unscathed and only mildly marked. And yet, others would turn the most open-minded person's stomach as i retell how i made the innocent (and sometimes not so innocent - but always consenting) girl grovel, prostate, plea and suffer just because i was obsessed with the process of denigrating the gorgeous female form.

I'm not entirely pleased with myself when i think back on these episodes, but i accept them as the collateral damage that i needed to rack up in order for me to understand who i am and what my appetites are. However, let there be no mistake of the cherished place that each of those girls holds in the catalog of my mind. They've made achieving these twisted appetites an honor and a thrill.

Betrayal

The human body's existence receives the bulk of most economical, academic and scientific interest - most of that attention gets focused on the behavior of myriad, different receptors whose reaction then dictates the direction or vector the body housing them will move. Marketers utilize imagery, sound and words to stimulate a diverse panoply of reactions that you may or may not be aware of and certainly cannot control. Scientists study the neural patterns that make up the traffic on the information superhighway of our central nervous system just to try to decipher how this wiring determines our well-being and recovery from a trauma to the head. All of us carry inside intricate systems of receiving messages communicated through various methods, and how our bodies respond determines the way we look at the world, others and ourselves. Yet, we haven't the faintest idea how things have the impact that they do.

For instance, i cannot explain what it is about seeing a girl with well-manicured but obviously fake fingernails, but my body has an immediate and visible reaction. I could try to apply a great deal of psycho-babble about how these nails extend her fingers which in turn bring her closer to me, or better they lengthen what is already a beautiful feminine feature (similar to how a heel lengthens the line of a woman's leg), but neither of those explain why and how my body chooses to react to the sight of artificial ungulas. Thankfully, i've been able to surround myself with females who happily take their beautiful digits to a manicurist, not to mention that i don't find the influence from these ornaments inconvenient. What of those stimulants that do produce a response we are not happy with?

'Betrayal' is a word my girl has used. Her body betrays her. My darling girl is by no means a hard-core masochist, and sees pain as a way to challenge and to push her body's limits. When presented with the idea of a spanking, she doesn't leap out of her seat with great glee like she would should i tell her the budget for her next corset. We might be in the middle of a particularly fiery swatting session, and she will snarl over her shoulder at me, "Goddammit!!! That HURTS!!!", punctuated by her feet stomping into the ground (should they be free to move). This, for those keeping score, is not someone who mentally enjoys the pain the corporal punishment slices across her flesh. However, everytime - EVERYTIME, my fine friends - i reach in between her legs at the end of her persecution, her cunt is sopping wet.

"What's this? Evidence of pleasure?"

"N-n-n-nooooo, no it's not! It can't be...i don't understand."

Betrayal...i'd say it's more like what the mind doesn't know can't really hurt it.

After all things must come beauty

I'm an incredibly sappy and nostalgic individual. I do not shy away from this fact here or in my everyday life. The number one edict in my home - above the establishment of stringent roles between me and my girl, and before the enforcement of rules that stem from those roles - is that at the end of everything, let the pursuit of beauty dictate the day.

So much in this world that confronts us these days serves only to break us down emotionally and psychologically. Our global financial crisis daily reveals that the search for the bottom will be difficult and uncertain. Violence rages across every continent - the kind that makes absolutely no sense when viewed either firsthand or through the lens of media. I sense a grand ennui, a heavy weight of dread and helplessness in everyone i encounter. There is little any of us individually can do to address these macro-level dilemmas, which when realized exacerbates the state of vulnerability we feel. What most people will do to avoid the continual bombardment of images and news reports of our doom is escape into fantasy, fluff and mindlessness. I understand this, but i don't believe it is the most adequate way to survive the drudgery. Seeking, pursuing, and celebrating the beauty in all things will provide the sincerest enrichment to our souls.

One of the finest examples of this that i can present to my readers is the film "Le fabuleux destin d'Amelie Poulain" (known in English as simply "Amelie"). I have myriad reasons for adoring this flick (chief among them that it is responsible for me finding my girl), and have watched it well over 30 times since i first viewed it in the theatres if just to remind me what it is like to admire the small, nuanced and often hidden beauty in everything. I share this trailer made by a fellow fan and invite those of you who have not seen it to treat yourself and give the full movie a chance.

The illusion always has an explanation

The average visitor to these pages comes across "TransformHer" for the first time, having never stepped foot into my shadowy lair ( i know this because there's a reason i get so few comments but a healthy albeit humble turnstile count). As i've come to notice, most random, brand new visitors find my black and orange-hued corner through image/content searches for "venus corset" or "neck corset" (and especially these two posts: one on Venus corsets and the other on my neck corset obsession). The latter post being over a year old, and yet it still seems to snag a gigantic portion of my visitors. In fact, were it my sole goal to accumulate the largest number of visitors my particular bent could muster, i'm convinced all i'd need to do would be to post an entry filled with a run-on sentence that consisted of four words: "neck corset venus corset"

neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset

and so on...

In actuality, my number one goal has not been focused on me luring the largest number of interested readers (i.e. quantity), but rather me presenting a viewpoint that sparks dialogue, debate and conversation about topics that too frequently get treatment as pure fantasy (i.e. quality). By this i mean i want to take the "Gor" out of SM, the forced honorifics and protocols that seem to muddle up what anyone who seeks a power exchange is really looking for - a connection to a like-minded spirit (i speak out against the fakery out there in the SM world, and yet i still pen this entry under the fictional name of 'Deity'. Yes, i recognize the irony in this).

This entry really is meant for those first-timers to "The Lustful Quality" or even those semi-frequent visitors who have not lent their voice to this dialogue (i promise to be kind and encouraging to anyone who comments). Should you desire to engage in a kink relationship that takes the structure of a Male Top and a female bottom, i seek to dispel any illusions that this journey is devoid of difficulty, emotional pain or even total miscalculations. I've been pursuing this kind of power dynamic for decades, and i have yet to have still master the day in and day out, and despite what may come across in my entries, there are still struggles between me and my girl that are very human, very raw and very flawed.

I chronicle a regular correction of my girl on these pages that some of you have taken a shine to, but i don't often present the failed episodes wherein my girl does not respond to the discipline i'm dishing out. This does not make her flawed or disobedient, rather it can be chalked up to the regular ruminations of living life. It would be complete folly to expect my girl to take instruction from every single character she encounters in her life like she does from me. In fact, she is a fiery, opinionated, and intelligent creature whose voice is very often sought and relied upon - to insist that this voice be silenced would do an injustice to not only her but the world. That being said, this creature with such a tiny, feminine frame who must fight for a seat on the train ride home can't just disrobe of this armor the instance she steps foot across our threshold.

I've seen many portrayals out there of 24/7 power exchanges where the submissive is able to/expected to immediately assume the role of the bottom as soon as they come in contact with their Top. I won't declare those as being false, but i will say i've had no such similar experience. Just because i call my girl up in the middle of the day, on a day where she needs to be on top of her game, responding to others' needs, juggling others' demands, it would be completely ignorant and unreasonable for me to expect her to assume the bottomness she so beautifully accomplishes in the comfort of our home.

This is a game of psychology, and for the most part sanctuary. I'm not able to, nor should i seek it, to be a Top to everyone i encounter in my business transactions. Nor should my girl assume the role of the submissive to everyone who engages her. When we do come together, there is a considerable negotiation and a certain amount of theatrics that takes place. Sometimes i feel like i'm putting on a production with me as the Director/School Master/Boss character that creates an environment where we are able to assume the roles that slough off the masks we portray in our daily lives. What makes it all the more engaging is that we're not following a set protocol or an ideology, and in fact exploring this journey together, making it our own. Me being who i am, i would be quite disappointed should i discover that i was in fact towing some unseen party line with regards to SM. And quite personally (with all due respect to those who enjoy lines that are rift with parties and ideologies), i'm not sure that's realistically possible.

Fantasy Confusions

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What's the French word for 'swagger'?*

Growing up, i had a rousing friendship with both the Disney family of cartoon players as well as the playful crew over at the Warner Bros. house. Every afternoon, i would carve out at least an hour of recreational television watching in great anticipation of seeing my favorite Donald Duck, Chip 'n Dale, Daffy Duck and Foghorn Leghorn slapstick (i didn't care much for Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny because they too closely resembled the good guys). All of these jesters were placed in the most aggravating, conflicting and trying situations with obstacle after obstacle tossed at them which i deeply related to. It now occurs to me the oddity of my young self relating more to these 2-dimensional celluloid illustrations than the flesh and blood that marauded around me, but nonetheless it was very true. I sought the animated teleplay of underdogs rather than interact with the real life bullies and unpredictably feral schoolmates.

Of all the regular set of characters i came to enjoy and even emulate in my own behavior, there was one that struck a nerve that these four chums somehow didn't. I related to this quartet by way of their unkempt state of always being on the wrong foot, singing a song slightly off-key, skipping to a beat that drew unneeded attention to them. However, this one fella struck a chord in me i couldn't identify at the time. His scrapes didn't involve dashed get-rich schemes and top-your-neighbor foibles. Instead, his purr-suits were exclusively that of the opposite sex.

Of course i speak of Pepe le Pew:



In this cartoon, as in most of his performances, the discovery of his existence immediately elicits distress calls from the poor discovering sap. They freak out when they identify him as "Le pew" or in the anglicized version of French, a skunk. His stench identifies himself as a monster. So many of my own stubborn views and ticks invited similar disparagement, as a result his alienation became an instant brotherhood for me to latch onto. There were many days of social solitude and isolation that caused me to wonder if i smelled awful, but even then, that didn't ignite my attachment to him and his cartoon saga.

Every episode where he starred that i remember involved him relentlessly pursuing a female (a pussy, at that). Such blatant sexual conquests had never been re-enacted in a way i could enjoy. Like most kids, i pinched my nose in utter dramatic contempt when the movie got to the kissing part. I did it because i didn't understand why the two characters wanted to do that, but also, because other kids around me were doing it, and at that age, i tried to minimize the amount of negative attention i attracted. Monsieur le Pew, however, made it acceptable to enjoy the hunt of the female species.

I loved the way he jaunted after them, with such persistence, such effrontery and patience, and such, such confidence. His "swagger" consisted of a calm, ballet-like bounce, whereas the targeted female was racing with haste and frenzy. He knew that once he set his sights on her, he would have her. I'm not certain whether i related to this so much because i naturally felt this way myself, or because i learned this from Pepe. Either way, caper after caper, i treated his cartoons less as entertainment, and more like visits from a kindred spirit. The only parts of his episodes i didn't care for were the ones where he'd get the girl only after he'd changed (i.e. dipped in paint, de-scented, shaved, etc.), and for that matter, she would too.

I've always approached an interaction with a female with a blind sense of faith that it will go favorably. I assume that they'll find something interesting about me, keeping them open long enough to chat. This isn't as brashly arrogant as it seems, but actually stems more from the fact that i get along with the opposite gender so well. Some aesthetes have the ability to walk up to an instrument they've never played and make angelic music with it. Some can advance on a wild horse, whisper in its ear, and lead it off the meadow to a new way of life.

*Answer: épate

Public identification

For many years, before this frightful beast called the internet, and once i'd grown tired of the boredom i found in vanilla-type dynamics, i embarked on a frequent search for an SM-consenting female. How, you might ask? Through a gay friend of mine, i'd learned about this thing called the handkerchief or hankey/hanky code. He introduced it to me when in response to him coming out to me about his homosexuality, i came out to him. That is, i told him that i like to spank and tie up girls and tell them how to behave. He was shocked (as are most folks who know me and i inform them of this or meet me for the first time once they've learned of my kink; i just have that sweet and angelic of a face), but not appalled. In fact, rather excited about assisting me in finding some girl i could torment.

I went and purchased a grey handkerchief and began putting it in my back left pocket. I felt silly at first because it clashed with my look. Over time the silliness turned into straight up awkwardness as i found myself on the receiving end of numerous propositions from gay male bottoms. In fact, it didn't yield me a single willing female.

I've often tried to grapple with the establishment of a system of public identification that would streamline the introduction of individuals on opposite sides of the power exchange. I have tired as much at avoiding the drole, "normal" dating world as i have with needing to use the same, few tired portals out there that exist to facilitate finding submissive girls. But, i also sometimes want to be able to publicly let others know about my sexuality, to let others know more about me. There are those days when i want a "Power Exchange" Pride parade. Or even just times when i'm walking with my girl, and someone would see us and could tell that she's submissive and i'm dominant.

Why i pursue this is not always about sex and fucking. Just like being gay isn't just about making out with the same sex. For me, i do not choose how i react to the opposite sex. It is an innate and completely fundamental response. I've tried many times to silence or ignore it, and i can't.

I'm not sure if it's just for sentimental reasons, or because i still secretly hope to see if it would've ever worked, but i still carry my grey handkerchief in my left pocket. I pull it out every once in awhile to wipe sweat off my brow, or to grab a door handle, and then look around to see if anyone's noticed.