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.
Showing posts with label series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label series. Show all posts
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
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
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
Sunday, September 7, 2008
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."
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."
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Price
The other day, i was chatting on a completely benign subject with a friend of mine who resides on the complete opposite side of the continent from i, when a very vivid image of a scene came into my head. Amidst our amicable catch up, i started writing down the pictures and the narrative that came attached with it, fleshing out characters and actions and speech. What follows is the opening of the story that pronounces the imagery that had slid into my head.
I'm not certain what i'll do with it. I don't know if i'll continue it. I don't know if i'll make it a subscription-only piece of fiction. I have no idea what will happen beyond this post. All i know is that i offer to you, the reader, the opening to what i've come to think of in my head as "The Price".
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
During the day, I work in the financial district of Lower Ambourdy. I've managed to amass a good amount of wealth by managing the money of the affluent. These upper crust members of the population acquired this surplus through various ways. Some entrepreneurial, a few through windfalls that brought a sudden cashflow, but most of it inherited. The old money came about through the hard work, the cheating, the conniving, the finagling, and backstabbing of their ancestors - but most importantly on the back's of indentured servants and slaves.
I can make this harsh pronouncement firstly because it's true - I've seen it in person. Secondly, because having my own expanding bank account, I too have relied on the fruits of bondage. Now currently, at the moment, I do not have any chattel in my possession. However, that will change come week's end.
For the past decade, I foreswore myself off the practice of human trafficking, and for many years, I'd been successful at keeping those yearnings at bay. Perhaps the pressure of my career (which is an excuse, I know) leads me to reconsider my prohibition. In actuality, I understand that it is the utter abyss of soullessness that surrounds me at every turn in my vocation - the pursuit of money and nothing else is a carcinogen of the worst form - that I find myself dialing dark numbers, recalling old cryptic passwords I once had set to memory, and making cash withdrawals from my bank in only small bills. I feel the same revulsion at my decision to go this route as I did years past, but I also feel a familiar sublime weightlessness that accompanied the guilt and self-doubt.
Exactly two weeks ago, I acquired in my possession a new charge through contacts I had in the underground market, and assuming her medical examination passes without any alarms, she is to be delivered to my residence by Noon on Sunday. I assigned my sergeant-at-arms with the task of personally conducting the search for the hired girl. In a period of five months, he examined well over 300 females, in different venues scattered about the Sound Staten proper. In regards the one he selected, his report has her as young, early 20's, very quiet and shy, and of exceptional refinement. He said that throughout the entire time he spent scrutinizing her, she only said - actually, yelled - one thing. She didn't demand that he stop his manhandling, or cease his drudgery, instead she insisted with four words.
"PLEASE - KEEP ME PURE!"
I can't imagine what this means, and it has me quite frankly intrigued. Is this creature's purity so precious that in the midst of being sold as an object, she must pronounce its sanctity to the evaluating audience? The urgency in her tone, aroused me, but her apparent acceptance of her fate gave me a deeper fulfillment. I allowed myself to sink back into old habits where each breath I respire has an immediate purpose. That of torment, pain, transformation. Every thought, every daydreaming moment focused on this girl's arrival and my preparation for it. Thankfully, I remembered lessons I'd learned from past experiences that stayed fresh on my mind as I continued to stretch my mental faculties. It's crucial that I avoid learning too much about these girls before they arrive, and I absolutely never ask for their name. Once they enter my chambers, their past becomes a shadow that only they can see.
I'm not certain what i'll do with it. I don't know if i'll continue it. I don't know if i'll make it a subscription-only piece of fiction. I have no idea what will happen beyond this post. All i know is that i offer to you, the reader, the opening to what i've come to think of in my head as "The Price".
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
During the day, I work in the financial district of Lower Ambourdy. I've managed to amass a good amount of wealth by managing the money of the affluent. These upper crust members of the population acquired this surplus through various ways. Some entrepreneurial, a few through windfalls that brought a sudden cashflow, but most of it inherited. The old money came about through the hard work, the cheating, the conniving, the finagling, and backstabbing of their ancestors - but most importantly on the back's of indentured servants and slaves.
I can make this harsh pronouncement firstly because it's true - I've seen it in person. Secondly, because having my own expanding bank account, I too have relied on the fruits of bondage. Now currently, at the moment, I do not have any chattel in my possession. However, that will change come week's end.
For the past decade, I foreswore myself off the practice of human trafficking, and for many years, I'd been successful at keeping those yearnings at bay. Perhaps the pressure of my career (which is an excuse, I know) leads me to reconsider my prohibition. In actuality, I understand that it is the utter abyss of soullessness that surrounds me at every turn in my vocation - the pursuit of money and nothing else is a carcinogen of the worst form - that I find myself dialing dark numbers, recalling old cryptic passwords I once had set to memory, and making cash withdrawals from my bank in only small bills. I feel the same revulsion at my decision to go this route as I did years past, but I also feel a familiar sublime weightlessness that accompanied the guilt and self-doubt.
Exactly two weeks ago, I acquired in my possession a new charge through contacts I had in the underground market, and assuming her medical examination passes without any alarms, she is to be delivered to my residence by Noon on Sunday. I assigned my sergeant-at-arms with the task of personally conducting the search for the hired girl. In a period of five months, he examined well over 300 females, in different venues scattered about the Sound Staten proper. In regards the one he selected, his report has her as young, early 20's, very quiet and shy, and of exceptional refinement. He said that throughout the entire time he spent scrutinizing her, she only said - actually, yelled - one thing. She didn't demand that he stop his manhandling, or cease his drudgery, instead she insisted with four words.
"PLEASE - KEEP ME PURE!"
I can't imagine what this means, and it has me quite frankly intrigued. Is this creature's purity so precious that in the midst of being sold as an object, she must pronounce its sanctity to the evaluating audience? The urgency in her tone, aroused me, but her apparent acceptance of her fate gave me a deeper fulfillment. I allowed myself to sink back into old habits where each breath I respire has an immediate purpose. That of torment, pain, transformation. Every thought, every daydreaming moment focused on this girl's arrival and my preparation for it. Thankfully, I remembered lessons I'd learned from past experiences that stayed fresh on my mind as I continued to stretch my mental faculties. It's crucial that I avoid learning too much about these girls before they arrive, and I absolutely never ask for their name. Once they enter my chambers, their past becomes a shadow that only they can see.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Treading
She placed the wine glass into the sink, directly beneath the spigot of the fountain, summoning the liquid serpent hiding in the pipes:
Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.
From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.
The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.
Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.
He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.
"I won't need that for awhile."
She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.
Water, dancing over her hands, the glass, slithering into the drain below.
From the instant the first cold splash made contact with her flesh, she freed a sigh in her chest - it signaled her impending surrender. She adjusted her body to release its rigid form, relaxing, adopting a more flexible, malleable character. She envisioned her frame submerged, surrounded by water, and ever so sweetingly slowly, she felt herself submitting.
The crystal flow pushed on her hands - she gave in. On her skin - she gave in. On the muscles and bones beneath it - to this as well, she gave in. The watery master demanded, regardless of the obstacle it encountered. Instinctively, she reached deeper to find more treasure to offer, shoveling as much as she could of her worth to hastily cooperate with the insistent element. She rubbed her fingers over the curved, slippery surface of the flute, letting the satiny medium guide her, mold her, shape her. Her fingertips found the traces of her lipstick on the rim left from her libation, but resisted the urge to remove them. Removal was not her role, instead she was to be removed - taken, erased.
Her mind led her back to the few preparation procedures he had shared with her earlier in the evening. Before dinner commenced, she was to wash herself, thoroughly. Every crevice. Every slit. Every fold. Standing beneath the steady rain of the shower, the eradication of her cosmetic appearance began. As instructed she didn't grab any of her moisturizing, perfumed soaps to work into a foamy lather, but strictly stayed to the omnipresent nectar that flowed over every inch of her tingling body. She held the firm understanding that he wanted her natural, native perfume when she emerged from the bathroom, purified by the aquatic arbiter.
He came into the kitchen and placed his thick, meaty palm on the back of her frail hand, pulling her mind away from the hypnotic potion gushing into the sink. He whispered into her ear - rather just beneath her ear - with the tremulations of his voice teasing the sensitive receptors on her neck. She abided his instruction, resting the glass at the bottom of the sink, and retreated towards the stairs. Stopping just a few steps into her ascent, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her silk negligee, dropping it without reflection to the step that held her weight. Climbing the stairs once again, a delayed thought materialized into her mind that mapped itself to her recently completed action.
"I won't need that for awhile."
She held no expression, no emotion on her face, just diligently continued on the path prepared for her. In fact, should someone have peered at her, they would not find her on the surface. She was safely, prodigiously buried. Completely tucked in.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Further demands
Good afternoon, my dear. I know you told me that your phone was getting serviced today. That is precisely why i am calling right now. I don't want you to intercept my phone call. In fact, i want your stomach to sink as you turn your phone on for the first time, having just picked it up from the service center, and see that i called.
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
I want you to plead silently with the air, hoping that i didn't leave a message. When you log into your voicemail, i hope heavy dread wraps itself around your long, beautiful neck, slowly tightening as you ponder whether or not that innocuous smirk from the cellular clerk indicates that he listened to this message before you did. I seek to insert the question in your head if he caught the detail of every instruction i'm about to leave you for when you come home tonight, and the truth that both you and i know of your strict obedience to them.
I want you to board the subway, going into the station you always use with the knowledge that when you arrive home, within twenty seconds your body crosses the threshold, you are to get down on your knees and hold open your mouth.
As the train slides along the rails, you will inwardly contemplate my approach to your kneeled position in the hallway, you will think about the fact that you are not to look up at me, and instead keep your eyes trained on the crotch of my dress pants.
As the doors open at a stop just a few before your exit, your mind will flood with the picture of my fingers slowly descending, pinched onto the zipper. You will see my hand reach in past the material and retrieve my rigid phallus. Your mind will immediately accept where this erect rod will go.
As you maneuver through the avenues, familiar storefronts will wipe by in your periphery unnoticed because your entire countenance will succomb to the surging lust throbbing in your body. In your head, your lips are already wrapped around the firm fleshy gag, and you are already internally obeying the command to disrobe, all the while sucking uninterruptedly on my cock - with the knowledge that you will be led around the house, expected to maintain this union the entire time.
Your mind has vanished, at the completion of this message. All that remains is a vessel, waiting to fulfill its duty, its purpose, its hole.
*this continues on here
Monday, July 7, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Routine maintenance
As it typifies the power exchange, routine typically fills an important, guiding role in a dominant's repertoire. It habitualizes certain behaviors that over time serve to condition the submissive to a set way. The structure that comes inherent in routine can also reduce the number of liabilities should something go wrong in a scene by finetuning each party's response to eachother. Regimental cycles build trust, they can put the focus on the human spirits involved in the wicked dance, rather than on the steps that make up the tango.
For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.
My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.
Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.
She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"
"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"
She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.
If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.
*this continues on here
For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.
My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.
Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.
She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"
"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"
She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.
If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.
*this continues on here
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Water
He lifted the last glass out of the sink and held it beneath the faucet pouring forth the liquid:
Water, dancing over his hands, the glass, sliding into the drain below.
Such water does not arouse much notice for others, but he finds himself mesmerized by this fluidic force. It captures light, changes it, shifts it, makes it disappear completely. Objects submerged in water must immediately respect its movement, they must bend to its dictation.
He felt the crystal flow pushing on his hand, on the flesh and the muscles and bones beneath it, pushing them down, rolling over them, dictating. Mindless of its target. He instinctively wanted to push back against it, but the smoothness of its command and texture weakened his will to resist. He loved this sensation knowing that in the same body of water there can be gentle lulling and forceful torrent. He rubbed his fingers over the curved surface of the flute, using the water to vanquish the evidence of the night. Her lipstick upon the rim, her fingerprints around the neck, all of these remnants of their libatious cheers clinging like sediment to the glass. He pressed against the clear surface, squeaking the new and clean, closing the cycle of vanishment.
This 'clean', Man learned very early on. He learned that to remove his body of impurities, he must immerse himself in water, he must submit to its properties. Modern Man has turned his back on the purity water offered. Modern Man lathers himself in dyes and perfumes, but still, at the end of this ritual, uses H2O to remove these artificial potions from his body.
Not him, however. He exalted the sacrosanct nectar. He respected water's supremacy for he wanted it for his own. Reaching across the sink, he twisted the knobs to extinguish the flow. One does not waste such power.
He dried off the glass, placing it back in the cupboard. Exiting the kitchen, he turned into the living room, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table. With a flick, he doused the lights, tossing the handheld onto the couch. The satin glow of his fish tank wobbled like a gigantic areola, throbbing along the ceiling and across the wall. He walked down the hall, to the stairs, ascending each step one at a time, with a tap to the banister with his fingers. Stopping midway, he bent down, picking up her black silk negligee that had been discarded on the way up. He rejoined his ascent, fingering the frail material. In transit, a thought popped into his mind.
"She'll probably want this when she gets up."
He stopped, pausing for a second, and chuckled to himself while staring at the closed door at the top of the stairs.
"...if she's able to get up..."
*this continues on here
Water, dancing over his hands, the glass, sliding into the drain below.
Such water does not arouse much notice for others, but he finds himself mesmerized by this fluidic force. It captures light, changes it, shifts it, makes it disappear completely. Objects submerged in water must immediately respect its movement, they must bend to its dictation.
He felt the crystal flow pushing on his hand, on the flesh and the muscles and bones beneath it, pushing them down, rolling over them, dictating. Mindless of its target. He instinctively wanted to push back against it, but the smoothness of its command and texture weakened his will to resist. He loved this sensation knowing that in the same body of water there can be gentle lulling and forceful torrent. He rubbed his fingers over the curved surface of the flute, using the water to vanquish the evidence of the night. Her lipstick upon the rim, her fingerprints around the neck, all of these remnants of their libatious cheers clinging like sediment to the glass. He pressed against the clear surface, squeaking the new and clean, closing the cycle of vanishment.
This 'clean', Man learned very early on. He learned that to remove his body of impurities, he must immerse himself in water, he must submit to its properties. Modern Man has turned his back on the purity water offered. Modern Man lathers himself in dyes and perfumes, but still, at the end of this ritual, uses H2O to remove these artificial potions from his body.
Not him, however. He exalted the sacrosanct nectar. He respected water's supremacy for he wanted it for his own. Reaching across the sink, he twisted the knobs to extinguish the flow. One does not waste such power.
He dried off the glass, placing it back in the cupboard. Exiting the kitchen, he turned into the living room, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table. With a flick, he doused the lights, tossing the handheld onto the couch. The satin glow of his fish tank wobbled like a gigantic areola, throbbing along the ceiling and across the wall. He walked down the hall, to the stairs, ascending each step one at a time, with a tap to the banister with his fingers. Stopping midway, he bent down, picking up her black silk negligee that had been discarded on the way up. He rejoined his ascent, fingering the frail material. In transit, a thought popped into his mind.
"She'll probably want this when she gets up."
He stopped, pausing for a second, and chuckled to himself while staring at the closed door at the top of the stairs.
"...if she's able to get up..."
*this continues on here
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Request denied
Anyone who listens to the radio, watches the news on television, navigates to their counterpart websites or picks up a daily paper knows that the US economy is struggling. Faced with, for the first time, gas prices that are on average $4 a gallon (which, for our European counterparts is nothing compared to the $7+ per gallon they pay), the common American is feeling a pinch. Jobless rates are up. Inflation rose at an incredibly high rate over the past 6 months. The mortgage crisis continues to rear its menacing face throughout the country. Let us not forget to mention the weakening dollar, which exacerbates some of these issues. Clearly, Ma and Pa Yankee are grappling when it comes to their pocketbooks.
I knew things were bad, but i don't think i was aware of just how bad they are. For the past seven years, i have participated in the Regents' Internship Program with great enthusiasm. Around this time, we would've selected a candidate for the 3 month assignment, sent her off for training, and happily greeted her to her new desk and shiny new office supplies. Mid-March, i typically perform an inventory of tasks as yet incomplete or new projects that need a fresh pair of eyes. I give this list to my secretary, who in turn translates this into an assessment of our need for a set number of man hours to complete it, which then gets forwarded over to the Director of Human Resources. Based on the number we provide, a pool of candidates gets selected by their backgrounds, the focus of their college majors, and their skillsets, which are all pre-screened by my esteemed assistant.
March came and went, and a list of potential field hands never crossed my desk. I asked my secretary if she'd heard anything regarding the Regent candidates, indicating she had not, she immediately saw the larger ramifications of this. By mid-April, i became very (perhaps all told, overly) concerned when nothing such as a question regarding openings in my schedule for interviews came from upstairs. I took matters into my own hands and made a visit to the head of our HR. I asked if she'd received our laundry list of projects. She had. I asked if she had any questions about it. She didn't. Flummoxed by her nonchalance, i inquired with sharp-bladed precision whether or not we were going to be participating in the Regents' program this summer.
That was up in the air.
Two weeks ago, as if she were announcing the mundane news that a daisy in some Spanish meadow had lost a few petals, the HR Administrator casually informed me that our company would not be participating in the mentoring project.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Hardly."
"Why on earth would we not participate?"
"Have you seen the news about the economy?"
I wanted to yell out at her "What the hell does that have to do with this?" as she walked away from me, taking her dejecting attitude and painting it like a vandal all over the walls of our office. Apparently, because there are some tough financial times, we're not able to open our doors to young, underprivileged college students, offer them knowledge transfer about working in an office environment and pay them on the cheap.
Yes, i realize i am being an incorrigible brat about this. There are people out there for whom this downturn in the economy is impacting much deeper than this episode i describe. That i believe my company is using the economic turmoil as an excuse to pad poor decisions it made when it over-compensated the executive staff is honestly not the point.
I enjoy every stage of handling my interns. From interviewing the female-only group, and looking forward to their diligent allegiance to my dress code, to reviewing their typos in the inaugural memos i ask them to type. But most importantly, their presence, their raw, electric feminine life that comes and goes in such wistfully jubilant strides will be something that my summer will inherently lack. As it should be clear, i am a massive fan of the fairer sex, and spending these hot months cramped up in an office without my annual girl pageant is something i'm not quite prepared to handle.
I knew things were bad, but i don't think i was aware of just how bad they are. For the past seven years, i have participated in the Regents' Internship Program with great enthusiasm. Around this time, we would've selected a candidate for the 3 month assignment, sent her off for training, and happily greeted her to her new desk and shiny new office supplies. Mid-March, i typically perform an inventory of tasks as yet incomplete or new projects that need a fresh pair of eyes. I give this list to my secretary, who in turn translates this into an assessment of our need for a set number of man hours to complete it, which then gets forwarded over to the Director of Human Resources. Based on the number we provide, a pool of candidates gets selected by their backgrounds, the focus of their college majors, and their skillsets, which are all pre-screened by my esteemed assistant.
March came and went, and a list of potential field hands never crossed my desk. I asked my secretary if she'd heard anything regarding the Regent candidates, indicating she had not, she immediately saw the larger ramifications of this. By mid-April, i became very (perhaps all told, overly) concerned when nothing such as a question regarding openings in my schedule for interviews came from upstairs. I took matters into my own hands and made a visit to the head of our HR. I asked if she'd received our laundry list of projects. She had. I asked if she had any questions about it. She didn't. Flummoxed by her nonchalance, i inquired with sharp-bladed precision whether or not we were going to be participating in the Regents' program this summer.
That was up in the air.
Two weeks ago, as if she were announcing the mundane news that a daisy in some Spanish meadow had lost a few petals, the HR Administrator casually informed me that our company would not be participating in the mentoring project.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Hardly."
"Why on earth would we not participate?"
"Have you seen the news about the economy?"
I wanted to yell out at her "What the hell does that have to do with this?" as she walked away from me, taking her dejecting attitude and painting it like a vandal all over the walls of our office. Apparently, because there are some tough financial times, we're not able to open our doors to young, underprivileged college students, offer them knowledge transfer about working in an office environment and pay them on the cheap.
Yes, i realize i am being an incorrigible brat about this. There are people out there for whom this downturn in the economy is impacting much deeper than this episode i describe. That i believe my company is using the economic turmoil as an excuse to pad poor decisions it made when it over-compensated the executive staff is honestly not the point.
I enjoy every stage of handling my interns. From interviewing the female-only group, and looking forward to their diligent allegiance to my dress code, to reviewing their typos in the inaugural memos i ask them to type. But most importantly, their presence, their raw, electric feminine life that comes and goes in such wistfully jubilant strides will be something that my summer will inherently lack. As it should be clear, i am a massive fan of the fairer sex, and spending these hot months cramped up in an office without my annual girl pageant is something i'm not quite prepared to handle.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 3
A man and his tools.
There is a very precise and precious relationship between the two. The first few items he acquires are usually found, inherited or errantly purchased just to satisfy his immediate needs. But that does not diminish the man's connection to them. He uses them to craft, to tinker, to fix and repair. And he does this mostly in solitude - A man alone with his tools, jointly focused on the object to which they are applied. Over the years, he will acquire new additions, retiring old ones, finetuning his collection which serves as a non-vocal expression of himself.
A man rarely thinks about how he may appear to others amidst the use of his instruments. They sometimes take on the status of a secret mistress, where the man doesn't act the same way around them as he does around his friends. I myself witnessed this with a chum of mine i'd known for over a decade. One day, he invited me to his woodshop for the first time, to work on a project of my own design. When he first greeted me, he looked the same as he always had, but once set in front of the racks of tools hanging from his shop's walls, his appearance changed. He took on more the likeness of a little boy, with a gleam in his eye, as he greeted the numerous implements in his collection and contemplated their potential to create an object out of raw, uncut materials. He had no idea he'd come off differently, but he later offered that it was strange, almost difficult sharing that experience with me. He wasn't prepared for the vulnerability he felt inviting someone into his shed to view his intimate connection with his utensils.
Our last installment on the evening between me, my girl, K and his had us just at the beginning of our use of a newly ordered supply of jute rope. It wasn't until i was walking back to the living room with the rope-filled bag that i realized i felt odd, perhaps a little bare. Hundreds of times, i'd grabbed this satchel, digging in it for the precise equipment i required. In many ways, this sack represented a physical manifestation of my imagination, the ladder to the next level in my imaginary world. Once i stepped into the warm light of the den that cast on my girl and our guests, i would be exposing a very delicate entrance to my internals.
I undid the latch, and began to disembowel the case of its ropey entrails. Bundle after bundle of khaki coils piled up on the coffee table, wafting a sweet and rich aroma of seaweed and leather into the air. I called my girl to me, and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. Her proximity brought me comfort. I kissed her on the lips, then instructed her to disrobe. I didn't pay close attention to the other couple, but in my periphery, i could see a tender exchange of caresses and movements that eventually had K's girl in the same naked state as mine. I looked to K for his lead for what should take place next. I've bound my girl dozens of times, even leaving her tied for hours with confidence that my self-educated rope skills would satisfy the purpose. That night's activity, however, would require a level of acumen i didn't possess, and for that reason, K served (nobly, patiently and graciously) as my guide.
He grabbed a 7 meter coil and with it methodically bound the hands of his girl behind her back, starting what would become a basic but sturdy torso harness. I mimicked each tug and turn of the malleable jute, arranging my girl's limbs to resemble her counterpart's. I loved the friction of the rope's fibers across my flesh, leaving a slight trail of burn between my fingers and thumb. The detail-obsessed demon inside me found ample opportunity to commandeer the rigging, as it took meticulous care to make sure the rope lay beautifully across her skin, both lining it up and coiling it in a perfectly eye-pleasing way. In very short time, we had both girl's arms immobilized, as well as their naked tits bound tightly by the interweave of sea foam-colored rope.
At this point, K excused he and i from the bound bottoms in order to go examine the pull-up bar as well as provide a little more tutorial. The apex of the evening as we had planned it would culminate in my girl's inaugural suspension. Nervous but confident in my tutor, i reworked his oral instruction over and over in my head standing beneath the rigid rail that extended between the door frame of my study. When we returned, the strangest but loveliest of spectacles met our eyes. As we left them, constricted, topless and armless, the girls had found seats and taken up a conversation they'd started some hours before as if the configuration of their limbs were normal and warranted. This touched me for some reason. I believe it spoke to the level of comfort established by us all in that atmosphere, but also the pure peace each girl sank into when bound as such.
K led his bottom into my study and quickly anchored another length of rope to the back of the rigid harness trussed around her frame. Every inch of movement or action he took, he dictated to me the methods he employed, ensuring i understood why the rope was attached at that exact location or how to protect the submissive from being whipped in the face by the rapidly yanked lariat. In what seemed like an instant, he was ready to hoist his girl into the air. She'd mentally retracted inside of herself (or it could be seen as opening herself to everything and anything), that when he tugged on the lever that he'd created, lifting her from the ground, she responded as if that was the natural location her body was to occupy for the next few moments of time. He asked me if i caught all of that. I had not. He asked again, firmly, but patiently. Again, i indicated that some of it had been lost on me. With exquisite confidence, he then lowered her and raised her several times, until my mind captured the mechanics of the winch, allowing me to transfer the instructions to my hands that held tightly to my excited but uncertain girl.
K finally let his girl hang for a few minutes with her legs wiggling beneath her, giving her the pleasure of suspension, before he released her. Rather than immediately attend to me, as i awaited to repeat this effect with my girl, he ministered to his roped submissive, quickly checking to see if she was in order before proceeding. As he did this, i continued to replay in my head the step-by-step instructions he gave me, trying to implant my girl into the pictographic illustrations. When it came time to perform, i felt a sensation of calm firmly in my grip.
Without much intercedence, K observed as i used the rope to craft a halyard to my girl's harness. I stopped a few times to allow him to inspect, but otherwise, i could sense a momentum building in my hands. I squatted a little as i held the tackled rope, and placed my shoulder into the cavity of my girl's chest. I spoke quietly to her.
"Ready?"
She breathlessly indicated her affirmative, and i pulled, simultaneously lifting her with the rope while supporting her with my body. Once i was certain the suspension would hold, that the principles of Archimedes would indeed do all of the work, i held firmly to the working end of the line, and stepped out from underneath my hovering girl, leaving her hanging completely freely for the very first time in her life.
I was amazed at how little strain there was in the length of jute i held in my hand, yet the arrangement i crafted from the instructions i received looked suspiciously too simple. My darling submissive dangled in mid-air, completely unable to free herself from this predicament. Her skin sung a song of rosy awareness, while her cunt moistened her twin, exposed petals. I swung the girl-sack that hovered above me back and forth, snickering to myself at how vulnerable this item was in this position. A few minutes passed when, finally, i could detect a change in the composure of her physiognomy. It was time to come down.
As my nose picked up the effluvium of the not yet consumed, hearty soup drenching the air from the kitchen, i recognized that our evening was drawing to a close. I could sense how hungry my girl had become, and i accepted the fact that her time off the ground had ended. I knew she was done, there was not much more that i could purchase from her body. It was time to feed her and our guests the meal i'd been preparing all day. After all, i'd kept her in suspense quite long enough.
There is a very precise and precious relationship between the two. The first few items he acquires are usually found, inherited or errantly purchased just to satisfy his immediate needs. But that does not diminish the man's connection to them. He uses them to craft, to tinker, to fix and repair. And he does this mostly in solitude - A man alone with his tools, jointly focused on the object to which they are applied. Over the years, he will acquire new additions, retiring old ones, finetuning his collection which serves as a non-vocal expression of himself.
A man rarely thinks about how he may appear to others amidst the use of his instruments. They sometimes take on the status of a secret mistress, where the man doesn't act the same way around them as he does around his friends. I myself witnessed this with a chum of mine i'd known for over a decade. One day, he invited me to his woodshop for the first time, to work on a project of my own design. When he first greeted me, he looked the same as he always had, but once set in front of the racks of tools hanging from his shop's walls, his appearance changed. He took on more the likeness of a little boy, with a gleam in his eye, as he greeted the numerous implements in his collection and contemplated their potential to create an object out of raw, uncut materials. He had no idea he'd come off differently, but he later offered that it was strange, almost difficult sharing that experience with me. He wasn't prepared for the vulnerability he felt inviting someone into his shed to view his intimate connection with his utensils.
Our last installment on the evening between me, my girl, K and his had us just at the beginning of our use of a newly ordered supply of jute rope. It wasn't until i was walking back to the living room with the rope-filled bag that i realized i felt odd, perhaps a little bare. Hundreds of times, i'd grabbed this satchel, digging in it for the precise equipment i required. In many ways, this sack represented a physical manifestation of my imagination, the ladder to the next level in my imaginary world. Once i stepped into the warm light of the den that cast on my girl and our guests, i would be exposing a very delicate entrance to my internals.
I undid the latch, and began to disembowel the case of its ropey entrails. Bundle after bundle of khaki coils piled up on the coffee table, wafting a sweet and rich aroma of seaweed and leather into the air. I called my girl to me, and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. Her proximity brought me comfort. I kissed her on the lips, then instructed her to disrobe. I didn't pay close attention to the other couple, but in my periphery, i could see a tender exchange of caresses and movements that eventually had K's girl in the same naked state as mine. I looked to K for his lead for what should take place next. I've bound my girl dozens of times, even leaving her tied for hours with confidence that my self-educated rope skills would satisfy the purpose. That night's activity, however, would require a level of acumen i didn't possess, and for that reason, K served (nobly, patiently and graciously) as my guide.
He grabbed a 7 meter coil and with it methodically bound the hands of his girl behind her back, starting what would become a basic but sturdy torso harness. I mimicked each tug and turn of the malleable jute, arranging my girl's limbs to resemble her counterpart's. I loved the friction of the rope's fibers across my flesh, leaving a slight trail of burn between my fingers and thumb. The detail-obsessed demon inside me found ample opportunity to commandeer the rigging, as it took meticulous care to make sure the rope lay beautifully across her skin, both lining it up and coiling it in a perfectly eye-pleasing way. In very short time, we had both girl's arms immobilized, as well as their naked tits bound tightly by the interweave of sea foam-colored rope.
At this point, K excused he and i from the bound bottoms in order to go examine the pull-up bar as well as provide a little more tutorial. The apex of the evening as we had planned it would culminate in my girl's inaugural suspension. Nervous but confident in my tutor, i reworked his oral instruction over and over in my head standing beneath the rigid rail that extended between the door frame of my study. When we returned, the strangest but loveliest of spectacles met our eyes. As we left them, constricted, topless and armless, the girls had found seats and taken up a conversation they'd started some hours before as if the configuration of their limbs were normal and warranted. This touched me for some reason. I believe it spoke to the level of comfort established by us all in that atmosphere, but also the pure peace each girl sank into when bound as such.
K led his bottom into my study and quickly anchored another length of rope to the back of the rigid harness trussed around her frame. Every inch of movement or action he took, he dictated to me the methods he employed, ensuring i understood why the rope was attached at that exact location or how to protect the submissive from being whipped in the face by the rapidly yanked lariat. In what seemed like an instant, he was ready to hoist his girl into the air. She'd mentally retracted inside of herself (or it could be seen as opening herself to everything and anything), that when he tugged on the lever that he'd created, lifting her from the ground, she responded as if that was the natural location her body was to occupy for the next few moments of time. He asked me if i caught all of that. I had not. He asked again, firmly, but patiently. Again, i indicated that some of it had been lost on me. With exquisite confidence, he then lowered her and raised her several times, until my mind captured the mechanics of the winch, allowing me to transfer the instructions to my hands that held tightly to my excited but uncertain girl.
K finally let his girl hang for a few minutes with her legs wiggling beneath her, giving her the pleasure of suspension, before he released her. Rather than immediately attend to me, as i awaited to repeat this effect with my girl, he ministered to his roped submissive, quickly checking to see if she was in order before proceeding. As he did this, i continued to replay in my head the step-by-step instructions he gave me, trying to implant my girl into the pictographic illustrations. When it came time to perform, i felt a sensation of calm firmly in my grip.
Without much intercedence, K observed as i used the rope to craft a halyard to my girl's harness. I stopped a few times to allow him to inspect, but otherwise, i could sense a momentum building in my hands. I squatted a little as i held the tackled rope, and placed my shoulder into the cavity of my girl's chest. I spoke quietly to her.
"Ready?"
She breathlessly indicated her affirmative, and i pulled, simultaneously lifting her with the rope while supporting her with my body. Once i was certain the suspension would hold, that the principles of Archimedes would indeed do all of the work, i held firmly to the working end of the line, and stepped out from underneath my hovering girl, leaving her hanging completely freely for the very first time in her life.
I was amazed at how little strain there was in the length of jute i held in my hand, yet the arrangement i crafted from the instructions i received looked suspiciously too simple. My darling submissive dangled in mid-air, completely unable to free herself from this predicament. Her skin sung a song of rosy awareness, while her cunt moistened her twin, exposed petals. I swung the girl-sack that hovered above me back and forth, snickering to myself at how vulnerable this item was in this position. A few minutes passed when, finally, i could detect a change in the composure of her physiognomy. It was time to come down.
As my nose picked up the effluvium of the not yet consumed, hearty soup drenching the air from the kitchen, i recognized that our evening was drawing to a close. I could sense how hungry my girl had become, and i accepted the fact that her time off the ground had ended. I knew she was done, there was not much more that i could purchase from her body. It was time to feed her and our guests the meal i'd been preparing all day. After all, i'd kept her in suspense quite long enough.
Friday, April 18, 2008
still more Demands
Good morning, darling.
I leave this note for you with the understanding that you have a long day of meeting after meeting ahead of you. When i came to kiss you goodbye before i left for work, you looked so peaceful and innocent that i didn't want to disturb you.
That being said, there are some things that need immediate attention. During the last several anal inspections, evidence of negligence in your cleaning have been found. That leaves me to only assume that you've allowed yourself to become lazy and less introspective about this very important part of your body. As i've said many times, your ass is to be clean and presentable at all times.
The lapses force me to take drastic corrective steps.
You will find on the bathroom sink your longterm buttplug, and a bottle of mild baby shampoo. I'd like you to go about your regular regiment of getting ready, and then, right before you leave, go to the freezer. Take a tray of ice cubes with you into the bathroom.
Once there, i want you to forgoe the usual water-based lube you apply to your plug, and instead liberally coat the implement with the shampoo. I then want you to take an ice cube in your hand, letting the heat from your palm create a nice liquidy layer. Slip this ice cube up inside of your ass. Repeat this with three more ice cubes. Quickly follow this with the plug, pushing the wide bulge past your anal rings, making sure it sits in your rectum nice and tight.
You are not to remove the plug until you come home later tonight, no matter how uncomfortable the shampoo reacting with your insides get.
My hope is that you learn to take better care of the areas i have tasked you with grooming.
*this continues on here
I leave this note for you with the understanding that you have a long day of meeting after meeting ahead of you. When i came to kiss you goodbye before i left for work, you looked so peaceful and innocent that i didn't want to disturb you.
That being said, there are some things that need immediate attention. During the last several anal inspections, evidence of negligence in your cleaning have been found. That leaves me to only assume that you've allowed yourself to become lazy and less introspective about this very important part of your body. As i've said many times, your ass is to be clean and presentable at all times.
The lapses force me to take drastic corrective steps.
You will find on the bathroom sink your longterm buttplug, and a bottle of mild baby shampoo. I'd like you to go about your regular regiment of getting ready, and then, right before you leave, go to the freezer. Take a tray of ice cubes with you into the bathroom.
Once there, i want you to forgoe the usual water-based lube you apply to your plug, and instead liberally coat the implement with the shampoo. I then want you to take an ice cube in your hand, letting the heat from your palm create a nice liquidy layer. Slip this ice cube up inside of your ass. Repeat this with three more ice cubes. Quickly follow this with the plug, pushing the wide bulge past your anal rings, making sure it sits in your rectum nice and tight.
You are not to remove the plug until you come home later tonight, no matter how uncomfortable the shampoo reacting with your insides get.
My hope is that you learn to take better care of the areas i have tasked you with grooming.
*this continues on here
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Cut to the chaste
- You place the sealed envelope on the open lid of the blue postal box. You give it one last look, sigh, then let it slide into the belly of the container, certain it will take at least 3 days before i receive the keys in my mail.
- You pull the belt up your legs, situating it at your hips. The coldness of the steel pussy plate and chain that runs along the crevice of your ass causes you to suck in your breath. You adjust the latch in front, making sure the waistband is pulled snug, but not too tight for longterm wear. From the box, you pick up the 2" brass padlocks, sliding one in the latch on the front, and one in the rear. Clasping onto each lock with your hands, you click them closed. You go back to your bed, take out the manila envelope i provided and write my address on the front. You gather the keys, and drop them in, sealing it closed with clear packing tape.
- You carefully, meticulously lubricate your front passage. Sliding several lube-covered fingers in your radiating cunt, you ensure that this canal is adequately prepared. Checking one last time, you examine the small metallic dildo found, carefully wrapped, in the bottom of the package, ensuring the extended-release batteries are situated correctly. You turn the device on, feeling it buzz with animation in your hands. It goes silent, which for a moment causes you to panic, but then you remember its programmed sequence. It won't awake again for another 15 minutes, turning on for 3 minutes, and then hibernating, repeating this cycle until the power in the batteries expires. You slowly, deliberately slowly, slide it past your slick cunt lips, pushing it entirely inside your wet gash. You next grab the leather and metal chastity belt, admiring the weight of the device, anticipating the heavy presence it will render upon your body.
- You walk into the vestibule of your apartment, spying the medium-sized box placed at the foot of your door. You lean down to view the sender's information and immediately gasp when you recognize who it is from. Picking up the box produces a clattering of metal from inside. You fiddle with your keys, opening your door, and immediately walk to your bedroom, leaving the unopened box on your bed. You go to your nightstand and pull out a tube of lubricant and lay it next to the parcel. You try to fill the time that you can feel is rapidly shrinking between now and when you open the package. You take off your heels, remove your skirt, slide off your stockings. You thumb through the stack of regular mail. Bills. Bills. Solicitations. Bills. Distractions. Your mind does not think of these daily interruptions. Rather, it hones in on the ever growing in-your-mind collection of shipped materials waiting for you in your boudoir. Resigned, you take the letter opener from the drawer and take what seems to be a longer than usual walk to the back of your apartment. You quickly dismantle the taped seams, and carefully open the cardboard contraption. My handwritten letter greets your eyes:
"My dear,
We both knew this day would come. You'd expressed a desire for more. More control, more domination. Yet, you exhibited very little ability to accept what amount i could provide due to our distance. Despite the lack of commitment needed to maintain a healthy, strong and meaningful power exchange, i believe the items in this box will act as a catalyst to a much greater fellowship.
You have many choices. You have exhibited a willingness to keep that quantity as large as possible. I've reduced it down to two. Either, submit or not.
The material found within will facilitate your passage into the liberating servitude you've soberly spoken to me about. Choose quickly and resolutely.
I'll await the envelope with the keys inside, signaling your selection."
- You pull the belt up your legs, situating it at your hips. The coldness of the steel pussy plate and chain that runs along the crevice of your ass causes you to suck in your breath. You adjust the latch in front, making sure the waistband is pulled snug, but not too tight for longterm wear. From the box, you pick up the 2" brass padlocks, sliding one in the latch on the front, and one in the rear. Clasping onto each lock with your hands, you click them closed. You go back to your bed, take out the manila envelope i provided and write my address on the front. You gather the keys, and drop them in, sealing it closed with clear packing tape.
- You carefully, meticulously lubricate your front passage. Sliding several lube-covered fingers in your radiating cunt, you ensure that this canal is adequately prepared. Checking one last time, you examine the small metallic dildo found, carefully wrapped, in the bottom of the package, ensuring the extended-release batteries are situated correctly. You turn the device on, feeling it buzz with animation in your hands. It goes silent, which for a moment causes you to panic, but then you remember its programmed sequence. It won't awake again for another 15 minutes, turning on for 3 minutes, and then hibernating, repeating this cycle until the power in the batteries expires. You slowly, deliberately slowly, slide it past your slick cunt lips, pushing it entirely inside your wet gash. You next grab the leather and metal chastity belt, admiring the weight of the device, anticipating the heavy presence it will render upon your body.
- You walk into the vestibule of your apartment, spying the medium-sized box placed at the foot of your door. You lean down to view the sender's information and immediately gasp when you recognize who it is from. Picking up the box produces a clattering of metal from inside. You fiddle with your keys, opening your door, and immediately walk to your bedroom, leaving the unopened box on your bed. You go to your nightstand and pull out a tube of lubricant and lay it next to the parcel. You try to fill the time that you can feel is rapidly shrinking between now and when you open the package. You take off your heels, remove your skirt, slide off your stockings. You thumb through the stack of regular mail. Bills. Bills. Solicitations. Bills. Distractions. Your mind does not think of these daily interruptions. Rather, it hones in on the ever growing in-your-mind collection of shipped materials waiting for you in your boudoir. Resigned, you take the letter opener from the drawer and take what seems to be a longer than usual walk to the back of your apartment. You quickly dismantle the taped seams, and carefully open the cardboard contraption. My handwritten letter greets your eyes:
"My dear,
We both knew this day would come. You'd expressed a desire for more. More control, more domination. Yet, you exhibited very little ability to accept what amount i could provide due to our distance. Despite the lack of commitment needed to maintain a healthy, strong and meaningful power exchange, i believe the items in this box will act as a catalyst to a much greater fellowship.
You have many choices. You have exhibited a willingness to keep that quantity as large as possible. I've reduced it down to two. Either, submit or not.
The material found within will facilitate your passage into the liberating servitude you've soberly spoken to me about. Choose quickly and resolutely.
I'll await the envelope with the keys inside, signaling your selection."
Thursday, April 3, 2008
more Demands
It is very evident that you require a strict, regimented structure to keep you organized, otherwise you have a tendency to forget important tasks, let requests slip, or do things incorrectly.
I want you to begin keeping lists. I want you to keep track of objects i say you need to have on hand that are easily obtainable at your grocer, hardware store or art supplies dealer. You will put this on a 3'x5', unlined notecard. You are to make the list as neat as possible, using your best penmanship, each letter finely crafted, each line perfectly straight and evened out. You are not to make any spelling errors or miscues - even a single errant pen mark or drop of ink will require you to start all over from scratch.
When this list reaches 25 items, i want you to set aside a day where you will go and fetch every single one of them.
When that day arrives, before you dress, i want you to place the following items on your bed:
- one pair of foam ear plugs
- large black butt plug
- ankle cuffs, with 1' chain
- full length, black leather, over-the-mouth neck corset
- locking steel elbow cuffs, with 1' chain
- two miniature brass bells with clasp
You are to wear (and only) the following:
- thigh-high, back-seamed stockings
- white 12-suspender lace garter belt
- 4" black leather oxford heels
- floor-length blue worsted wool skirt
- powder blue turtle neck sweater
- elbow-length black cotton gloves
- long forest-green knitted poncho
- long creme-colored scarf
- tan wool beret
Before a stitch of clothing touches your skin, i want you to place the earplugs into each ear. I want you to notice the silence you are entering. It will not cut off all sounds, but you will be removed from normal interactions. Then liberally lube your asshole, the butt plug, and slide it inside. You should apply enough lube to ensure that, while snug, the plug can squeeze out of your anal passage. This will force you to clench your cheeks the entirety of your task. Pull the stockings on, one foot at a time, making sure that the seam is straight and orderly on the back of each leg. Next, lace up your heels, tightening the laces more than you usually would.
I want you to lock the ankle cuffs on, securing the 1' chain between them. Pull on your skirt, and then your turtleneck sweater. Slide your hands inside the elbow-length gloves. Position the neck corset so that it sits just beneath your nose, covering your mouth completely, then lace it shut. Pull the neck of the sweater as high as you can.
At this point, you are to lock the elbow cuffs on, again making sure to secure their 1' chain. Over your head, pull on your poncho. I want you to then attach a bell in the midpoint of each chain. Wrap your scarf around your neck, fully concealing the neck corset. Place the beret on your head, making sure it covers your ears.
You are required to keep all chains, bells, cuffs, corsets, earplugs completely concealed.
It is obvious, you are not to speak to anyone. If anyone asks you a question, politely wave them off.
I want each item purchased, precisely as i have described them. If there is any failure to comply with this task exactly as detailed here, there will be an appropriate correction upon your return.
*this continues on here
I want you to begin keeping lists. I want you to keep track of objects i say you need to have on hand that are easily obtainable at your grocer, hardware store or art supplies dealer. You will put this on a 3'x5', unlined notecard. You are to make the list as neat as possible, using your best penmanship, each letter finely crafted, each line perfectly straight and evened out. You are not to make any spelling errors or miscues - even a single errant pen mark or drop of ink will require you to start all over from scratch.
When this list reaches 25 items, i want you to set aside a day where you will go and fetch every single one of them.
When that day arrives, before you dress, i want you to place the following items on your bed:
- one pair of foam ear plugs
- large black butt plug
- ankle cuffs, with 1' chain
- full length, black leather, over-the-mouth neck corset
- locking steel elbow cuffs, with 1' chain
- two miniature brass bells with clasp
You are to wear (and only) the following:
- thigh-high, back-seamed stockings
- white 12-suspender lace garter belt
- 4" black leather oxford heels
- floor-length blue worsted wool skirt
- powder blue turtle neck sweater
- elbow-length black cotton gloves
- long forest-green knitted poncho
- long creme-colored scarf
- tan wool beret
Before a stitch of clothing touches your skin, i want you to place the earplugs into each ear. I want you to notice the silence you are entering. It will not cut off all sounds, but you will be removed from normal interactions. Then liberally lube your asshole, the butt plug, and slide it inside. You should apply enough lube to ensure that, while snug, the plug can squeeze out of your anal passage. This will force you to clench your cheeks the entirety of your task. Pull the stockings on, one foot at a time, making sure that the seam is straight and orderly on the back of each leg. Next, lace up your heels, tightening the laces more than you usually would.
I want you to lock the ankle cuffs on, securing the 1' chain between them. Pull on your skirt, and then your turtleneck sweater. Slide your hands inside the elbow-length gloves. Position the neck corset so that it sits just beneath your nose, covering your mouth completely, then lace it shut. Pull the neck of the sweater as high as you can.
At this point, you are to lock the elbow cuffs on, again making sure to secure their 1' chain. Over your head, pull on your poncho. I want you to then attach a bell in the midpoint of each chain. Wrap your scarf around your neck, fully concealing the neck corset. Place the beret on your head, making sure it covers your ears.
You are required to keep all chains, bells, cuffs, corsets, earplugs completely concealed.
It is obvious, you are not to speak to anyone. If anyone asks you a question, politely wave them off.
I want each item purchased, precisely as i have described them. If there is any failure to comply with this task exactly as detailed here, there will be an appropriate correction upon your return.
*this continues on here
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Demands
When you go home, i want you to, at the exact instant you close the door behind you, drop everything in your possession right there on the floor in the hallway. Your purse, your jacket, your skirt, everything. I want you to stand naked, shivering in the comfort of your own home.
I want you to then move to your bedroom, pull out the tray of implements you keep stored beneath your bed. I want you to slide your feet into the 5" black, patent leather platforms. Pay close attention to the tinny echo of your heels knocking against the hard floor, as you thread a 6 meter length of rope through the side of the bedframe. Pull this rope to the opposite side, leaving a "v" of rope opening towards you.
Then, extend the adjustable spreader bar to the widest length, wrap each cuff around the corresponding ankle, and lock them shut with the small brass padlocks. I want your mind to envision the keys to these locks as they are, suspended in blocks of ice in your freezer.
Position yourself against the mattress, so that your naked backside points outward and upward. Grab the bottle of lube from the tray. I want you to squeeze a liberal amount of slick liquid into your palm. With the other palm, i want you to rub your hand in between your throbbing slit, feeling the increasing moistness. Smear this all over your cunt, in between your legs, along your thighs and against your asshole. Take the hand with the lube, and mix this with your pussy juice, preparing the whole area to be used. Shove one finger at a time into your puckering anal passage, filling that chute with as much moisture as possible.
When you feel that your genitals are well-prepared - to the level you know i would be satisfied - i want you to take ahold of a branch of the extended rope in each hand. Lay the top half of your torso on the bed, making sure to stretch it across the mattress and lift and point your ass up in the air, muscles tensed and firm. Twist the rope around your wrist, manipulating it as i've shown you, binding each of your hands in self-locking knots.
I want you to wait like this. Wait, and think of why you're in this position. Think of what use you serve, what your body serves, splayed like this.
And then, i want you not to make a single sound when you hear me enter.
*this continues on here
I want you to then move to your bedroom, pull out the tray of implements you keep stored beneath your bed. I want you to slide your feet into the 5" black, patent leather platforms. Pay close attention to the tinny echo of your heels knocking against the hard floor, as you thread a 6 meter length of rope through the side of the bedframe. Pull this rope to the opposite side, leaving a "v" of rope opening towards you.
Then, extend the adjustable spreader bar to the widest length, wrap each cuff around the corresponding ankle, and lock them shut with the small brass padlocks. I want your mind to envision the keys to these locks as they are, suspended in blocks of ice in your freezer.
Position yourself against the mattress, so that your naked backside points outward and upward. Grab the bottle of lube from the tray. I want you to squeeze a liberal amount of slick liquid into your palm. With the other palm, i want you to rub your hand in between your throbbing slit, feeling the increasing moistness. Smear this all over your cunt, in between your legs, along your thighs and against your asshole. Take the hand with the lube, and mix this with your pussy juice, preparing the whole area to be used. Shove one finger at a time into your puckering anal passage, filling that chute with as much moisture as possible.
When you feel that your genitals are well-prepared - to the level you know i would be satisfied - i want you to take ahold of a branch of the extended rope in each hand. Lay the top half of your torso on the bed, making sure to stretch it across the mattress and lift and point your ass up in the air, muscles tensed and firm. Twist the rope around your wrist, manipulating it as i've shown you, binding each of your hands in self-locking knots.
I want you to wait like this. Wait, and think of why you're in this position. Think of what use you serve, what your body serves, splayed like this.
And then, i want you not to make a single sound when you hear me enter.
*this continues on here
Sunday, March 16, 2008
I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 2
When we last visited this subject, me and my dominant friend had established a date, location and agenda for an evening of four-headed playtime. The week leading up to the impending evening, i asked my girl every morning if she was excited, and every morning i heard the same response:
"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."
You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:
"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."
I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.
I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.
K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.
He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:
"No, i have no idea. None."
I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.
Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.
I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.
With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.
*this continues on here
"Well, yes, i'm just uncertain what to expect."
You see, i'd done two things in informing her of her role for the evening. The first being i'd kept her in complete darkness about the details or even the genre of our foursome. The second being i'd purposely misled her by dropping hints and non-sequiturs about my fixation on immobilized barmaids, and how i'd love to have a party with her put in that speechless role. I recognize that even to the most dedicated exhibitionist (which is a category my girl reluctantly would find herself placed), serving a party of friends and acquaintances as an armless, walking drink cart would cause some anxiety due to the pure, emphatic nature of the objectification. This is why i fully expected and anticipated the nerves my girl exhibited in the days prior our encounter with K and his girl. After all, some of those were my creation, so i shouldn't be shocked if my attempt to psych her out actually proved fruitful.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, i'd arranged to have six lengths of 6mm jute rope at 7 meters long, and six lengths of 6 mm at 8 meters long hand made, treated and delivered in time for our rendez-vous. K had set me up with a rope supplier he often used in a pinch (K himself likes to select and treat his own rope. A process i myself have dabbled in, but have found that i don't have the time to give it the necessary attention) who was located in the Netherlands. I put in my order, and when i told the polite Dutch gentleman that i was a friend of K's, he responded:
"K knows and can tie a woman very well. I hope you'll learn a lot from him."
I knew i was walking into uncharted territory, but being reminded by others of K's reputation in the rope world (yes, i can say world at this point), it put me at a little unease. I won't say the word "intimidation", but i will say i was stepping a little out of my comfort zone (to which K would say "why on earth would you do anything that didn't have you stepping out of your comfort zone?"). I'm responsible for my girl, especially when i bring her into a situation of my own design, where she has zero input, which means i take on the responsibility of her emotional reaction and her ability to cooperate in my hands. I didn't want to let the already nervous darling down.
I had proposed that we begin the evening with a meal at our place, with K and his girl arriving right at the point where it would be just about ready to serve. I am, without any need to downplay my skills, a very good cook, and one of my specialties is a hearty and scrumptious ribollita. Yes, my dear readers, the quickest way to facilitate an evening of kinky SM play is to prepare a meal that jump starts the sensual appetites of the participants. The aromas of the stewing vegetables and spices filled the apartment with a swampy greeting of welcome.
K and his girl arrived separately, K arriving first. I gave him a hug upon entrance to our place, and asked him to look the place over and tell me which room he felt worked best for our proposed activities. Within a few short minutes into his survey, he came across my recently acquired chin-up bar. I'd bought the contraption, satisfying a long-held desire to own a personal pull-up bar for me to use whenever i wanted. But as is the issue with most things i purchase, i evaluated the product on its ability to also service my SM agenda. K had clearly honed in on this when he encountered the bar, as i did when i noticed it was capable of holding 300 lbs.
He made his way to the kitchen, where my girl was putting out dishes for our meal. The air, full of the delicious scent of our upcoming repast, was also heavy with an awkwardness of three different human energies trying to find ways to immediately intermingle. I recognized the uncertainty of my girl's stance, and chose to break the tension by showing my hand. I asked her if she had any idea (one last time) of what was to happen in the evening:
"No, i have no idea. None."
I told her that several feet of brand new rope had been purchased, and K and i were going to bind each of the girls individually, and then try something that she'd been wanting to do for a very, very long time. I wish i'd had a camera ready to capture my girl's facial expression upon hearing what her intended use was going to be. The evening's objective had actually been a longstanding desire of hers, and even this normally cool and collected gal couldn't contain her glee.
Shortly after this, K's girl arrived, and we all retired to our living room. We chatted about politics, current events, our respective careers and our general happiness or disenchantment with them. After about 20 minutes, K and i looked at each other and we both nodded, which indicated that we felt that we had secured a level of comfort - we had collectively sloughed off our exteriors that permitted us to operate as semi-normal members of society and were ready to play.
I won't speak for anyone else, but for myself, i could sense an alignment of our individual breathing patterns. What came in as syncopated, self-centered and unconnected breaths from each of us, soon picked up on cues from those around us in the room, and slowly synchronized to the point where each of us respired at nearly the same interval.
With a head full of what was to come next, and a chest full of symbiosis, i got up from my chair and walked to the bedroom. I fetched the bag of newly acquired rope, and made my return back to the living room. I paused my reunion with the others for just a moment, stopping in the hallway, once more, meticulously perhaps, examining the pull-up bar one last time.
*this continues on here
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I like to keep her in suspense, pt. 1
I couldn't tell who was more enthusiastic about the potential: him or i. Our encounters, whether in person, over e-mail or instant message almost always landed on the planning of the evening of our quartet. I mentioned earlier here how K and i had been brainstorming on the possibility of taking our casual (if not very passionately pedestrian) conversations between the two of us (and sometimes those that included our partners) to a more interactive level. Me being the greedy, often horizon-before-the-foreground sort of person proposed an outrageous scenario wherein my girl would be the central focus of a great deal of erotic energy. K initially went along with it, but as time went on, he articulated reservations about it that i myself had not had the stomach (aka humility) to confess.
I still remember his course-changing offer. It seemed so simple yet so outlandishly exciting. In fact, the very subject of the evening was something i could never have hoped for him to present. I had aspirations that perhaps a dozen or more foursomes down the line he might present this activity as a possibility. The reasons for my reticence was because K is known not on a community-wide level for his expertise in this field of bondage, nor on a national level, but on an international scale. He has taught classes on the subject to audiences around the country. He has contributed his services to both breathtaking, commissioned works of arts and spiritual, holistic healing sessions. His talents in this avocation have exposed him to the elite of the elites within the fetish world. I literally held no water to him in comparison.
Nonetheless, i leapt at the opportunity. In doing so, i unknowingly left behind a great deal of issues i would eventually need to address. When the time came, i realized that i had uncertainty surrounding whether the chemistry of my power dynamic would mingle with that of another's, despite the levels to which i prided my ability to control myself and my girl. This is analogous to being confident in one's ability's to sing in the shower and not knowing if that confidence would travel to the "Gong Show" once you made your appearance there.
Another thorn i discovered in my jumpsuit once i landed from the thrill of the impending evening emerged in a rather provocative form. I do not like to share my girl, nor does she like to be shared. Granted, we have played on a large(r) stage, in front of multiple others (read: complete strangers) and amassed great thrills at these displays. But couple-a-couple, we had not yet attempted.
I wrestled with these existential questions in an atypical fashion. In large part, when faced with issues of great emotional contention, i come to my girl. However, in this case, i couldn't do so. It had been my decision from the very beginning of the negotiations with K:
my girl would be kept completely in the dark
It didn't make logical sense to go to her with the meat of my vulnerability but withhold the "bone" to which it clung. Anytime she asked (which was seldom because she knew she would not get satisfaction to her inquiries) about the logistics of the upcoming evening, her questions were met by a firm but playful "you aren't serious..." stare.
With enough to occupy my mental faculties, i satiated my need to organize the approaching scene. Relying heavily on K's guidance, i set myself to acquiring the necessary equipment. His expertise served as a (most likely too often-indulged) shopping spree of knowledge. Frequently, he would ask me questions about my specific wishes for each stage of the evening, and habitually, i would lean on his expertise for the answer. Quite frankly, it was like wandering into a rock concert without an instrument case and the drummer asking you how much tom-tom you felt the ampitheatre needed. "Are you serious? Oh, wait...you are. WOW."
The small but not insignificant details worked themselves out. Soon we had a date (is it really possible to coordinate four incredibly busy metropolitan schedules?) and a location (my place or somewhere else? does anyone have an animal allergy or an aversion to keeping their noise to a civil volume?). All that remained was to let years of fantasy and serious mental focus to take control of the evening, and all would be fine.
...right?
*this continues on here
I still remember his course-changing offer. It seemed so simple yet so outlandishly exciting. In fact, the very subject of the evening was something i could never have hoped for him to present. I had aspirations that perhaps a dozen or more foursomes down the line he might present this activity as a possibility. The reasons for my reticence was because K is known not on a community-wide level for his expertise in this field of bondage, nor on a national level, but on an international scale. He has taught classes on the subject to audiences around the country. He has contributed his services to both breathtaking, commissioned works of arts and spiritual, holistic healing sessions. His talents in this avocation have exposed him to the elite of the elites within the fetish world. I literally held no water to him in comparison.
Nonetheless, i leapt at the opportunity. In doing so, i unknowingly left behind a great deal of issues i would eventually need to address. When the time came, i realized that i had uncertainty surrounding whether the chemistry of my power dynamic would mingle with that of another's, despite the levels to which i prided my ability to control myself and my girl. This is analogous to being confident in one's ability's to sing in the shower and not knowing if that confidence would travel to the "Gong Show" once you made your appearance there.
Another thorn i discovered in my jumpsuit once i landed from the thrill of the impending evening emerged in a rather provocative form. I do not like to share my girl, nor does she like to be shared. Granted, we have played on a large(r) stage, in front of multiple others (read: complete strangers) and amassed great thrills at these displays. But couple-a-couple, we had not yet attempted.
I wrestled with these existential questions in an atypical fashion. In large part, when faced with issues of great emotional contention, i come to my girl. However, in this case, i couldn't do so. It had been my decision from the very beginning of the negotiations with K:
my girl would be kept completely in the dark
It didn't make logical sense to go to her with the meat of my vulnerability but withhold the "bone" to which it clung. Anytime she asked (which was seldom because she knew she would not get satisfaction to her inquiries) about the logistics of the upcoming evening, her questions were met by a firm but playful "you aren't serious..." stare.
With enough to occupy my mental faculties, i satiated my need to organize the approaching scene. Relying heavily on K's guidance, i set myself to acquiring the necessary equipment. His expertise served as a (most likely too often-indulged) shopping spree of knowledge. Frequently, he would ask me questions about my specific wishes for each stage of the evening, and habitually, i would lean on his expertise for the answer. Quite frankly, it was like wandering into a rock concert without an instrument case and the drummer asking you how much tom-tom you felt the ampitheatre needed. "Are you serious? Oh, wait...you are. WOW."
The small but not insignificant details worked themselves out. Soon we had a date (is it really possible to coordinate four incredibly busy metropolitan schedules?) and a location (my place or somewhere else? does anyone have an animal allergy or an aversion to keeping their noise to a civil volume?). All that remained was to let years of fantasy and serious mental focus to take control of the evening, and all would be fine.
...right?
*this continues on here
Friday, January 25, 2008
Taste
Of all the five senses, the one that resides in our mouths is the one most closely tied to satisfaction and satiation. Through taste i feed myself, i fill my insides with nutrients and sustenance. Obviously, it rides sidecar to the digestion function, but it makes that process meaningful and worthwhile. Without the sensory zones on my tongue, i might otherwise not adequately supply myself with nourishment. Interestingly, the main operation center for taste is the mouth, which is also one of the three orifices that satisfies another (i feel equally crucial) hunger.
I can tell immediately. I usually detect it first near the back of my throat and on the underside of my tongue. I develop a specific texture and flavor in my saliva when the hungers of arousal take over. I believe it's akin to the "mouth-watering" axiom so many fast food and grub hawkers have trotted out as their enticement to get you to sit down and feast on their fare. This heavy lubricant creeps up on me sometimes, catching me off guard. I'm not always prepared for it. My oral glands produce this rich, protein-drenched liquid, only to then impose on me its agenda. I can sense the force of energy that manifested this fluid suspended in it, and fully consent to the cue my body is sending. It signals me that it needs to exact some level of erotic release - i must act.
Then there are those times where my mind initiates the sexual campaign. These moments, my taste buds are slow to respond. My head, like the spunky and energetic member of a dogsled team, is doing everything it can to excite and motivate the rest of my body to pick up on the impulses it feels. My mouth, the Alpha leader of my body's pack, is usually the first to legitimize my mental urges. It fabricates this flavor that broadcasts to the other senses, ordering them to turn on their coital receptors. The flavor lingers, clings to the rear portion of my mouth, acting as the clearest indication that i've succumbed to overwhelming sexual impulse.
I won't say that the presence of this taste is what leads me to seek a cunt to fuck or an ass to slap, but more appropriately, this is a seasoning that fills the mouth unlike any sirloin or fillet ever has. When it arises, the thick notes of organic life that inform it strips my day and perspective of any pretense. I am transformed into a warrior whose only quest is copulation. I smack my lips, mix the saline flavors of this potion around in my mouth, and any civil reservations i may have for holding back are dissolved. I want to pillage the very nascent anatomy placed before me. I want to stab with all of my might my erect member into the targeted flesh. For a brief moment, i do not account for or care about the needs and wants of the receiving party. All those social customs are tossed aside, and my fucking ignites with a timbre, a rhythm that can only be referred to as beastly.
At these moments, when nary a rattle can be detected in my head, any images are blurred and grayed out, my ears have ceased absorbing any noise, the primal creature who's in control uses the savor in its mouth to guide and lead it to the magnificent finish.
I can tell immediately. I usually detect it first near the back of my throat and on the underside of my tongue. I develop a specific texture and flavor in my saliva when the hungers of arousal take over. I believe it's akin to the "mouth-watering" axiom so many fast food and grub hawkers have trotted out as their enticement to get you to sit down and feast on their fare. This heavy lubricant creeps up on me sometimes, catching me off guard. I'm not always prepared for it. My oral glands produce this rich, protein-drenched liquid, only to then impose on me its agenda. I can sense the force of energy that manifested this fluid suspended in it, and fully consent to the cue my body is sending. It signals me that it needs to exact some level of erotic release - i must act.
Then there are those times where my mind initiates the sexual campaign. These moments, my taste buds are slow to respond. My head, like the spunky and energetic member of a dogsled team, is doing everything it can to excite and motivate the rest of my body to pick up on the impulses it feels. My mouth, the Alpha leader of my body's pack, is usually the first to legitimize my mental urges. It fabricates this flavor that broadcasts to the other senses, ordering them to turn on their coital receptors. The flavor lingers, clings to the rear portion of my mouth, acting as the clearest indication that i've succumbed to overwhelming sexual impulse.
I won't say that the presence of this taste is what leads me to seek a cunt to fuck or an ass to slap, but more appropriately, this is a seasoning that fills the mouth unlike any sirloin or fillet ever has. When it arises, the thick notes of organic life that inform it strips my day and perspective of any pretense. I am transformed into a warrior whose only quest is copulation. I smack my lips, mix the saline flavors of this potion around in my mouth, and any civil reservations i may have for holding back are dissolved. I want to pillage the very nascent anatomy placed before me. I want to stab with all of my might my erect member into the targeted flesh. For a brief moment, i do not account for or care about the needs and wants of the receiving party. All those social customs are tossed aside, and my fucking ignites with a timbre, a rhythm that can only be referred to as beastly.
At these moments, when nary a rattle can be detected in my head, any images are blurred and grayed out, my ears have ceased absorbing any noise, the primal creature who's in control uses the savor in its mouth to guide and lead it to the magnificent finish.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Touch
I rolled up the rug in my den, putting it to the side. I then pulled out an old plastic tarp, spreading that across the floor. I weighed the thick black plastic sheet down with a rim of different-sized candles, lighting each one until a wavering glow danced along the walls of my dark bureau. Standing up, i lit the big, white soy-wax candle that sat on my side table, saving it for last. I then opened the double French doors that lead from my chamber into the bedroom. I lifted up the bag of rope from the side of the bed and returned to my den. Anchoring two six meter-lengths to the now exposed lower hinges of both the right and left door, i pulled the working ends onto the tarp, laying them there amidst the flickering ballet. I retrieved my adjustable steel spreader bar, positioning that on the other end of the plastic, furthest from the open doors. I studied the layout strewn about my feet, considering any last minute alterations. Satisfied, i picked up a black, satin blindfold, and walked into the living room.
She was sitting on the couch, like i had told her: blanket drawn over her completely naked flesh. I stepped behind her, draping the silky, ebony cloth over her eyes, and fastened it in back with a simple knot. I requested her hand, aiding her as she rose up from the sofa, then guided her along the hallway to my predisposed bureau. Her hand felt warm in mine, despite the minuscule tremble that broadcast through our embrace.
I brought her onto the tarp, then lay her down, orienting her head towards the open entrance to the bedroom. I securely bound each of her wrists, wrapping the attending rope slowly around her slim limbs. I made sure her body was situated so that her arms were pulled far above her head along the floor. I then focused on her ankles, shackling them into the cuffs of the leg spreader, securing each with their own individual brass padlock. Stringing a nine meter line to the anchoring post just beneath her feet, i pulled her body taut, stretching her anatomy across the black plastic.
Erecting myself, i moved to the stereo and pushed play. The sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach's solo cello concertos bellowed into the room. The music wove into the shimmering light like a night wind.
I moved myself into a stance that straddled her, both legs on either side of her abdominal area. I reached down and brushed my hands across her nude form, letting the contours of her curves guide my epidermic exploration. I loved the thin resistance between her skin and my fingertips, letting them read her corporal narrative. Standing erect again, i grabbed the large white candle, and blew the flame out with a quick puff.
Tilting the fragrant white column back and forth, swirling the hot wax around, i scanned her body for the first drop zone. Her thighs? Her clenched belly? The opening folds to her hairless cunt? Her ruddy nipples reached up to me with their taut and erect extensions, campaigning for my attention. I relented.
I aimed the first blow upon her left nipple, carefully tipping the candle over so that only a stream of liquid splashed on her sensitive buds. She bolted upright, shoving her gut into the air while yanking on the binding contraptions on her limbs. I waited. I let the sudden transaction of air sucking in and out of her lungs pass, as she prepared her body for the next blow to come. Instead of aiming for her other nipple, like she expected, i kept my focus on her southpaw aureole in order to toss in some additional uncertainty. I continued painting her body with rivulets of milky wax, using the remaining liquid.
Exhausting the last of my arsenal, i exited the room, retiring to the kitchen to fetch my next implement. I grabbed my 13" fillet knife, then made a hasty return to my bureau. She lay there, spackled with an armor of chalky lattice work that sat on top of her provocatively crimson skin. I scraped the sharp tip of the knife along her static thigh, watching her face process the identity of the item sliding along her leg. Then, carefully, i flicked off the rigid waxy assailant that clung to her flesh, following the same map of her contours i'd traced earlier.
I grabbed her hands and held tightly to them as i undid the knots of the imprisoning ropes. I then produced the keys to the locks fastening the shackles, granting her ankles freedom. Next came the blindfold, which i swiftly whipped off her face, introducing her shuttered eyes to the symphony of flame around her. I reached my hand towards the floor and lifted her up, embracing her body, pulling every last inch of her into me.
I held her for a moment, allowing this silent expression to occupy the flickering spotlight.
*this continues on here
She was sitting on the couch, like i had told her: blanket drawn over her completely naked flesh. I stepped behind her, draping the silky, ebony cloth over her eyes, and fastened it in back with a simple knot. I requested her hand, aiding her as she rose up from the sofa, then guided her along the hallway to my predisposed bureau. Her hand felt warm in mine, despite the minuscule tremble that broadcast through our embrace.
I brought her onto the tarp, then lay her down, orienting her head towards the open entrance to the bedroom. I securely bound each of her wrists, wrapping the attending rope slowly around her slim limbs. I made sure her body was situated so that her arms were pulled far above her head along the floor. I then focused on her ankles, shackling them into the cuffs of the leg spreader, securing each with their own individual brass padlock. Stringing a nine meter line to the anchoring post just beneath her feet, i pulled her body taut, stretching her anatomy across the black plastic.
Erecting myself, i moved to the stereo and pushed play. The sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach's solo cello concertos bellowed into the room. The music wove into the shimmering light like a night wind.
I moved myself into a stance that straddled her, both legs on either side of her abdominal area. I reached down and brushed my hands across her nude form, letting the contours of her curves guide my epidermic exploration. I loved the thin resistance between her skin and my fingertips, letting them read her corporal narrative. Standing erect again, i grabbed the large white candle, and blew the flame out with a quick puff.
Tilting the fragrant white column back and forth, swirling the hot wax around, i scanned her body for the first drop zone. Her thighs? Her clenched belly? The opening folds to her hairless cunt? Her ruddy nipples reached up to me with their taut and erect extensions, campaigning for my attention. I relented.
I aimed the first blow upon her left nipple, carefully tipping the candle over so that only a stream of liquid splashed on her sensitive buds. She bolted upright, shoving her gut into the air while yanking on the binding contraptions on her limbs. I waited. I let the sudden transaction of air sucking in and out of her lungs pass, as she prepared her body for the next blow to come. Instead of aiming for her other nipple, like she expected, i kept my focus on her southpaw aureole in order to toss in some additional uncertainty. I continued painting her body with rivulets of milky wax, using the remaining liquid.
Exhausting the last of my arsenal, i exited the room, retiring to the kitchen to fetch my next implement. I grabbed my 13" fillet knife, then made a hasty return to my bureau. She lay there, spackled with an armor of chalky lattice work that sat on top of her provocatively crimson skin. I scraped the sharp tip of the knife along her static thigh, watching her face process the identity of the item sliding along her leg. Then, carefully, i flicked off the rigid waxy assailant that clung to her flesh, following the same map of her contours i'd traced earlier.
I grabbed her hands and held tightly to them as i undid the knots of the imprisoning ropes. I then produced the keys to the locks fastening the shackles, granting her ankles freedom. Next came the blindfold, which i swiftly whipped off her face, introducing her shuttered eyes to the symphony of flame around her. I reached my hand towards the floor and lifted her up, embracing her body, pulling every last inch of her into me.
I held her for a moment, allowing this silent expression to occupy the flickering spotlight.
*this continues on here
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Smell
As i have mentioned before, my nostrils act and overact on a regular basis. This makes for an enjoyable time or a dreadfully miserable time depending on the spectrum of scents i happen to encounter. While at work, i constantly drink water throughout the day which has the result of me frequently needing to visit the little boy's room. I dread the stench i'm liable to encounter, inhaling a massive breath before i enter, and holding it until i'm able to escape the sewagey aerosol.
Recently, i asked my secretary to order some air freshening devices that i could affix to the tiled walls just so my twice hourly visits weren't so abrasive. The other day, during a routine latrine visit, i found my olfactory receptors bombarded by the heinous fog of someone evacuating the digested byproduct of their noontime pastrami on rye. Praising my secretary's reliability, i grabbed the Renuzit Odor Killer off the top of the urinal and pressed my nose against it. Ahhhh...relief.
A pearl of wisdom greeted me on my trek back to my office. As i stood there, sniffing that artificial aroma with gusto, i realized i could have remained in the bathroom for as long as i wanted, unaffected by the bowel transactions occurring behind me in the stalls. I could hear the person struggling to force out their excrement, and perhaps even watch this, but as long as i didn't have to smell it, i'd survive. What this told me was that a situation has the ability to be illusory depending on how close you are to the source of the perfume.
Sense of smell is the most personal of the senses. How we smell we rarely are aware of, because it is always with us. Yet, we can share our scent with others, they can experience us, a part of us, through our scent. Sometimes, we can leave behind an article of clothing drenched in our odor. Historically, the girl would spray a leaf of her love letters with the precipitation of her favorite boudoir fragrance. How one smells informs those around about them. This is not the same for how one sees or hears. One can smell, as in to produce a particular fragrance, which is an inactive feat. In addition, one can smell, as in to sniff out odors, which is quite the active accomplishment. In this way, the sense of smell has a very powerful duality.
For me, scents are the most jarringly immediate sexual triggers. I associate so many bouquets as catalysts to the act of wanting and needing coitus.
-I just recently received a fresh crop of raw hemp rope, pre-conditioned by a flame, de-burring it as much as possible. When i first opened the bag of ropes, the pungent smokiness pleasantly imbibed my nose. Continuing with its treatment, i washed it in Murphy's Oil Soap to delouse it of the fumey scent. Following this, i rinsed the seven and eight meter coils in my tub, hand-strained it, then hung it on clotheslines in the cellar. Each step provided a powerful emanation, the last one filling the damp cellar with the scent of grass and hay. Each step fixed my mind on the purpose of the rope, the acts that were to follow, the satisfaction of the soul.
-When fucking my girl, i particularly love taking her from behind. While the visual aspect of this position contributes to my arousal, it is the effluvium of our combined oils, perspiration and musk that elevates me to a wildly primal state. I could be blindfolded, and the currents wafting up from this epicenter of fucking, with me smashing my cock into her dripping vulva, mingled with the delicious perfume of her ass would be the only sensory expression i'd need. My most potent sexual formula comes from this momentary and hard-laboring assembly line.
-Sometimes, while i'm masturbating, i relish the opportunity to indulge in real olfactory pungency by taking my palm and rubbing it against my moist and constricted scrotum, then lifting this soiled hand to my nose. I take in a deep whiff of my damp musk, while continuing with the sadistic scene in my head that has me incredibly turned on, and almost immediately, i climax from this multimedia presentation. I don't know exactly why this nostril-centric approach so overpowers me, but i confidently accept that for these brief moments, no one perversion is stronger.
At a younger age, i used to fall into shame when i contemplated how much scent played into my sexual appetite. I was convinced that it set me on a road of copulating ostracism. But, as i've learned to let the hordes of demons inside me run their course when they've insisted, i've grown rather comfortable, if not admiring, of my sense of smell's ability to command immediate and thorough respect.
*this continues on here
Recently, i asked my secretary to order some air freshening devices that i could affix to the tiled walls just so my twice hourly visits weren't so abrasive. The other day, during a routine latrine visit, i found my olfactory receptors bombarded by the heinous fog of someone evacuating the digested byproduct of their noontime pastrami on rye. Praising my secretary's reliability, i grabbed the Renuzit Odor Killer off the top of the urinal and pressed my nose against it. Ahhhh...relief.
A pearl of wisdom greeted me on my trek back to my office. As i stood there, sniffing that artificial aroma with gusto, i realized i could have remained in the bathroom for as long as i wanted, unaffected by the bowel transactions occurring behind me in the stalls. I could hear the person struggling to force out their excrement, and perhaps even watch this, but as long as i didn't have to smell it, i'd survive. What this told me was that a situation has the ability to be illusory depending on how close you are to the source of the perfume.
Sense of smell is the most personal of the senses. How we smell we rarely are aware of, because it is always with us. Yet, we can share our scent with others, they can experience us, a part of us, through our scent. Sometimes, we can leave behind an article of clothing drenched in our odor. Historically, the girl would spray a leaf of her love letters with the precipitation of her favorite boudoir fragrance. How one smells informs those around about them. This is not the same for how one sees or hears. One can smell, as in to produce a particular fragrance, which is an inactive feat. In addition, one can smell, as in to sniff out odors, which is quite the active accomplishment. In this way, the sense of smell has a very powerful duality.
For me, scents are the most jarringly immediate sexual triggers. I associate so many bouquets as catalysts to the act of wanting and needing coitus.
-I just recently received a fresh crop of raw hemp rope, pre-conditioned by a flame, de-burring it as much as possible. When i first opened the bag of ropes, the pungent smokiness pleasantly imbibed my nose. Continuing with its treatment, i washed it in Murphy's Oil Soap to delouse it of the fumey scent. Following this, i rinsed the seven and eight meter coils in my tub, hand-strained it, then hung it on clotheslines in the cellar. Each step provided a powerful emanation, the last one filling the damp cellar with the scent of grass and hay. Each step fixed my mind on the purpose of the rope, the acts that were to follow, the satisfaction of the soul.
-When fucking my girl, i particularly love taking her from behind. While the visual aspect of this position contributes to my arousal, it is the effluvium of our combined oils, perspiration and musk that elevates me to a wildly primal state. I could be blindfolded, and the currents wafting up from this epicenter of fucking, with me smashing my cock into her dripping vulva, mingled with the delicious perfume of her ass would be the only sensory expression i'd need. My most potent sexual formula comes from this momentary and hard-laboring assembly line.
-Sometimes, while i'm masturbating, i relish the opportunity to indulge in real olfactory pungency by taking my palm and rubbing it against my moist and constricted scrotum, then lifting this soiled hand to my nose. I take in a deep whiff of my damp musk, while continuing with the sadistic scene in my head that has me incredibly turned on, and almost immediately, i climax from this multimedia presentation. I don't know exactly why this nostril-centric approach so overpowers me, but i confidently accept that for these brief moments, no one perversion is stronger.
At a younger age, i used to fall into shame when i contemplated how much scent played into my sexual appetite. I was convinced that it set me on a road of copulating ostracism. But, as i've learned to let the hordes of demons inside me run their course when they've insisted, i've grown rather comfortable, if not admiring, of my sense of smell's ability to command immediate and thorough respect.
*this continues on here
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