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Dominating the conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unspoken

A lot can be said with regards to establishing and maintaining a power exchange. Lord knows, i've pasted myriad words up on that endless ebony scrim attempting to detail my own experience. But something occurred to me as i pondered that wall, my experience, and the words i've used to describe it. The more i reflected on this and the self-publishing tomes of other tops and bottoms, i realized that there is a lot that goes unsaid.

Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.

Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":

• immediate disposal of pants v. gradual, eventual weeding out

My girl's dress code is something i'm quite proud of and do not tire from the administration of it. However, it would be a complete fraud to present the notion that Day One she had a closet full of pants, and by Day Two she possessed zero pantaloons. In four years of our relationship, i have only overseen the last six months as totally pants-less. She got rid of the last pair late last summer. Now, i live in a part of the country that enjoys all four seasons (however shorter and whacked the colder ones are becoming), and one must account for the frigid wind chills that someone not allowed to wear leg-coverings will encounter. Enter legwarmers. Her stockings provide one barrier, but not sufficient when the temperature drops below 40 Fahrenheit. She has collected an assortment in multiple colors and styles that draws as much attention to her as does the fact that she's wearing a dress on a snowy, blistery day.

• piercings whenever called upon v. her gradual acceptance of the fact
  

I've known for quite awhile that i would want to mark any girl of mine in various ways as my possession, and one method i wanted to principally employ was piercing. Early in our relationship, i presented the idea to her that she would need to get pierced. For a girl who sported the fairly uncommon nose ring, she held a great deal of resistance to the idea of metal penetrating other parts of her body. I didn't consider her reaction as an indication of a hard limit, but she certainly wasn't budging on the idea. I left it alone for awhile, until one day, she surprised me by announcing that she'd grown very excited about the idea of doing that for me. Within a week, two beautiful rings hung from each of her tits.

• tightlacing v. our modified version of tightlacing

I love the idea of my girl strapped in her corset all day long. Her mid-section rigidly constrained, all the while exhibiting a fetching waspy waist. In the beginning, she in fact wore it 23 hours a day, even sleeping in it, and only taking it off to bathe and attend to her roughed-up skin. It became clear after a few months, that she was able to achieve the same reduction we both preferred (22") without needing to lace in it while she slumbered. It should become very clear that a power exchange of this nature has the elements to contend with, which we most certainly did when it came to tightlacing. It is nearly impossible for her to lace when the weather gets warmer than 75 degrees. We've explored many options to try to overcome the shear discomfort of a corset on the hot and humid days (even purchased a so-called Summer corset), but have had to concede that the months of July and August are corset-free (except for those occasional trips to the Artic).

These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.

A convenient side effect

you order her coffee...because you're a gentleman, and because you're controlling the scenario;

you buy her a pair of impromptu stockings...because you like to treat her to a surprise gift, and because you are reinforcing the dress code you've mandated;

you hold the door open for her...because "ladies go first", and because you like to reduce the amount of autonomous actions she takes;

you compliment her on her heels...because she glows when she gets praise, and because you want to engineer a desire in her to wear heels more frequently;

you kiss her neck...because she's very sensitive at this spot, causing her to shiver, and because by avoiding her mouth, you are treating her like an object;

you tighten her corset...because it makes her look beautiful, and because you enjoy her restriction;

you brush her hair...because she sinks into a pleasurable purr when stroked, and because she fits the role of a doll;

you intervene when someone insults her...because her honor is your greatest concern, and because you want to accentuate her fragility;

you proudly show off photographs of her...because she enjoys hearing of the attention, and because these people are only seeing her in a two-dimensional way;

you give her little tush a swat as she passes by...because it excites her as well as stimulates her, and because you are further indicating to her that she is owned;

you forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyze, and because she requires the authority of a boss.

you bind her body in rope...because the respite from any movement frees her mind and soul, and because you know you must trap, confine and capture her.

you gingerly rub your thumb across her rectum as you finger her...because the dual sensations are double her pleasure, and because you are showing her new ways to think of her anal passage.

you bring her to a climax...because she deserves the solitary attention, and because it came from your hands, your delivery.

you tell her how much she means to you...because she needs to hear that she matters, and because she fulfills so many of your needs.

Since when was naughty the opposite of nice?

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

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



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



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

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

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

How to make a pin-up girl

Ms. Dita Von Teese, the poster girl of this here journal.

On any given weekday during the summer, i could be found not rummaging through the tall reeds and pussy willows of the creek that ran behind my house, but instead stationed on a stool at the liquor store my grandmother managed for over 40 years. The things that seared themselves into my memory were the constants of this kind, senior matriarch perpetually behooved in heels and the tabloid-sized illustrations of 50's pin-up girls hung all over her back office as well as adorning her boudoir. I spent many a glossamer-veiled afternoon quietly watching the intricate and ornate rituals she undertook to achieve her own ressemblance to those sex idols matting her walls. It would only be once i was an adult, and making demands that my intimate partners prepare themselves similarly that i would realize the sizzling affection i had for the pin-ups.

We want to look, but we don't want to stare at gorgeous girls. That would be rude. Whereas, these girls didn't mind. In fact, they invited the stare, which for me made it much more safe, an open venue for me to gawk and gaze. I didn't need to pretend that i was or wasn't interested. My attraction could be met face-on as i studied the humorous and playful poses these girls accomplished, who in turn didn't seem turned off by the idea that someone was leering at them or turning them into a sexual object. I didn't seriously expect that any female would allow me to demand the look and feel to their appearance. I was as surprised as many of you may be that i live that reality. Yet, i can't quite put into words what it is like to create your very own, breathing, thriving pin-up, and i do know not a day passes without me blessing and praising the powers above that allow me this exquisite fantasy.

Now, let's begin.

The best place to start are to look at two of the masters at the art of pin-ups for inspiration. Mr. Gil Elvgren is one of the most famous of all pin-up illustrators and you can quickly see why. His drawings are candid, they catch their subject in a moment of surprise. But they are also flattering. They charm the girl by framing her in soft and inviting light. I've included a clever site that delves deeper into Gil's pinups and and his infatuation with celery.

Another one of my favorites is Alberto Vargas. His calendar currently hangs in my kitchen (right over the garbage can, just like my grandma used to do). His has a refinement that contrasts slightly with Gil's. His girls are almost more universal, more elegiac, and less personable. But this adds an element of class that holds these ladies on a very high and well-deserved pedestal.

Now, those of you who are looking to attain the look of a classic pin-up, i've listed a few places where you can begin to amass your wardrobe. And for those who've decided to keep reading (when instead of the nasty threesomes you'd hoped to find, you stumbled upon this thesis), i encourage you to also peruse the list. You may experience some inspiration to persuade your favorite gal to slide on some silk stockings. I assure you she'll thank you for them.

Daddy O's
One of my favorite online clothing stores. I could easily waste my bi-weekly payroll on over 40 or more of these frocks. Their cut, their lines, their skirts, the details, the shape. These dresses exude class and femininity. A girl can truly not go wrong to have at least one of these hanging in her cabana.

Agent (pronounced: Ah-jahnt)
If you have the opportunity to ever walk into one of Agent Provocateurs boutiques, the wave of scent that washes over you alone gives you a sensation of developing a crush. Everything they do at AP is about femininity. You will not see anything made of cotton here. No. Females deserve to have the finest silks and laces pressed against their skin, cradling their tushes, holding their soft tits. This is a store that believes lingerie shouldn't be just for honeymoons and anniversaries. Their stockings are durable and they come in all kinds of colors and differing constrast seams. Plus, they have a very naughty side. I adore their black silk blindfold that reads "Treat me like the whore i am" in pink cursive across the front of it

Secrets in Lace
SiL is another wonderful lingerie store. I can't emphasize enough the importance of a good pin-up girl's foundation undergarments. Countless times i've seen the change that occurs in a girl wearing a garter belt, seamed silk stockings and a pair of heels. They walk with express intent and focus. It's like they're armored. SiL carries an exclusive line of stockings designed and worn by Ms. Dita. My girl says that Secrets' stockings offer the most comfortable and divine feeling, but they do not last as long as AP's.

What Katie Did
I offer you one last site on lingerie just to demonstrate the plethora of options that exist. Katie offers vintage stockings, for those who are going for an authentic look, style and feel. Wonderful garments can be found here.

Besame Cosmetics
If you're beginning to think i'm a little overly obsessed with the way a girl looks, you're finally catching on. Besame isn't for everyone, but it is for the girl who wants to truly take on the overall appearance of a pin-up. They understand the appeal of classic beauty and provide numerous, charming options.

Staylace Updates and Pinups are well worth a look
I would be errant in my list if i didn't offer the mother of all corset sites. The Long Island Staylace Association (LISA) was my first jaw-dropping exposure to the array of corset-related media. In addition to providing you with images of females draped in corsets (and swear that they update daily), they also provide a tremendous resource list for corsetiers. I am a firm believer in the transformative and beneficial effect a well-made tightlacing device can have on a girl's attitude.

Whether you merely peek at a few of these links, or you seriously consider indulging in a purchase here or there, you have to admit that the pin-up girl has her allure and her flair. In one refined image, they capture the sighs, the throbs, the tugs and the thrills i've experienced when i've seen a pretty girl.

But, don't let me be the final thought on this. Go to the gal i see as the authority on the subject, Ms Kitty du Vert.

The Gain, pt. 4 - The Exchange

When i arrived at the restaurant, i purposely asked for the table up on the ledge, which looked out over the rest of the dining patrons. I took the chair that pointed me right at the entrance. When the waiter came, i ordered a double bourbon. I waited. Looking at my watch, i could see she was already ten minutes late. I finished my drink, trying to stretch it as long as possible, allowing the amber flood to lighten with the melting ice. She didn't arrive. I ordered another.

An entire half hour past our agreed meeting time, and she still hadn't shown. She'd never been this late before. Despite this, i didn't grow angry. I patiently waited, stunting my nerves with the alcohol.

A rush of cold air suddenly ruffled the tablecloth. I lifted my head to see the front door had opened. I saw her speaking with the girl at the front, looking around the restaurant as she did. The disinterested hostess limply pointed in my direction. June walked around her, and with long, overly pronounced strides, sauntered back to the table. I rose from my seat, drink still in my hand, caught in a mild sweat of anticipation. The small tip of a white garter strap peaked out beneath the hem of her skirt. I smiled as she stood before me. I leaned forward, lightly kissed her cheek and said,"You're late."

She grinned, then sat down. I joined her. My nose gobbled every note that came in the symphony of her perfume. She'd wrapped a cream white cashmere scarf around her neck, which gave her face the softness and enticement of a delicate pastry in a glass case.

"Thank you for coming," I immediately located our waiter, ordering another drink for myself and a small one for her. I laid my hands on the table, just inches away from hers. She turned her palms upward right as i did this, but she could not bring her eyes to mine.

We pedalled through a few laps of innane conversation, ignoring mention of why we'd met. I didn't have a strong desire to turn the subject to a topic i knew would clam her up. I enjoyed listening to her voice, which when given room sang quite nicely against the chorus of background activity and noise. Before too long, i felt an urge to assert.

I pulled my right hand off the table, and plunged it under the short tablecloth. I followed the line of my thigh out to my knee. I paused, exhaling a single breath. I made sure her gaze was on me. I reached across the blind space to her knee, feeling a tingle of pleasurable electricity conduct up through my fingers. Her mouth puckered open, giving out a soft cry. My hand snaked up her leg, the silky texture of her stockings spoke to my fingertips in a brief dialogue, escorting me to the top, where they met the naked frontier of her flesh. The waiter returned with our drink order, causing me to pause.

"Would you care to order?" He eyed her untouched menu.

"Certainly." I lifted it from the table, reaching across my body with my left arm. I handed both of the menus to him, holding them out in the air as our waiter hesitated a moment.

"I'll have the steak au poivre. Medium rare. She will have the duck confit, but instead of fries, fresh greens."

He nodded at me, collected the menus, then turned and stepped down into the main dining room.

I pushed my hand further up her thigh, sliding under the canopy of her skirt. A steamy warmth met my hand. The pliant tickle of a few pubic hairs graced my touch. I looked at her eyes which looked down at the edge of the table in front of her. She held her mouth open, rocking subtly back and forth, respiring in small heaves. I extended a finger, lightly caressing the moist flesh of her cunt lips, completely, as commanded, uninhibited by any undergarment.

Securing the evidence i sought, my arm retreated rapidly back to the topside of the table. I rubbed the glistening nectar i'd gathered between my finger and thumb in plain view. It was at that time the selection of the table - high, exposed, isolated - occured to her. The looks of the other patrons suddenly became clear, even the devilish smirk of our waiter when he delivered our meal.

I found the steak to be much, much too bloody.

The Gain, pt. 4 - The Compromise

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

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

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

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

"I can't dress like that."

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

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

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

"Will you do it?"

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

"Do what?"

"What you said."

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

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

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

Playing dress up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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