One afternoon, my secretary alerted me to the fact that i was to expect two visitors. She did not go into detail who these visitors were or what business they brought to discuss, nor did i inquire due to my frenzied activity upto that point. Shortly after, my phone rang, and going against custom, i answered. It was my boss.
"Have they come by yet?"
"Has who come by?"
"Well, i told them to come down and immediately interrupt what it was you were doing."
"Who?!"
"My daughters, for chrissakes!"
I sunk in my chair. I hadn't met them before, but i knew even then that i didn't want to entertain his daughters. I hung up the phone with him and immediately dialed my secretary, intent on instructing her to stall all attempts at piercing my quiet, inner chambers.
"Too late, Mr. D. They're here, right now."
"...send them in...i guess."
My door burst open, and in exploded the pair, like a ball of energy at full momentum in a long downhill descent. It wasn't until they looked me in the eyes did these two young girls stop in their tracks. They were six and eight respectively, and even in their nascent stage, i still could see the heartbreaking campaigns they would be destined to oversee. I'd heard all about these girls from my boss - he couldn't stop boasting about them, and rightly so. I did not look forward to their inevitable appearance because i knew, once they arrived, parading their magnificent "girlness", i would be prisoner to every demand they made. As was the case with them standing in my office, however, i offered them something that perhaps their own father hadn't prepared them for.
I've written before about the transfixing quality my eyes seem to have over the opposite gender. Without fail, i know that these overly fair, gold-speckled, blue eyes of mine will grab the unsuspecting female, and place her at a considerable disadvantage. Gradually, i've come to learn that it isn't just my baby blues that arrests these lasses in their forward progress, but in fact, it is the entirety of my face that seems to broadcast a signal that i'm to be trusted by every morsel of their being. The latest, and most profound example of this happened four months ago.
I live in city that attracts the trafficking of all kinds of materials, contraband and illegal in every respect. The most tragic and hardest to stomach of those items shuffled through this underworld processing plant is that of the human kind. I've seen entire rooms filled with row after row of indentured people, given the task of some quota to meet, only for that quota to help pay off the debt each individual and their attached family owed for their illegal transport to the "Land of the Free". However, i'd never had a firsthand experience with this seedy underbelly that slithers constantly under this metropolis that i love.
I was taking the East-side trains uptown, heading to a rather important meeting. The doors to the subway opened at 14th Street, inviting more passengers into our already crowded car. She stepped in, scanned the dozens of faces that occupied the subway, and of all of them, decided i was the one who would help her. She sat down next to me - forced her way, wedged her way into a seat next to me that didn't exist - and the first thing i remember thinking was how tiny she was. Everything about her was tiny: her head covered with long silver hair; her eyelids tight, thin, held together; her hands, which after a moment or two i noticed the piece of tattered cloth they held. She shoved the patch of fabric in my face, as if it was the most natural gesture in this dialogue between two people who didn't speak the same language. I looked at the piece of fabric, and saw that someone had written an address on it in permanent marker. They had written this address on rag, given it to this woman who clearly had just been cargo within the past 48 hours from all points East, and told her to make her own way to this place.
It took very little for her to hand over this textile message to me, with the hopes i'd be able to get her to the destination scribbled on it. I didn't recognize the address, nor did i believe the train she was on would get her to where she needed to get. I turned to other passengers, asked them, showed them the fragment, looking for any advice as to how i could direct her to the right place. No one had any idea, or if they did, they refused to get involved.
I handed her back her tattered treasure map, and gestured to other people on the train that she should reach out to. She outright refused. She'd determined that of everyone on that subway car, i was the one who was going to get her to where she needed to go. Now, mind you, because i understood how she got into this country, this city (illegally), i wasn't necessarily motivated to see her deposited at this random address waving in my hand. Who knows what tortures or pressure lay before her. But, what's worse, i thought, than an old woman who's only words came from the Mandarin language to be floating around this big, bad city?
I eventually convinced her to follow me off the train, up some stairs and made her wait as i took her address scribbled across this torn cloth to a station agent who helped me figure out which train and train stop this little Chinese grandma needed. I didn't speak a single word of her tongue, nor did she speak mine. The only reason, i've concluded, that she attached herself to me was due to the calming, arresting qualities of my face.
I've reflected on this matter numerous times since it happened. Did i do the right thing? Should i have invested more energy and resources to make sure this woman made it okay? Why, why of all the people on that very crowded train did she make a bee-line to me? It leads to me to question some of my own interactions with the submissive females that have passed through my life. I understand that on the surface i appear like a very trustworthy, if not downright innocent, individual. No one would pin on me the dastardly acts i commit upon the feminine campus, and i wonder if this has been the same mind frame that operates in those young ladies who entrusted me to treat them with kindness and respect, based solely on the kind qualities of my visage. I wonder if this serves as a comfort and a sedative as they gradually allow the entrance of my other face - to allow it to come into clear, and unequivocally vivid focus.
Showing posts with label trust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trust. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Correction vs. Condescension
"How was your dinner last night?"
"Well, it was okay, but i think there was something wrong with the hummus i bought."
"So, what did you do?"
"I ate the rest, unhappily."
I'd left her alone to tend to herself one evening, while i was out with a friend. This already sounds like my girl is incapable of autonomy, and quite frankly, that is categorically untrue. For many years, she managed her own life, finances, her wardrobe more successfully than most young ladies her age. The level of responsibility she demonstrated shames most folks 20 years her senior.
"You did what?!?"
Her posture drooped. Her face turned from me.
"Go get it out of the fridge." Fetching the leftovers of the pasty garbanzo dip, she handed the container to me. I could tell just by the bulge of the lid that the internal contents were rotten. An acrid hiss sprayed into the air as i lifted the lid, mirroring her diminishing confidence in her decision to soldier through with the slop the night before.
Rather than bore the reader with the seven bars of conversation wherein i demand in demonic perplexities why she would allow herself to eat spoiled food instead of lifting herself off of her keister and marching to the befouling store, i'll fast forward to the lesson learned.
*ahem*
The lesson, that is, that i learned.
She is my girl. My responsibility. Her safety, comfort, behavior, appearance are my responsibility. As mentioned earlier, this is not because she is incapable of handling these responsibilities, but because we have both found that we want this arrangement. I think of my girl as one of the most intelligent individuals i know, and for her to willingly grant me the gift of marshaling over her speaks not only of her trust in me, but her intellectual acuity. However, what i said, and more importantly, how i said it, made her feel stupid.
Instead of feeling corrected, informed, she felt incapable, inept and imbecilic. I did not practice any restraint on my tone or my irritation. I let it fall freely into the air and obtusely onto her chest. It is never my intention to make her feel stupid. That is errantly irresponsible, and not worthy of the very responsibility she delicately places into my hand, everyday, as we walk together to our respective day jobs.
"Well, it was okay, but i think there was something wrong with the hummus i bought."
"So, what did you do?"
"I ate the rest, unhappily."
I'd left her alone to tend to herself one evening, while i was out with a friend. This already sounds like my girl is incapable of autonomy, and quite frankly, that is categorically untrue. For many years, she managed her own life, finances, her wardrobe more successfully than most young ladies her age. The level of responsibility she demonstrated shames most folks 20 years her senior.
"You did what?!?"
Her posture drooped. Her face turned from me.
"Go get it out of the fridge." Fetching the leftovers of the pasty garbanzo dip, she handed the container to me. I could tell just by the bulge of the lid that the internal contents were rotten. An acrid hiss sprayed into the air as i lifted the lid, mirroring her diminishing confidence in her decision to soldier through with the slop the night before.
Rather than bore the reader with the seven bars of conversation wherein i demand in demonic perplexities why she would allow herself to eat spoiled food instead of lifting herself off of her keister and marching to the befouling store, i'll fast forward to the lesson learned.
*ahem*
The lesson, that is, that i learned.
She is my girl. My responsibility. Her safety, comfort, behavior, appearance are my responsibility. As mentioned earlier, this is not because she is incapable of handling these responsibilities, but because we have both found that we want this arrangement. I think of my girl as one of the most intelligent individuals i know, and for her to willingly grant me the gift of marshaling over her speaks not only of her trust in me, but her intellectual acuity. However, what i said, and more importantly, how i said it, made her feel stupid.
Instead of feeling corrected, informed, she felt incapable, inept and imbecilic. I did not practice any restraint on my tone or my irritation. I let it fall freely into the air and obtusely onto her chest. It is never my intention to make her feel stupid. That is errantly irresponsible, and not worthy of the very responsibility she delicately places into my hand, everyday, as we walk together to our respective day jobs.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Mydentity
There are days that i want to plop a picture of myself, or my girl, onto the celluloid of this site, declaring once and for all a face to match the name, the words. For those of you who have paid attention, the only declarative image of either of us are those found in a few posts or the ocular avatar staring at you, the reader. All of these are meant to be obscure, indefinite and unadherent.
I've had a public persona, dabbling for awhile in the SM scene under this very same handle i ply here, but that's not quite the same. Few people "stumbled" upon the bondage clubs where i might give a demonstration of which of my submissive's buttocks were more tolerant than the other, whereas there are many who happen upon this site completely unintentionally. With that brings a greater risk of my professional life intersecting with my personal, and as i dabble in games of ill repute and social taboos, it is too much of a liability. I still remember the day when, while scanning the lineup of visitors to Lustful Quality via my site statistics, i came across a visitor who had the same IP address that was assigned to my office's network. I panicked. Had someone discovered my identity, these archives, was blackmail to ensue? Luckily, nothing came about it, and it turned out to be a glitch in the software, but it made me think.
It made me think how angry i am that despite my comfort and openness about this side of my life, i still feel the need to conceal it and hide it away from 98% of the people in my life. It made me confront the overall ignorance of society (i distinguish this from "people", because clearly, individuals have an inclination to SM-related material due to how often i find a new web journal popping up of someone exploring this avenue in their lives), and perhaps accept that there will never come a day where my professional life can happily fall in the comfortable shadow of this passion, this desire, this need.
I pursue SM and my fetishes out of a driving impulse to discover more about myself, which in turn is my way of not rejecting my appetites and nuances. I don't do this every few days, once a week, or even when the occasional moment strikes me. I do it every single minute of every single day. And sometimes it gets very old having to hide this albatross.
I've had a public persona, dabbling for awhile in the SM scene under this very same handle i ply here, but that's not quite the same. Few people "stumbled" upon the bondage clubs where i might give a demonstration of which of my submissive's buttocks were more tolerant than the other, whereas there are many who happen upon this site completely unintentionally. With that brings a greater risk of my professional life intersecting with my personal, and as i dabble in games of ill repute and social taboos, it is too much of a liability. I still remember the day when, while scanning the lineup of visitors to Lustful Quality via my site statistics, i came across a visitor who had the same IP address that was assigned to my office's network. I panicked. Had someone discovered my identity, these archives, was blackmail to ensue? Luckily, nothing came about it, and it turned out to be a glitch in the software, but it made me think.
It made me think how angry i am that despite my comfort and openness about this side of my life, i still feel the need to conceal it and hide it away from 98% of the people in my life. It made me confront the overall ignorance of society (i distinguish this from "people", because clearly, individuals have an inclination to SM-related material due to how often i find a new web journal popping up of someone exploring this avenue in their lives), and perhaps accept that there will never come a day where my professional life can happily fall in the comfortable shadow of this passion, this desire, this need.
I pursue SM and my fetishes out of a driving impulse to discover more about myself, which in turn is my way of not rejecting my appetites and nuances. I don't do this every few days, once a week, or even when the occasional moment strikes me. I do it every single minute of every single day. And sometimes it gets very old having to hide this albatross.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sugasm #141
Sugasm #141
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”
Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”
A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Road Rage
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & FetishRoutine Maintenance, pt. 2
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.
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