Marking what is mine

"Absolutely not!"

I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.

The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.

I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.

One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.

Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.

Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.

I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.

As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.

I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.

I've always liked the rain

I've been pleasantly surprised to find that the lovely Chelsea Girl has been kind enough to link me in her roundup on Fleshbot this week. I consider this a thrill for two reasons. The first being the many new eyes it has introduced to my journal. The second and more important reason being that i find her to be frankly one of the best writers out there in this erotic online realm.

I also wanted to take the opportunity with this post to mention that i'm overwhelmingly flattered by the many readers and bloggers who have commented on and linked to this page. Holding your attention has been a fulfilling and inspiring endeavor. Thank you. It is with great pleasure I share my take on "corrupting the feminine creature". It is with greater pleasure that I will continue to do so.

Public identification

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

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

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

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

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

Second skin

I credit the internet for many things.

It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.

It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).

Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.

When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.

I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.

The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.

Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:

Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll

Windmills

If the weather permits, i usually like to spend my lunch hour outside, sitting on a bench that positions me in a well-trafficked corridor of this bustling part of the city. I constantly scan the currents of pedestrians for the female components dressed in their flashiest, hippest urban professional wear. For some reason that i deem remarkably masochistic, these girls who do more walking than their suburban counterparts universally insist on wearing high heels. I don't complain. I've always enjoyed watching how a female's anatomy responds to the hitch an elevated heel manifests in their step. But these are mere distractions from the real psychology operating in my head.

I see a girl sitting across from me on a bench, and i feel an immediate compulsion to dominate. I want to grab her stare with my eyes, draw out a long sigh from her mouth as she feels herself slowly slip into trance. She may, in the middle of this illusion, decide to get up. It doesn't matter. The next one will come along soon. Sometimes i feel almost clinical, like i'm observing them through glass. Happy to do so, i'm taking detailed notes of their behavior, noting how similar they act as a gender, learning from their body language, recognizing patterns. I find that i can get quite lost in these examinations.

But why females? I'm very very curious as to why the dominance of the female body is so enthralling. It's not simply because they have a cunt. Or tits. I'm not even thinking of that when i glance at them and quickly commute them to a sentence of intense bondage. Rather i'm admiring their small wrists, their lithe necks, the way they can press their chins into their shoulders to indicate interest. I'm imagining the sum of all of these parts bound and pleading. And it happens a hundred times a day.

The girl behind the Starbucks counter who hands me my coffee. I smile at her. I seek to make her blush. I'll read her name off her nametag, tell her how beautiful i find it, then just grin at her. I know, as i'm doing this, i want to hold a momentary place in her day like a shudder, a tingle, a chill.

The girl i pass on the sidewalk, turning the corner instead of keeping straight like me. She'll flip around briefly to see if i've stopped shadowing her, but not out of fear. She sensed that i was observing her from behind, non-threateningly, and yet, still somewhat predatorily. She briefly considers playing the game.

I'll walk the platform of the subway. Travelling to a point where i know i need to stand, and i'll pass a girl waiting for the opposite train, going in the opposite direction. She'll turn her face towards me, see me smiling, and she'll bashfully offer me a smile back. A genuine smile. A smile that says "Alright, so you caught me this moment. So, i'll smile back, but only because i'm going in the opposite direction."

Or the girl who comes onto the train, once i've caught mine, at the next stop. She looks around before she sits. My antennae lift into the air. I sense a female presence. I peer at her, waiting for her eyes to fall upon me as she scans her immediate vicinity. I hold her gaze, until she sits down and recoils into herself. We will do this several times. I will keep my head turned at her, waiting for her to look my way, only to sustain the stare. Not letting it fizzle. Making her stand behind her glance and not back away from it. The intensity of the energy that builds here between two strangers is incredible. But it goes nowhere.

I do not want to dominate the entire female gender. Nor is my mind conjuring up these images because i want a conquest between the sheets. Yet, my body's reaction to these girls seems to betray that notion. My dominant side asserts itself as if it were the one in control, not i, the consulate. It is hard to describe, but the dominant facet of my personality doesn't want sex as prominently as it wants control. Control of the beautiful female entity. Control over me. It happens, constantly. A hundred times a day. I'm surrounded by this feminine energy that i want to, in small ways, conquer - to saturate it with my desires, my needs, my impulses.

Terms of surrender

It has come to my attention that things have changed between us. The persona you have played exclusively in the bedroom for many months has spilled out onto the floors of the rest of your life. I can view this in the ways you are dressing yourself. It is clear in the images of women that draw your attention. Your posture even assumes a difference when i come into the room. Patterns of breathing i'd seen only in your throes of passion now appear as we walk together.

Because of this, i offer you the following terms:

You will no longer view yourself as an autonomous being. From this point on, you will see yourself as owned. You are an object, to be held and monitored and cared for. Your needs exist outside of you. On a regular basis, you will submit to exercises that test, confront, challenge and ultimately shatter the once strong sense of free individuality you came to me with. You will live as my doll.

You will wear the clothes i choose, arrange your appearance by my specifications, and no longer own your physical identity. When you look in the mirror, you will see the alterations i have made, and you will know that you are my toy. You will gradually experience physical modifications that will take on greater and greater permanence, further marking you as mine.

You will submit to regular corporal discipline sessions, to enforce your status as the directed. At any moment, you will be asked to offer yourself, and expected to wait with your body positioned in preparation for a thrashing. You will submit to the pain, letting it guide you in the process of letting go. You will submit to the humiliation of being regularly spanked, letting it loosen your grip on your former, artificial ego. You will submit to the degradation you will feel when you realize you need this correction, letting it remind you of your place as my hungry, needy, desperate fucktoy.

You will be my possession, my property.

These terms are unconditional and non-negotiable.

The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

Every opportunity i had to gather loose nickels and dimes, i took. A cousin taught me the trick of checking the coin return slot of pay phones for overlooked booty. My father instructed me on walking with my eyes trained to the sidewalk so as not to miss the orphaned pieces of silver currency. Everywhere i turned, an opportunity for treasure hunting arose. But it wasn't these doubloons i sought, rather what i could turn them into. Rubber balls.

Stationed at the entrance to every grocery store sat a formation of coin-operated vending machines ready to convert my foraging into bouncing grenades (i remember when they introduced the ultra-industrial grade bouncing material). These i would then, in an instant that seemed to last shorter than the time it took to crank the coin through the machine, fling at some unknowing third grade girl whose unfortunate reward had been my recent unabiding and antagonizing attention. The toy would fall into the hands of the authorities, and i would be made to wonder how i might ever get it back.

I remember the first time i noticed the image of silencing a female. It came from a Superman cartoon where Lois had bungled her way into the baddies lair, yet again, only to be helplessly bound at the ankles and wrists. Covering her mouth, the gangsters had wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, pulling it tight between her lips. The word "silencing" is misleading. In fact, it's dishonest. A girl gagged like this is most certainly not quiet. In fact, she becomes a rather interactive stimulant with her abductor, pleading with ever more vigor through the material stuffed between her teeth. Her muffled desperation, a signifier that her fate is out of her hands, immediately ignited a furnace inside of me.

She may be offering all of the riches in the world, a song that soothes the hardest of souls, the secrets to Shangri-La, it doesn't matter. Her attempts at persuading her captor are thwarted. Her voice has been altered, like the liberty of her body - taken completely from her. She can only communicate in moans, contorted eyebrows, violent head shakes, wildly enlarged eyes. Even at a young age, i recognized the excitement this polemic offered, and saw her ministrations as a root cause for arousal.

I experienced a harmonious symbiosis while watching the "gimp" scene in Pulp Fiction. It was my initial foray into the use of my long lost toy as a gagging implement, which had i not had my many loyal years with the rubber ball i may not have emerged unscathed from the experience. Later, when i saw a shiny red rubber orb pinched between the voluptuous lips of a gorgeous female bondage model, i felt a punch to the stomach and head of massive, massive desire that capitalized on my youthful obsession. I was hooked. I've said this in many different ways before, but this image fulfilled an appetite i didn't even know existed.

Singlehandedly, i find the gag to be the most direct and dramatic way to begin a scene. Removing the girl of the ability to speak is an incredibly breathtaking experience, but also risky. Safewords are short circuited, some other form of communication (hand signal, blink code, etc.) must be employed. Also, long term dispatch of a ballgag leads to severe cramping of the jaw, which surprised me at first, but i have come to learn that this area of the body is one of the most tender and sensitive (and least forgiving) that those who engage in SM utilize.

I prefer scenes wherein the girl opens her mouth in anticipation of the gag, or better, gags herself, as opposed to forcibly being shoved in. Watching as she accepts the intruder, and then the straps get pulled behind her head and buckled, i am witnessing a compounded image of the girl's submission. She's transforming her face into a symbol of one whose rights are slowly being stripped from her. Undeniably, I regard this look as a thing of beauty, even more so as a string of saliva drips from her oral cavity, despite its twisted and grotesque characteristics.

I can't wait for the next opportunity to impede.