Milk made

It's quite clear that i'm very enamored with the female creation. I should think it is just as clear that those things that emanate from the female are also very alluring to me (i.e. moans, urine, etc.) Lately, i've been quite quite obsessed with female lactation. I can feel a great deal of energy pooling in the phenomenon's direction.

I don't drink milk myself, so i'm not drawn to consuming the mammary output. In fact, the idea of putting my lips over a girl's heaving, milk-addled tits and drawing liquid from them doesn't offer me all that much stimulation. I have three very distinct, ever-increasingly degrading levels of interest surrounding a female's milk. I will refer to them, in ever more intense gradients, as the Skim, 2% and Whole milk tiers.

Skim milk

What i yearn to see, what is evident throughout the cloud of tangerine terms to the right, comes in the form of erotic auto-operation. I want to see the swollen-boobed maiden wrapping her hands around her tit and squeezing it, milking it, until a fine stream of alabaster liquid shoots from her erect nipple. As she gets into a rhythm, her palms mashing down on the meat of her breast, i find myself mentally directing her to aim the nozzle up into her mouth, struggling to catch every drop, in the hopes of not wasting a single savory morsel. To me, this is a purely feminine form of ejaculation. Yes, there are girls who "come" or squirt, but that is similar in geography and method to the boy version. However, the propulsion of lactose from an already highly-regarded, and female-specific area serves as an exclamation point to a feverishly aroused state.



In this stunning Shirow Masamune illustration, we see our highly sexualized cow girl literally orgasmic from the outpouring of calcified fluid. Those "guns" are at attention, and shooting endless rounds at will.

2% milk

What the previous tier presupposes is that the girl at the center of the pornography currently produces her own milk product. What if you have a girl who has not recently been or is not currently pregnant, and yet you feel the urge to recreate this sprinkler display? All one needs is a natural amount of sadism and a healthy dose of either domperidone or fenugreek. Coupled with a regular schedule of mechanical breast-pump application, and you can induce lactation in any mature female.

Immediately, even i have to take a pause at this idea. This is some very intense body modification, altering a female's frame to serve a completely different, albeit natural, profane purpose. The idea of a girl submitting to this is at the peak of erotic ideas for me. The reasons for why this is so incredibly impressive to me may not be immediately clear. That is most likely because i know what this leads to. As an intense sadist, i've already played out in my head the applications of this discovery, and in some offset ways experienced them. But because i have an unquenchable hunger, i push the possibilities further, to the next tier.

Whole milk

Which comes first:

the need to pump your tits to drain them of your milk or the need to pump your tits to encourage the production of milk?

There is no doubt in my mind that the Creator has a sadistic sensibility, i otherwise cannot explain the devilish convenience that comes with induced lactation. The process one must follow to trick the female body into creating milk (hormones/herbal supplements + regular mechanical pumping) is the very method one must employ once the first gush of creamy ejection occurs to maintain this state. A girl whose tits have been turned into milk factories must regularly pump in order to drain her milk bags - otherwise they fill with liquid and become swollen and quite painful. She has no choice but to give into the signals her body gives, sucking the milk out of her bosom, which only in turn sends a message to the dairy factories that more formula is needed. It's a vicious and gloriously evil cycle. What it amounts to is the transformation of a girl into a human cow. I have given many thoughts and even commands regarding what should be done with this cow juice, and yet the darkness of this fantasy never ceases to shock or excite.

When i first saw a clip of a bound girl attached to an industrial-grade milking machine, the horror and fascination tilted my cognition immediately towards the highly aroused level. I have since, after collecting well over 40 different such scenes, made it an immediate "drop what i'm doing" ultimatum whenever i've encountered another depiction of a poor submissive hooked up to a mindless vacuum machine sucking with a vengeance onto her dangling udders, slowly turning her into a helpless and writhing bovine.

No country for old me

My interests have a very local component. The cheekbone that passes just near my shoulder, the heel clicking by my ankle, the thin wrist cradling the cellular conversation i overhear on the elevator. All of this occurs in proximity to my personal space. The transaction of these geometries excite and stimulate me. Since college, i've been fascinated with spatial relationships that exist between objects, people, cultures, and have thus evaluated every connection i make in my daily life via the rubric of how close it is to me and how much space it occupies. When i feel a sense of alienation, that somehow my energy and body do not fit in the geography it occupies, i can sometimes feel lost. Which makes the recent discovery i unearthed in my site statistics all the more unsettling.

I have it set so that i'm able to chart how many visits i get by not only the continent, nor just the country, but by the city. Without any bashfulness, i must declare that i receive stop-overs from one burg by more than 2-to-1 over any other city. The perverted metropolis in question?

London, England.

I am not by any means insulted by this overwhelming plurality of Londoners crawling the caverns of my cacophony, but the sheer imbalance over any other municipality strikes me as odd mostly because i myself am not from that fair, grey (or is it 'gray'?) city. I have never even visited it. Yet, somehow the material i post here at TransformHer tickles the cockles of my cockneyed brethren. Those of you who do call this blessed plot, this earth, "home", i'd value some theories as to why you and yours have chosen to click into my literary realm. Perhaps it's perfectly obvious, or perhaps you see my pro-Britannia nuance in amongst my regular kinky blather, and thus feel compelled to purchase a few moments of screen adoration via a visit.

For whatever reason that draws those oh so cultured urbanites, being an amateur detective myself (less Sherlock Holmes and more Philip Marlowe), i, of course, took it upon myself to float my own deductions regarding this quandary. The only thing that i could dig up was an early lesson (albeit culturally short-sighted, and ethically just short) i learned when i was trying to educate myself on the larger world of SM and fetishes. It turns out that my proclivities for localness do not reside solely with me. To bastardize a quote by Tip O'Neill, "All kink is local."

As i consumed the various kinky outputs from the then nascent Information Superhighway, perhaps because my mind is attuned to the layout of maps, i noticed very quickly that certain fetishes had their core followers in different regions and countries. From what i can tell, my very unscholarly evaluation assigned the following nation-states with the various fetishes as such:

Germany/Austria/Eastern Europe - heavy rubber/latex, military uniforms, medical
United Kingdom/Australia - latex outfits, crossdressing/maids, diapers/mackintoshes, schoolgirl, spanking
France - corsets, heels/ballet boots, dungeon, whipping
United States - steel bondage, mechanical contraptions, rope (Western/Cowboy influenced)
Japan - rope (Shibari), dollification, extreme feminization/body modification, Daddy/little girl

Of course, this is a generalization, and of course there are fans of latex in Japan just as there are practitioners of Shibari in Germany, but i think the dissemination of the kinks is relatively accurate.

(What is glaringly obvious about this list is the dominance of industrialized "Western" democracies, and few representations from the Second and Third world nations. Does this make the argument that those with disposable incomes and time develop kinky sexualities? Certainly such an argument can be made when someone notes the average cost of a custom-made latex catsuit, not to mention the ability to take photos of it, upload those photos to a website via a connection to the internet, and...wait, you probably have no interest in my sociological polemic. I don't blame you.)

What does all of this mean? Well, in a nutshell (yes, i will provide you voracious readers with a 'point') i should probably pack up these digs and ship me, the girl and the Castle of Deity over to London. Clearly, my public awaits me there.

A year older

"I don't think i can handle 27 of them this year."

This astounds me to hear. An offering of doubt, of her abilities. I'm simply struck by it.

You see, every year, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth, my girl receives a swat for every year she's been on this planet. But, the fun doesn't stop there. She also, when my birthday comes around, receives the appropriate number of commemorative strokes on her naked behind. So, to be completely forthcoming regarding her above statement of doubt, she is really speaking about the cumulative spankings.

Frankly, i have no doubts whether or not she can endure this number. When the overall total of spankings she receives in a calendar year are accounted for, those that fall on our birthdays really only make up a small percentage. What i believe her reticence stems from is less the corporal administration and more the other grandiose gestures she's been asked to endure lately.

I think i do far too little acknowledgment of the total growth that she and i have made both individually and collectively. I do not always honor the commitment she makes to regular physical correction, nor do i give myself the credit i should to allow myself the enjoyment of such a remarkable outlet in my life that i'm able to exercise.

She made it through 27 lashes quite beautifully. I can't state with any sufficient amount of affection how proud of her i am for enduring this physical duress. I can only look forward to the time when my own birthday arrives, and once again, i can apply a fine-tuned amount of force on her naked backside.

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.

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

Sugasm #123

Sugasm #123

from Sugasm by Vixen

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

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 #124? 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
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers
“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”

Breakfast In Bed
“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”

Inked
“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage

Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The great myth of the “Venus corset”

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