My cloud

I'm a huge fan of 'cloud tags', as evidence by my 'Lures' in the right sidebar. I was able to take my current slate of entries and parse them through Wordle's services, creating the above word cloud. The larger the word, the greater instance of its occurrence in the posts that appear on my homepage.

With that said, i'm particularly proud of the most prominent and largest term featured on "transformher.blogspot":

girl

Makes me proud. Check it out, and have fun making clouds from your own favorite sites.

**I would not be embarrassed if those of you out there chose one of your favorite "Lustful Demise" posts and made a wordle cloud out of it (and sharing it with me discreetly, should you prefer). I'd like to see the visualization, but i'd also like to know which posts you kind folks respond to the most.**

Cradled

I waited until she'd started her shower, rummaging through my collection for the necessary equipment. In the background, i could hear the sound of water pouring forth from the shower nozzle onto her body, cleansing her. In a few minutes, i would provide my own form of cleansing.

I stood at the end of the bed, looking at each post, then studying the steel scrollwork that formed the footboard. I spread my legs as far as i could, until each foot rested against the bed's supporting trestle. I gathered my bearings, feeling how much balance i'd lost from when i was just standing straight up. I examined the thick, black railing that travelled between the two posts. I rested my wrists on it, spreading them as far out as i could.

More. I'd need more.

I leaned my torso forward so that my arms could lie against the railing. I noticed the arch in my back in this position.

More. I'd want more.

I folded my top half fully over the bar, pressing the center of my chest into it. This brought my entirety of both arms in contact with the rail, even my armpit rested on it, but more importantly, it caused an extreme, even taxing arch of the back. My butt peaked into the air like a mountain ridge - impassable, unavoidable, intense.

I'd found my posture.

She emerged from the shower, glistening with freshness. Truthfully, i adore every inch of my girl, but my favorite moments to put my hands and mouth on and in every crevice and cavity is right after she's bathed.

"Darling, are you gon-"

I interrupted her by grabbing her by the wrist and directed her to the bathroom. She followed silently, accepting of the transaction about to take place. I pressed her body into the bed's end and asked her to let me know if she should grow cold. I then set to work.

Feverishly, i grabbed a coil of jute, positioned her right ankle to the same spot my own was in modeling this posture. I quickly anchored her foot to the bed, traveling up her leg, attaching every twelve inches or so the rest of her thigh to the bed's frame. I switched to her other leg, and mirrored my rigging. I specifically pulled the rope that ran just under her ass cheeks on both sides particularly tight for three reasons:

-this cradle would provide an inordinate amount of support and security to her, allowing her to lean back in the bondage
-it pinched the meat of her ass, causing it to bubble out and protrude in a cartoon-like fashion
-it would trap more blood in the sub-cutaneous levels, resulting in dramatically-enhanced markings from the cane

I fashioned her arms to the railing with as much greediness as i had enjoyed on her legs. In fact, several times, i had to pause and re-adjust the sizable erection straining upward in the crotch of my pants. When i was finished, she sat there completely immobilized. Her naked flesh angrily conversed with the rope that bound it to the steel bedframe. It was an inviting picture, her body hung like captured prey in my trap, juxtaposed by the very furniture she and i sought for re-energizing and slumber. It reminded me of the a rhyme from my childhood days:

Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Once i'd sufficiently fastened her to the bed, i stepped away, examining my handiwork. I thought of the wind, and its blows, its strength, and its damage. I exited the bedroom and walked down the hallway, knowing i'd leave her hanging there for a few minutes before i returned, cradle and all.

Sadistical analysis

When i'm swatting my girl, her shrieks, jerks, moans, and groans are the currency that affords me purchase to a very erotic engagement. The thought process i embark on to derive whatever posture she will assume while getting tortured satisfies a deep mental itch. I do enjoy handling a cane or a whip. I especially enjoy the feel of rope as i bind her to a pole or bed frame in a prone position. However, these are the prep work a sous chef completes in order for the master chef to create a delectable repas.

When i strike her exposed behind, the bludgeoning is not the end of the dialogue for me. I seek her response. I'm not poking and prodding a lifeless doll. Her pleas for clemency are the fruits i seek to feast upon. Her appeals for leniency give me the sustenance i require. She knows i'll listen, but what makes me grin wickedly is that she knows that's all i'll do. Now the question that should be carefully handled is does this man who calls himself 'Deity' like any and all torture?
Actually, no.

I've collected a large number of SM videos wherein there are many scenes with a girl getting tortured and screaming bloody murder out to the heavens, and for the most part, this does absolutely nothing for me. On the intellectual side, i'd like to think that speaks to how little misogyny plays into my sexuality. On the emotional side, i know precisely why it doesn't excite me. What i need is a relationship between the 'victim' and the 'torturer'. Simply seeing a girl withstand lashing after lashing across her back does nothing for me. Now, if you were to provide some narrative details that reveals the level of intimacy between the two parties, then it would suddenly become interesting. What excites me is understanding the amount of submission and sacrifice the girl is offering. Watching two complete strangers engage in corporal punishment will never arouse my interest.

This reminds me of a public flogging me and my girl witnessed at a local play party a few years back. It was a thing of utter beauty. The setting for this event was a loft converted into a multi-chambered torture vault. This allowed many voyeurs to scuttle along the hallways and peek their heads into different rooms where scenes of various nature (medical play, water play, knife play, etc.) could be viewed. I'd brought my girl, at an early point in our relationship, as way of giving her her first public spanking. Being as gorgeous a creature as she is, she received the grand share of interest of most any girl in attendance, except for one named 'lacey' who we found bound, nude to a St. Andrew's cross in an all candle-lit room. Being so packed with gawkers, it truly was standing room only. We found a place that had my girl and i only a few feet from lacey's naked backside.

She was blindfolded, wrists and ankles bound by leather shackles to the wooden frame. Not a single stitch of clothing, she hung there, waiting. For what, none of us really knew. Then suddenly, a man entered the room, black button-down, black jeans, black boots, in his hand a sheath that held multiple rattan canes. Without seeing him or hearing his voice, somehow lacey sensed it was "Him". Her body tensed. Her posture improved. Her buttocks pointed out with intense supplication. Over the next 40 minutes, me and my girl would bear witness to eight different canes being broken over lacey's backside, accompanied by her marvelous masochistic expletives. The colors of the streaks across lacey's flesh, held up by the swollen welts that gave her torment raised dimension were stunning and beautiful, but they were not the most admirable object on display that evening. The relationship that lacey had with her Top, the intimacy she invited us to witness, and the gift of seeing her torment (as it was quite clear that she was not just suffering for "him" but for all of us in the room) touched me for many, many days.

When i force pain upon my girl and make her endure it, the end result isn't that she's simply taken it, but rather we've explored, together, another dimension of our relationship. I adore her when she wakes in the morning, hair all mussed by her trip to beddy-by, and it's that which i value as i strip her of her personality and flog her beautiful ass until she pleads with me to stop. That she puts herself in that position, that she puts her limitless intelligence and emotional aptitude in my hands to suspend for the duration of our disciplinary scene is a strange way of achieving intimacy, but what i understand is that its her struggle, her sacrifice, her surrender to me that ultimately satisfies my sadistic bent. Pure pain doesn't capture me, but rather sacrifice and humility.

Deity's ode to OurNails.com

I am an unabashed fan of this site, and i have mentioned it and my affection for long, fake fingernails a few times before. It took me awhile to admit this to myself, let alone anyone else. I remember doing so for the first time on this portal and still feeling a little vulnerable about declaring my love for these freakishly long unguils. But, i've found myself going to OurNails.com so frequently these past few days, that i cannot hold in my love for it. I invite others to travel over there and see the beautiful models they've assembled.

In looking for more OurNails girls online, i've found a TROVE of replicated digitized doubles that will serve as the body of my ode to them. Without further ado:

Ode to OurNails.com

Here's to them having their own YouTube channel.

Here's to them letting Cassandra pop balloons on vuze.com.

Hip-hip hooray to their MySpace page!

And let us raise a glass to the slideshow that landed me the caketopper to this post (yes, i've watched it easily over 10 times).

Thank you, OurNails. You nails it every time.

Born yesterday

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She disappears

Half a Milk.. eeh... Million, originally uploaded by Allure+Desire.

It's just her hands, and her upper thighs.

The rest diminished, erased, leaving you wanting, drawing with your mental graphite the rest, how you want it to look, act, respond.

It's the absence of those other parts that starts to drive you mad. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your nostrils flare, until suddenly the civility you use as your mask has come off.

It lies there on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. You will return to it, eventually, but only once you've finished with her.

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.