Girl training

There are things that i should not know better how to do than women. Simply put, there is a deficit of femininity on display in this world, and i find it to be a travesty.

- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.

- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".

- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.

- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW

- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.

The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.

I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?

you are safe

there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
dangle it
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
across my lips
as i nap
as you watch me nap
from above
brush me with your beauty
pour over me with your eyes
safe
you are safe
for were i awake
i would
topple
you

The Dungeon

Eyes Wide Shut - Banned Orgy

We had to descend several spiralling staircases that carried us from the Burlesque Showcase room, through the Dance floor/Couples Room, to an external staircase that exited the old cathedral for a moment, finally delivering us to the bottom level - the cellar. Immediately, upon penetrating the low-lit chamber called "the Dungeon", you heard the song from the ritual scene in Eyes Wide Shut floating in from speakers throughout the level.

I walked arm and arm with my girl as we took a tour around the room. To our right several lounge chaise lined the wall, above them hung lanterns that sprayed the wall with stars of light. Following the cocktail bar against the far left side, we ventured into the area where the play equipment resided. As we progressed further, the rhythmic sounds of someone being flogged met our ears before the image of the naked girl with her outstretched, bound limbs greeted our eyes. A group of people had gathered to watch this corporal feast, as they gobbled up the moans and cries from the sweating submissive which sang into the air. We stayed for a moment, watching her Top switch between leather whips and hard wooden paddles, producing a gorgeous red tint to her upper thighs and buttocks.

There were many delicious visual feasts for our eyes to munch on, but seeing as she'd been standing on 6-inch heels for over three hours, my girl requested we sit to rest her feet. We resituated ourselves in the first chamber we'd visited in the Dungeon, finding a comfortable couch in the corner. There were others sitting in this area, and we soon found ourselves in polite conversation. While we were talking, a handsome blond man approached my girl.

"Madam, you are so stunning. May i please worship your feet?"

She looked over at me, subtly indicating our roles. He clued in very quickly and turned to me.

"Forgive me. Would you allow me to worship her feet?"

I nodded, and waved my hand in my girl's direction. He knelt at the base of her legs and very gingerly lifted and rested her right leg on top of his bended knee. With equal amounts of delicacy, he carefully undid the ankle straps to her shoes, and gently removed her custom-made patent leather heels. He wrapped his hands around her latex stocking-clad ankles, then slowly began to massage her fatigued tissue beneath the rubbery layer. With methodical movement, he kneaded her foot, every once in awhile bringing it to his mouth where he would softly kiss her toes. My girl relished the adoration, letting her head fall backwards in stimulated bliss. The entire time he paid her attention, he kept whispering to her how beautiful her feet and legs were, and how grateful he was to be able to worship them.

He had just finished his devotion when a gorgeous Italian girl tapped me on my shoulder. Through her pouty, sensuous lips, she asked me if i would allow her to also worship my girl's legs. Out of the corner of my eye, in a small little alcove off to my right, a couple was quietly, but hungrily fucking. I watched their undulating bodies for a moment, then returned my attention to the beautiful raven-haired signora, offering her my consent. Her method was different than the blond gentleman's. Where his touch was thorough and concentrated, her's was sensual and graceful. She brushed her fingers up and down my girl's shiny rubber thighs, barely applying any pressure. Each stroke traced a path that reached further and further up my girl's leg. The worshiping femme nuzzled her cheeks against her goddess' gams, closing her eyes in ecstasy, kissing their entirety. I adored watching her lavish attention on my latex doll. I've always found the idea of a girl servicing my submissive bottom in this fashion incredibly erotic, knowing that it wouldn't go any further than this.

I thanked her for her homage, and helped her to her feet, then dismissed her. I had an urge to turn the evening in a different direction. Earlier, in our tour of the space, i caught sight of a stripper's pole in the middle of the play area. With this in mind, when my girl returned from a brief trip to the rubbergirls' room, i rose, preventing her from taking a seat. I wrapped my arms around her, lavished her neck with miniature kisses, and then tapped upon, with purpose, her rubberized tush three times.

"Are you going to spank me?"

As a sign of confirmation, i walked in front of her, holding her hand, leading her to the pole. We weaved in and out of voyeuristic groups gathered around various devious activities. It was perfect, i thought to myself, because my girl had taken several dance classes, and one of her favorites was her pole dancing class. She excelled at seductively negotiating a floor to ceiling pole in 6-inch heels.

I gathered her in my arms, as we stood looking at the shiny, brass bar, and whispered into her ear,"I want you to give me a slow, enticing dance. Make me want to tear you down from that pole."

She stepped up to the pole, grabbed it with her hand, then took a slow revolution around it - the entire time she kept her bright eyes affixed on me. Swinging her legs around, she slowly lowered her body down the pole, straddling it the length of the descent. The longer she danced, the more spectators she attracted. But despite the growing numbers, her eyes never left mine.

I could barely contain myself. The crowd looking on, her fiery movement, the intensity of her concentration - all of it pushed my arousal to a peak. Without hesitation, i broke the barrier between performer and audience by approaching her as she swayed up there on the platform. I positioned my hands on either side of her hips, holding her still, both of us not moving at all.

I mouthed to her, "Turn around."

She complied.

I stepped closer, right against the pole.

"Grab the pole with both hands, and bend over. Point your ass out to all of those people watching you."

I moved behind her as she grasped her hands around the brass rod. Pushing her legs outward, i positioned her feet exactly where i wanted them. Her shiny backside beckoned me, but i tried to hold on as long as possible, letting this scene get as much maturity as possible. My hand flattened into a paddle shape. In my peripheral vision, i could see that several people had stopped to watch. This reality gave my hand a tremendous momentum as i swung it through the air and landed it on her rubbery cheeks.

"PHWAP!!"

She emitted a tiny "oof". I was immediately taken by how different it felt to spank her ass while it was tightly constricted under a thick layer of shiny latex. When i hit just one of her cheeks, the impact seemed to resonate throughout the entire area. It felt foreign. It felt artificial. It felt incredibly, incredibly erotic. I continued to spank her through the rubber, every once in awhile gazing out to the onlookers. I wanted to see if anyone felt a desire to give her a few swats of their own. Too timid perhaps, no one accepted my non-verbal invitation. Unfazed, i continued to shred into my girl's buttocks, enjoying the recoil her whole backside offered after each slap.

Slowly, as if the lights in the surrounding room were being extinguished, the background dimmed in my eyes. I no longer noticed those gathering. My hunger to inflict upon my girl had sky rocketed. I reached down at the bottom hem of her latex dress, and pulled it up, revealing her pale, sweat-soaked flesh. The aroma from her now freed arousal incited me. My hands acted without thought. They pinched, they clawed at the mounds of meat hovering before me. I spanked her repeatedly, skin to skin, while she clung to the pole. And then, abruptly, i stopped.

I had to. The next step would need to take place back in our hotel room. Over many, many hours.

Worn out

Whenever anyone has asked what my highlight from me and my girl's recent trip to London is, i've hesitated in my response. Quite honestly, i could pick many favorite memories from my inaugural visit to the Square Mile. We saw so many things: gloriously old museums, eccentric and unique boutiques, my favorite soccer team's hallowed grounds, a great assemblage of pubs, and much more. But, it is not the sheer number of great attractions that gives my answer to their question pause. Instead, it is the "inappropriate" nature of our vacation's most treasured souvenir:

Our attendance at Torture Garden's London Fetish Ball

Some of you may remember (and the naughtiest of you might even chuckle) my post about the preparations i needed to go through in order to secure our attendance of the Ball. The biggest stress that followed once our latex goods were ordered and delivered was safely packing them into our luggage prior to our departure and then handing them over to the ever dutiful TSA. I had serious concerns this tidy little investment in rubber gear would find it's way into the back screening rooms at JFK airport, and never see the light of day again. What a sigh of relief that came rushing out of my lungs when i gathered our valises from the luggage carousels at Heathrow and saw the cable tie i put on each zipper completely in tact.

We spent the day of the event caroming from one parlor after another of feminine delicacies, finishing our tour in the neighborhood where my cherished football team plays and also where my dear friend who helped us get into the Ball resided. Originally, the plan i'd arranged with my comrade was for my girl and i to bring over our whole get-up, and then we'd all get ready. This sounded like a lot of fun, but ultimately impractical, when i considered how many different girly accessories and tools we'd have to haul from our hotel to accomplish my doll's latex transformation. We settled for splitting a pizza while watching a soccer match - which was the perfect antidote for my excited nerves in anticipation of the evening's festivities - and then my girl and i made our way back to our West London accommodations.

Getting ready for fetish events is always such a thrill, because i adore witnessing my girl's metamorphosis from pretty, dainty gentlelady to sexed-up, slick, fetish vixen. However, this time was different, because i was making my debut sporting the very textile i've spent many years obsessing over when worn by my feminine counterparts. When it came time to polish and shine my clothing, it sunk in how real my immersion into this event was to be. I was buffing the slick latex so that my own attractiveness would stand out - such an overtly sexual and aggressive gesture i'm not accustomed to making (i'm usually much more subtle in the expression of my appearance) - and soon i felt my own transformation start to unfold. By the time we got the call from the lobby downstairs that the cab we'd ordered had arrived, a fervent energy pulsed through my body, intensified by how turned on both of us were when we looked at eachother. Instead of being coy, we walked through the lobby of our hotel (which was surprisingly busy for that late hour), with purposeful strides and direct eye contact with anyone gawking at our shiny figurines parading across the marble floor.

The spectacle of the Fetish Ball was everything my friend had billed it out to be. This was not going to be like the hugely disappointing events we'd attended here in the States. Top to bottom, the multi-level, former cathedral swam with gorgeous people - both male and female. Hundreds of tightly-clad, latex seductresses slithered and ground their hips to the bombastic beats of the DJ's house music. Vampiric goths, naughty nurses, sinful nuns, pretty candy-coated pixies, and breathtaking pin-ups roamed the grounds, providing your's truly with a sensory feast i'd be able to munch on during the many days following.

The air hummed with a sexual sizzle, that only lowered and deepened into a guttural growl once we stepped foot into the area known as "the Dungeon". It's here that my latex dolly got the most attention - the kind of attention (and my subsequent reaction) that requires another entry, all to itself.

My collection

From a very early age (oh dear, here we go again. Another one of Deity's posts about how he was as a kid - 'fraid so), my favorite places in the world to spend my time were museums. I loved their quiet, church-like solemnity. People spoke in hushed tones, whispering, as if the artifacts were sacred relics (some in fact were) that shouldn't be disturbed. And, contrary to what most must assume, it wasn't just art museums I adored. No in fact. It was all museums. Natural History museums. Transit museums. Military museums. Art museums. Sports Museums. Hell, I'd even go to a toothpick museum, as long as there were objects, on display preferably (and actually a very important detail) behind glass cases.

It turns out that this is a rather prevalent part of my psyche. I've always loved collecting things: stamps, business cards, soil - you name it, i would find a way to gather and archive it. Whatever the collectible, the most important component was the container I kept it in. I preferred that it was see-through. Something about looking at the contents, captured, yet protected and preserved gave me peace; as if i were relieved that they couldn't get away but also, nothing could get to them. I thrilled at the task of cataloging these individual specimens, taking great care to label each with the contents that lie inside. But just as enjoyable was my process of orderly and meticulously putting these treasures away.

I liked knowing I had these little bundles stored in my closet or stacked meticulously on my shelf. By possessing them, I took on the very serious role as their caretaker. I looked after them, made certain they remained organized and cleaned and gave them copious amounts of my attention. I felt total ownership of them, and as a result they were completely and totally mine.

A complete dick

I think with my dick. That's what I'm told. That's what is expressed to me countless times, over and over.

"Stop thinking with your dick."

What exactly does this mean? I know what they intend it to mean when they say it. Stop allowing your phallus to influence or overpower your decisions. But, it's ignorant to expect a man to not give great deference to a part of his anatomy that has caused so much of his life. From an early age, males, whether they are gay or straight develop a very private relationship with their penis. Some will end up sharing a portion of this relationship with others, some will keep it in complete isolation from everyone. However the male decides to handle this, this appendage remains at the very center of their self, and cannot be easily extricated or ignored.

In order for this to be an accurate statement, i think it should be rephrased as:

"Stop thinking with and about your dick."

I'm not sure when i first thought of my penis as a dick (a sexual unit), and i'm not sure i've quite come to think of it as a cock (either as a word or as the trashy term used in erotica/porn). I do know, however, that i spend a great deal of time thinking about it in some fashion. Sometimes i try to remember what it was like before this fleshy handful transformed into a weapon of mass insemination. It's odd to me that i've had only two or three conversations with other (straight) men about our penises, when i'm certain we'd have plenty to say. For the most part, it is seen as homosexual-esque if you were to engage in a discussion about your genitals, and most men will feign complete revulsion at the topic - which i don't get because i find the topic ENDLESSLY fascinating (of course these same men will prattle on and on about bowel movements and their flatulence).

I enjoy a good meal. I feel rejuvenated when i get to spend time outdoors being active. I would even say that music provides me with tremendous amount of stimulation. But without hyperbole, none of this compares to attention paid to my penis. I adore - ADORE - masturbation and sex (and they are separate but equally thrilling activities). In a typical day, i will handle my penis on average of about an hour, whether it is just a quick rub/check-in/adjustment, or if i'm pulling it completely out of my pants and giving it my full attention. I think about it when i'm sitting in my office chair, when i'm on the train holding onto a pole, or when i reach into my pocket to fetch my wallet. It doesn't take much to cause an erection. A certain smell. The sound of a pair of heels clicking on the sidewalk. Even something as simple as a brief embrace from my girl.

Frankly, i've had more worthwhile and meaningful experiences when i've given every little ounce of my energy and thought to my penis. When i channel all of me towards and through it, such tremendous liberation and freedom overwhelms me, i couldn't imagine it never being a major player in my decisions.

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

Many years ago, i created a profile on one of the more prominent personal sites for those seeking an SM relationship. I was very curious, as online dating was just starting to really pick up steam, and thought it would be fun to venture into the kinky partition. I spent a little time filling out my profile, not much, but enough to get across the message that i wasn't seeking a "slave or a sub" nor was i needing the girl to refer to me as "Master" or "Lord" or "Sir" anything. I remember ploughing through the checklist of interests with rapid concentration. You had to indicate whether you'd be interested in receiving or giving of the particular activity (i.e. spanking) as well as indicating your experience level (never tried but curious; very experienced; or completely avoid). Without knowing what this said about me (because i didn't spend a great deal looking at other folks profiles), the manner in which i answered these questions gave my profile a specific expertise level. Apparently, i was advanced in my deviancy.

I enjoyed sampling the number of local girls (i was only looking for any interaction with someone who lived in my city) who largely expressed their (mostly) reluctant interest in being dominated by a man. This made sense to me. If you were reluctant to pursue a kinky connection, it was pragmatic to test the waters in a relatively safe online environment. But, i didn't completely understand what these girls meant by "being dominated by a man" and still don't understand what this means when i encounter this in the naughty blogosphere. I consider myself a dominant male, but i've never seen my behavior as dominating. When it has felt right, i've seen my behavior as guiding, mesmerizing and arousing. I didn't know if these girls were just looking for a much more pushy version of the typical spineless, insecure male they were used to being with, or if indeed they sought the deep connection i've found when reducing a girl to an object.

I found a good number of girls to be outright enticing as presented through their profile, but chose not to contact any of them. Content for now to just act as a voyeur, i logged in every few days to monitor the activity. I'd been on the site for about a week before i received my first message. It was adorable in its frenetic brevity. She was very timid and unsure, but she expressed a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out to find out more about the man i described myself as. We had a few conversations, and it became clear that my desires were much more extreme than perhaps she wanted at the moment. We parted ways in a pleasant manner - her wishing me luck in my search, me wishing her to be safe and to guard herself diligently. Most of the exchanges (all initiated by the girl) i had on this site proceeded like this, with me at the end wishing to secure each of these novices against what i observed as unexperienced and misguided trolls posing as "Dominants".

I'd nearly given up hope on ever finding a reasonably entertaining and challenging plaything, when out of nowhere Pamela [not her real name] dropped me a very reticent and cautious line. I'll never forget the exact wording of her note:

I'm not even sure why i'm on this site or even why i'm writing to you, but you sound unlike any other man i've found here, and even if you weren't that refreshing, and despite the fact you don't post a pic of yourself, i can't help but get the sense that you are an incredibly attractive person.

I sat on her message for a few days. I liked that it was just mine. I hadn't responded yet, so, to her there was no real existence of me. Just a profile. Whereas i got to sit and read those words and couldn't help but feel their genuineness and their utter flattery. She showed intelligence, confidence, but also a deep vein of curiosity in just her words. I contemplated not even replying, ditching the site completely, but then i abdicated and wrote her back.

I wish now that i hadn't.