Tightlacing

      Me.  Her.  The Holiday Inn.  Over three days, we explored a thousand and one ways to reach sexual satisfaction.  Ping-pong paddles.  Hair brushes.  Enemas.  Furry, fox pajamas.  The works!  Since we planned our weekend respite, I was ecstatic about one thing: breaking out my new corset from The Folsom Street Fair.
     After fumbling with the clasps on the front, I was ready to be zipped up tight.  I hissed, "Tighter," the way the corset compressed my torso pressed all of my hot buttons.  Pulling the laces tighter and tighter, she squeezed the air from my lungs.  My spine was forcefully straightened.  My submissive side awakened.
     Pulling my hair, she barked, "On your knees."  After running her tongue across my face and around my open mouth, she pushed me on all fours.  Planting her foot on my ass, she grunted as she tightened the laces even further.  I was surprised by how much I wanted it be crushed.  Putting her weight into it, I could feel my insides collapse.  To be bound this way felt so fucking good.
     Still on my knees, I could hear her toy box rattle.  The anticipation for me is always more painful than anything in her arsenal.  Deep down, I fear her.  I am scared of her sadistic nature.  No warm up.  No warning.  My body stings from the hairbrush striking my ass.  The sound of the plastic slapping against my ass cold be heard throughout the first floor.  I don't know if it was the corset restricting my breathing or if I was feeling more feminine.  A soprano whimper escaped my bearded face.  A second blow soon followed.
     I couldn't turn away.  I couldn't turn around.  Nothing is more vulnerable.  My entire body was hers for the taking.  With this black opportunity, she chose to beat and fuck me into climax.  That was the night I fell in love with wearing corsets.

Sacred Submission

     When the words, "I submit to you," reaches your ears; do you envision me kneeling before you?  Bowing my head, humbly?  Kissing and licking your boots?  Has it ever occurred to you that submitting to the likes of yourself would require me to erect my posture?  Climb uphill?  Sprout wings? 

I rejoice in my servitude because

I find ascension in my subjection to you

My service thrusts me towards higher standards

     I believe we give too much thought to the prepositional understanding of submission.  Under.  Lower.  Smaller.  Fetishizing the act of reducing oneself, we create symbols of humiliation to secure these statuses of dominance and submission.  But what does that say about the Dom?  If I have to stoop so low, for someone to appear superior?  Its an indicator of a deficiency if I have to become a weak, dirty slut to bolster you.
     I give myself up to be risen; I relinquish my control to be empowered.  When the words, "I submit to you," spill from my lips, I begin to scale the ladder to your feet.  Evolution awaits within my slavery.  Blessings and success become fruit of your discipline.  For, when I'm with you, I'm in the company of a king.

Am I wearing a collar or is this your crown choking me?
Is that your palm spanking me or The Left Hand of God?

 

The above art is by the gorgeous genius 

Gonzalo Benard

These self portraits really spoke to me

because I felt perspective being challenged.

Is he dying or ascending?

Are the birds attacking him or making him one of their own?

How many angels have I mistaken for vultures?

and vice verse?

Twin Crushes: Fear & The Future

My Flesh: Thin Ice
My Mind: Eggshells
My Soul: Boundless

I fear that my integrity
may be crushed under the pressure of my ambition.

I fear that my desires and dreams
will surpass my capacity, begetting debt.

I fear my limbs may snap beneath the weight of my dreams' flexibility.

Fear is my fuel.

My prayers run faster than the world spins
My farsighted eyes become blind to the present moment
My marathon motives prove too taxing for my virgin legs

The future baits me astray....

     I may come off as masochistic, but I am really a coward attempting to become refined.  Diamonds are created under pressure.  Oppression is the milk of warriors.  I'm searching for the strength that comes from finding peace within suffering.
     When Life strikes me, I fold under its mighty blow.  When the world wraps it's fingers around my throat, I writhe and whine from discomfort.  But, with each bout, I undoubtedly grow stronger.  With each pass through the flames, I become a bit purer.
     Through bondage and S&M, this principal has become abundantly clear to me.  In spite of being rendered a panicked and broken man...In spite of freezing into fetal position...In spite of naked forfeitures, I return to Life's boudoir with a little more endurance.

Thank you, Life, for training me.

Thank you, World, for not sparing the rod

I promise, one day I'll be powerful enough to return the favor...

Above images are from "Book A" by Vangelis Efthymiou

Downtown Sodom: The Black Cradle (So Many Eyes)

"Two Sodomites..." by Alessandro Bavari

With my feet and ankles tangled in a web of steel

Momentum becomes my lover...my tormentor...

Their whispers coat my skin

Their eyes fuel my flesh

Impaled on every downswing

Swinging backwards fills me with void 

I find stamina...I find satisfaction...

In a cradle of black leather.

     I never understood the saying, head over heels in love, because I was in the extreme opposite position...and I was deeply in love.  Wrapped in chains, my legs were almost behind my head as he fucked me in long and deep strokes.  Stroking.  Thrusting.  Pounding.  My body conforms to the details of his dick.  I felt every vein.  I felt every curve.  I damn near felt every pink and purple shade of his perfect cock.

     Silhouettes of voyeurs begin to swirl around us.  Hands begin to reach out.  I was being fucked in a sling for the first time before a hungry audience.  Daddy turns my insides into putty as a crowd of men circles around us. Watching them reach down to touch themselves...whisper back and forth with each other...licking their lips with their eyes focused on us...I felt charged by their mass arousal. 

     A voice shoots from the shadows, "Fuck that black pussy!"  The swarm starts to buzz: they're cheering for my Daddy, slapping his ass, wrapping their arms around his rocking body.  Suddenly, golden arms sprout from the unknown above my head.  Rubbing his hands up and down my sides, I can feel his erection bouncing on my shoulder.

     Curled into a swinging snatch, I couldn't see the man who was grabbing the base of my dick...Slamming me against my Daddy's hips...Massaging my shoulders and chest.  Pulling my legs even further back, I was surprised to find my toes in his mouth.

     His Spanish accent hisses over my head, "This is so fucking hot...Fuck that black pussy...You want his white babies?  All over your face?  I love your feet...so fucking hot."  His dirty mantra started to turn me on; he was in a deep zone.  In between swallowing my feet, he starts to speak louder, "He want your white babies, fuck that black pussy!"  Sloppily running his tongue across my soles, "All over his pretty face!"  This guy is proving to be quite the character.

"Three Voyeurs" by Alessandro Bavari

Moonstruck: What the Fuck?

     If I saw this smile pasted on the face of a child, I would assume she was up to mischief.  I would assume something terrible was done or in preparation.  Pretty.  Pristine.  Her smile compels me to keep an watchful eye on her.

Her smile gives me cause to worry

Wondrous

Wicked

Warning

     When it’s playtime, she breaks out her latest batch of ‘pervertibles’; household items that are used for perverse purposes. Withdrawing these items one by one, my adrenaline starts to rush. I’m gonna get it.

Rulers

Bamboo Skewers

Clothespins

Ping Pong Paddle

     Assuming the position, I lie on my stomach and arch my ass upward.  Curiosity and fear creates a crazy cocktail.  Beginning with the small skewers, she threw off my expectation by start softly and off beat.  Gradually, her strikes grew harder and faster; as did my yelps.  I love the contradiction between my cries and welcoming body language.  No matter the pain, I should ready and eager to receive another one.
     I sounded like a puppy begging for the attention if his master.  Whimpering, clawing at the mattress; I wanted to run away.  I wanted to use our safe word, “Yellow”, but I also wanted to see this to the end.  At the tail end of this torture, I knew there was treasure.
     After an anatomical tour with rulers, she returned to her bag of tricks.  Pulling out a purple silk scarf, I was confused by her arsenal.  Rubbing my thighs and ass with the satin, I looked back to see her smiling.  She was being so gentile…so soft.  Speaking in baby talk, “I love my boy.”  My mind took a u-turn. I started to imagine this moment being a trap to lower my anticipation, a decoy, a "pump-fake".
     She was being so gentile…so soft, I started to expect the worst. Showering me with affection, she gushes, “You know how much your Mama loves you?”  My mind started to fill with giant, sharp, blunt objects. Painful, traumatic abuse to counteract with this moment of smoothness.

I snapped!

     I screamed, “You’re scaring me!” I twist body away from her.
     Concerned, she asks, “Why? What am I doing?”
     Sounding like a big bitch, “You’re trying to trick me!”
     Trying to calm me down, hushing me, “I can’t be gentile? Must everything pleasant be met with something tragic?” Holding me in her arms, I felt like crying. It took me a while to return.

Was this the treasure I sought to find?

What the fuck happened?

     The only model I'm really into, Sasha Marini, always manages to be in high-concept pieces.  In "Rape", photographed by Roger Nicotera, we find Sasha in a real Roman jail.  Even in the midst of dirty mattresses and subterranean grit, Sasha shines like a morsel of gold.

View the rest of this spread:

HERE

Baptism by Bondage: Part II

[The Prologue]
[Part I]

Bound to the heavens above

Dangling by my arms

My limbs went numb

My wrists are crushed by the weight of my body

A painful parable

     Transforming me into a human chandelier, inertia became his favorite sex toy.  Using my swinging skull to slide across his big cock.  With my jaws opened wide, he swung me back and forth: I was the epitome of objectification.  It was an honor.  Every round, I forced his erection further and further into my throat, sometimes blocking my airways.  Feeling his veins graze my lips...Tasting him...Sucking him...Truly felt like a privilege. 

Thank God for the gift of rhythm

In between beats, I'd take a deep breath in preparation of the big plunge

After enough practice,

I was able to steal a breath from around the giant lodged in my esophagus

     Withdrawing himself from my jaws, I was left to dangle alone.  By this point, my arms had become fading phantoms.  Essentially, I was levitating in mid air.  Apart from my senses and my body, I was in a transcendental state.  The sounds of the chains cascading from above hypnotized me.

     Suddenly, a symphony flooded the room.  A sensuous instrumental began to play from a stereo in his room.  The classical music reminded me of wisps of smoke lifting from incense.  Wrapping his body around me from behind, he began to dance with me.  His gyrating hips made my floating body swirl.  I could feel his erection sliding up and down the sides of my torso.  Tenderness.  Elegance.  Romance.

At that moment

I swear to God, he had achieved telepathy.

  

I could hear him whispering in my mind,

"The way you are now, powerless, is still worthy."

"I'm not that the only one that sees you beyond your body and is pleased."

"Although you're the sacrifice, this is my offering to you."

"The way you are, powerless, is fruitful."

Powerful sentiments filled my mind and spirit

     Us dancing felt incredibly maternal.  I felt incubated.  Being bound and rocking to his movements, I felt reinstalled into my mother's womb.  I was being programmed to believe that I was perfect, even as a hanging piece of meat.  Detaching me from the suspension bar gave me new limbs; oddly, I had to learn how to use them.  My elbows remained locked.  My leather mitts remained Heavenward.  Freedom felt foreign.

I was born again....

Baptism by Bondage (Part I)

[The Prologue]

     A week before meeting with my Ivory Sphinx, he gave me a homework assignment. Simply put, he tells me to, “Send me a fantasy, tell me what you’ve come to expect.” Initially, I was excited. Whenever I get a chance to use my writing as an aphrodisiac, even foreplay; I dive in head first. I write fantasies for a living, I inhabit erotic thoughts and scenes. However, sitting at my laptop, typing then backspacing, typing then backspacing…for some reason, I couldn’t write a word. I was creatively impotent. My genius was flaccid.
     I’ve come to realize that my instincts wouldn’t let me form a plot that could influence the future. A part of my creativity was deactivated in regards to this man. The one and only intention I had been to be totally submissive. Whether it lead to being a servant, slave or punching bag; I wanted to be a silent conductor of his energy.

My instincts were correct

Construction of even a single idea would be futile

What he had in store surpassed my capacity to imagine…

…by far…

     I found myself standing nude and blindfolded, with my hands on head. Pacing around me, I would gather the occasional sensation of him sniffing me, groping my muscles and twisting my nipples. Bending me backwards by pulling my hair, I found balance in my fear of him. I feared that he would find my devotion flawed, my offering blemished.

This combination of fear, forfeit and freedom

Left me transfixed

     Sliding a pair of leather mitts over my hands, he then pinned my fists behind my back. Gear was also strapped around my ankles; the leather…his touch…the chemistry made my ankles highly erogenous. Pressing my face into his chest, I couldn’t breathe. Suckling on his nipples, his bosom was all the air I needed. Sliding my face down his hairy, course torso, I was sent to my knees.

I was face to face to the jeans imprisoning my paradise

Gnawing at the denim, I wanted to free the beauty bulging within

Reduced to a helpless, whimpering puppy

I consumed all I could from his closed fly.

      Oddly, I felt a sense of gratitude as he declined me from my knees to completely prostrate.  To my delight, I was face down upon the altar of his bare feet.  Savoring the opportunity, I ran my tongue between his toes.  In that moment, I felt like Mary Magdalene anointing the feet of Jesus with oil.  Kissing and licking his feet filled me with joy.

Hog tied

Flat on my stomach

I felt truly free...

He detached me from my body

In this realm, in which he sent me

His feet wasn't soaked in my saliva

but my spirit..


(To be continued...)

A Prologue to "Baptism by Bondage"

Because of this experience:

For the rest of my life

I am incapable of feeling unloved

It is an impossibility to feel isolated

I didn’t know clarity and perspective had a scent,

Until I smelled it on my skin.

His immortal touch will linger forever on my body

Even in stillness, our dance is eternal

     Our sex felt wildly religious.  I seriously wanted to dump the contents of my wallet onto his floor and run laps around his bedroom.  I wanted to grab my cellphone and quit my job to become his full time devotee.  This life altering night illustrated that sex and The Holy Ghost are, not only closely related, but conducive to each other.

     I had to break this session into literary segments because there was so much stimuli to sort out and grapple with.  It is really important that I give this tremendous moment justice.  By writing this, I am attempting to label the ethereal.  I am attempting to identify to nameless phantoms.  I am attempting to define the obscure niches of the human experience.

Please note:

Anything I write

Will most certainly pale in comparison to the actual experience...

The set the tone for this series,

I will be using photos from Didio's "Redemption"

It resonates with me as "Baptism by Bondage"

[Part I]
[Part II]

Agalmatophilia: Stillness & Silence

Patience.  Don't you dare move.  Wait until I get to you.  I prefer my flesh frozen, yet warm to the touch.  Don't blink.  Don't shift your eyes.  Keep flexing those muscles while holding your breath.  Don't you fucking move until I tell you to.  Your body is under my authority.

Shhhhhh...Silence.  Do not sully your beauty by talking.  Your vocabulary is hereby reduced to moaning and climatic shouts.  I would remove your tongue if it didn't have other pleasurable uses.  I would gag you if I didn't have plans for your mouth.  Keep those masculine jaws tightly clinched.  Keep pouting those sexy lips. 

Opinions are prohibited.

Don't you dare move.  I bind you to my computer screen.  Stay perfectly still on this page as I examine your body...analyze your parts...survey your strength...understand your beauty.  Don't you fucking move until I hit 'play'.  With the power of my index finger, I decide whether I want more of you. 

     Reviewing the photographic work of Jannis Tsipoulanis, I felt a surge of power.  In an erotic epiphany, I realized, "He's posing for me, for my amusement and arousal."  The product he's marketing dissolves in his nudity and sex appeal, hence, his primary purpose is to feed my optical appetites.  At this point, I haven't the faintest idea of what he's selling or where I should go to purchase it.

The bondage of beauty is double sided.

Erotic Errands

     Today, I'm heading to San Francisco to make a few purchases.  I'm very excited because I finally found a shop that sells leather and bondage gear, "Stormy Leather".  Nothing against my favorite online shop, Extreme Restraints, but I've been craving a brick & mortar spot for the longest time.

I've always wanted to try gear on.

See myself in shit I can't afford.

Ask someone, "How does this look?"

     I'm going to buy something special: some black and silky to wear under my leather chastity belt...maybe something lacy yet masculine.  I also need a ball gag.  Under the right pressure, I can be a screamer, thus, I'll need something to sink my teeth into and muffle my cries.  Catharsis can get very loud.  My voice can get really high.  Hopefully, he straps it on too tight...just enough.
     Another item on my to-do list: make a copy to my chastity belt's key.  Only one other person has it, maybe it's time to give lust a try.  In a pretty box adorned with a bow, I'm granting him the gift of control.  I'll invest in him the power of "when".
     I love the idea of being trapped until he decides to give me freedom.  My dick does a great impersonation of The Incredible Hulk!  Filled to the brim with sexual energy, I can dwell in denial or experience pleasure vicariously.  There's a powerful feeling of relief that washes over me when the pad lock is removed.  A relief so poignant it's orgasmic in itself. 

A Perverse Patience: Arousal By Waiting

My last text to him read,

"Promise me, you'll grant me the opportunity to express my gratitude;

To deny me such a chance would be too cruel."

     My Ivory Sphinx set up our first session for a date weeks away.  Although we're well acquainted, we have scheduled an introduction of a darker proportion.  In essence, I'll be meeting my master for the first time.  On the sixth day of May, I'll be bound and twisted to his inventive liking.  I will finally be at his mercy. 

How do you pray for brutality?

How do you beg for suffering?

     The anticipation is interesting.  Lately, I've been experiencing micro-trances where, suddenly, my mind drops into a valley of fantasy.  Short lived erections fill my pants repeatedly during work.  His voice saying, "The foreplay has already begun," echoes in my head as I adjust my briefs for the twelve time.  For some odd reason, everything black and shiny makes me drool.  Have you ever lusted after a stapler?

     Vivid possibilities are involuntarily popping up in my imagination.  Salty, sweet phantom flavors has been filling my mouth spontaneously.  Clearly mind fucked, somehow his hot load is impregnating my brain.  I can't get him off my mind!  Every thought bears his image.

I will savor this moment.

The fresh and exciting often becomes custom and stale.

It isn't everyday when you have something to look forward to

My Ivory Spinx

Like an ivory coated Sphinx, he asks,

"What about bondage turns you on?"

Often, I talk before thinking,

but this time, I felt the weight of his question.

"I find it elegant"

His eyebrows raise,

my ego suggests that my response was a first for his ears,

"Elegant? In what way?"

Endorphins rushes through my body...

My brain starts to spark and simmer...

I savor the chance to converse in this way,

"I find it elegant,

because it's a celebration of our limb's range of motion.

A pleasurable means to apply pressure to our bodies boundaries"

My mind started to ramble all of my previous posts...

He looks confused...

...in a good way...

Changing the subject,

we begin to talk about Sarah Palin

and whatever recent controversy she was wrapped in.

I joke,

"She's the only person who could equally be a presidential candidate

and a contestant of Dancing with the Stars!"

While laughing, my phone vibrates from my pocket.

My ivory sphinx texts from in front of me,

"I think I am the right guy to tie you up..."

"I appreciate your willingness to explore"

I can't wait to discover what dark treasures await for me

I look forward to praising him for granting me passage...

The above photography is from Scott Aitken...

Although his work comes off more acrobatic than masochist

I have a feeling this guy gets it...

He has a thing for twisting up dancers

(Don't we all?)

He pulls off the paper-thin balance between:

Frailty & Strength

Grace & Struggle

Experience his work:

HERE

Life & Lygerastia: Arousal by Darkness

     I have always been very curious about BDSM culture.  Bondage, gear and filthy darkness inspires me.  Artful.  Abstract.  Exhaustive.  How much can you take?  How far can your legs stretch?  Where is your breaking point?  It's all about pressing against limitations.

     As taboo as it sounds, we've all been there one way or another.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to becoming a human chandelier dangling naked in the basement.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to submitting to a master, praying he does you right.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to loving someone so much, you want to choke the life out of him/her.

  

It really isn't as edgy as it seems.

What would it look like...

If we were to condense your last relationship thirty minutes?

Love

Pain

Stuffed Animals

Agony

Semen

Mom's Good China Smashed and Shattered

Bandages

Would co-exist in a single moment...

I really love the man behind this exhibition! He does it for me.

Equal parts perversion, pulp and polish

He creates a dark industrial playground

If applause could be measured by masturbation

I would give Ulli Richter a standing ovation!

Professional Attire = Bondage Gear?

Tighten that tie, boy

          Yeah, stand up real straight

          ...you better not slouch...

Tailored to perfection

...Your suit is your new spine...

          Shoulders pinned back

          Chin eternally uplifted

          Lose yourself in your Masters' precision

          ...and you'll be greatly rewarded

Stand less than erect

     ...Arrive in garments less than crisp

          .....Allow your whites to become eggshell

...and you will be severely reprimanded...

     At work the other day, I was sitting at my desk when a familiar feeling began to spread across my body.  Sitting perfectly upright, my mind began to replay his coarse voice in my ear, "Stand up straight, boy."  My senses revisited his calloused hand gripping my throat. 

His authority...

My restraint...

The power exchange aroused me on a myriad of levels.

Typing data into my marketing spreadsheet,

My tie was a bit too tight for comfort...the way I like it.

     Flashing back to a scene that involved posture bars, muzzles and arm restraints, I felt a strange similarity within my work clothes.  Due to the tailoring of my suits, I must keep my diagphram empty, stomach in and chest out.  These shoes are only uncomfortable if I step out of line. 

     Punching me in the chest, he barked, "You need this!"  Pinching my nipples with his fingers, he pressed his lips to mine for a brief moment, "You wouldn't have the discipline alone, you need pressure."  He's right.  My blood moves better when it's mixed with a little fear.

     When they came up with professional attire, did they use the pricipals of restriction and discipline?  When they designed the neck tie, did they consider the way it makes you stand differently.  I'm starting to think so.  These cuff links keeps me from resting my wrists on the table.  This suit jacket keep my eyes front and center.  These slacks make my bulge beautiful...

     I can feel him grabbing my crotch too tight for comfort...the way I like it.

"This is what you want."

"You'll endure the name calling...the correction...the punishment,"

"All for the promise of this."

Feeling the warmth of his touch, I understood what he meant. 

Sunrises & Dark Alleys

     I love/hate black people!  Simply because you never have to wonder what we are thinking; we will shout our opinions from the rooftops and then call our friend on speakerphone to elaborate.  Due to this key cultural feature, my day at work got very interesting.  It all started with the golden child of cyber-voyeurs and exhibitionists: Facebook.

     After a week of working with a new firm, I added a co-worker as a friend.  I took to her quickly because our discussions would range from The Book of Hebrews to Fantasia to coke lines; we could talk about everything under the Sun.  Online we'd exchange witty comments, LOLs and smiley faces; she was a great add.
     One day while filing some documents, I suddenly heard a loud scream come from the central office.  Rushing out to help, I walked in to my co-working clicking through pictures of me at the "Death Guild".  I'm dressed in a tight, black T-shirt; on the front was a drawing of a naked woman ball-gagged and bound.  I am also donning a big spiked collar.  She tried to click off, but it kept going to the next picture...and the next...and the next.

     I wasn't really embarrassed, but I was a little annoyed that she wouldn't stop screaming.  Looking up at me, professionally dressed in a suit and tie and glaring back at the computer screen, she couldn't grasp that I could be genuinely both people, "Oh my Lord!"  Her reaction was incredibly humorous to me; but the funniest part was that those pictures were just the tip of the iceberg. 

She hadn't the slightest clue about what I was really into.

     Getting a grip of herself, the first thing she does is go through her purse, "You're off on Wednesdays, right?  My church has a service starting at 7:00 pm!"  She takes a laminate invitation from her bag and scoots it across the table towards me, "Please go and get some prayer, Jesus still loves you!  It's not too late!"

     At this point, I'm laughing hysterically.  If she only caught of glimpse of the shit on this blog, she would drag me to the altar herself.  After catching her breath, she collects herself, "I'm so sorry; that was just a lot to take in on a Sunday morning.  I'm not judging you, I'm just caught off guard! You're nothing like that in real life, You're a big square!"

What's the definition of "Real Life"?

     Little does she know, I am a big square.  I laugh too loud.  I love cartoons.  Gummy worms make me incredibly happy.  Just because I have a proclivity towards leather, whips and chains doesn't mean I'm incapable of being goofy or naive. 

     I hate the assumption that one of my incarnations must be a facade.  I am authentically myself whether I'm in the office, writing this blog or at the club wearing a muzzle.  As if I'm at the San Francisco Citadel because it makes me feel cool.  Or while watching "The Princess and the Frog", I'm secretly wishing I was watching "Bound Gods".  This is why pseudonyms exist in the first place. 

People still can't get over the fact that the world is round:

Beautiful sunrises and dark alleys can exist in the same instance.

Can't my life be entirely non-fictional?

Can't I be all these things at once?

Is it really a paradox?

Or just reality?

80 year-olds are having hot, fulfilling sex as you read this

Some beautiful Mandingo warriors are born with micro-penises

Why are we so shocked?

     While pondering my new thoughts of duality and public vs. private personas, I hear, "Girl, you gotta see this! Look on my Facebook page!"  This woman called her friend to talk about her discovery, "I know, girl, night & day! Night AND DAY!"  One moment she's introducing me to her Lord and Savior and the next she's posting my pictures on her wall!  This made me laugh harder because, in my mind, I instantly labeled her a hypocrite....which , in turn, makes me one  The law of transitivity says: If I can be this grand multi-dimensional being; in the same fashion, she can be equal parts saint and sloppy gossiper.  She looks up at me and seriously asks, "Are you into dominatrixes and stuff?"

     I went ahead and nodded, "Yes." (Why not?)

     Taking her hand off the receiver, she laughs, "He is! Oh my God, who did they hire to work with me?  They left me alone with this cat!"  The fact that she's doing this in front of me, in a weird way, demonstrates her respect.  We're still cool.  After she got off the phone with her friend, she started to take an interest in me.  Asking safe questions, like, "So do you dance at these clubs or just get tied up?  Are there other black people at these clubs?"

It was fun answering "Yes" to all of her questions.

My Kind of Eye Candy: 'Bondage Warriors'

I am growing increasingly jealous of the Japanese!

     In the September issue of their version of Vogue Hommes; they have a beautiful 30 paged spread that features provocative, bondage fashion.  I have a big boner for bondage gear; leather, metal and sexy restraining devices.  It combines grace with brutality; the essence of masculine beauty.

I've been masturbating repeatedly to these beautiful pics!

Sensory Depravation Hood: "Blind Man's Bliss"

     To pass the time, I imagine his voice saying the password, “Blinded eyes bear no witness,” through an exhale of cigarette smoke. My ability to fabricate possibilities into reality is all I have left to make use of my senses, that and my sense of touch. Like a serpent, my naked flesh picks up the vibration of his steps into my chamber. Drawing closer to me, I slip into a posture that makes me feel both elegant and enigmatic. Exquisitely available, delicately strong, I brace myself while dilating my defenses.

     I have grown to find torment tangled within the dead air between his entrance and first contact. Keeping my breathing steady, my composure still, I pretend to be unaware of his presence; I wait to be caressed, smothered or hit. I’m prepared to be penetrated, pierced or punctured.

In the indulgence of the forgetful midnight hour, the darkness comes to life.

     My eyes are covered by thick, black leather. My ears are plugged and enveloped. My mouth is gagged and silenced. My entire head is wrapped in a sensory deprivation mask. My only lead into the outside world is my nude body and the two tiny holes barely allowing me to breath from my nostrils. My cloaked face remains left to the imagination and so does his. While waiting, I used to envision a pleasurable participant, I now have the wisdom to clear my mind of all expectations.
     This is indeed torture, waiting for him to touch me. I can feel his presence hovering over me, I imagine him ingesting the sight of my body. There is always a brief moment of strategizing; deciding what to do with this instance of invisibility. I feel his breath descending onto me; the temperature of the room rises. I can feel the momentum of his torso bending forward, the breeze of his garments falling towards the floor.
     Anticipating anything, my face aims forward to preserve the fantasy of frozen prey. I play the role of the warm, soulless confessional awaiting for him to deposit of sin. His size is apparent as he crawls onto the bed; tall and heavy, but not obese. Creeping towards me on all fours, the distribution of his balance tells me he’s strong. I remain motionless until I am melted by the warmth of his palm sliding up my thigh.
     Wrapping himself around my waist, he suspends my legs into the air. He begins to feast on what’s in between. Snaking his warm tongue in and out of me, his choice is gorgeous. He chooses to savor and indulge when other men pummel and rape. He chooses to absorb when other men gnaw and devour. My blinded eyes recognize his muffled soul; I can see his truth blooming in the shadows of the forbidden. His truth is beautiful.

(This is preview of the novel "Between Black & Blind" by VII)

30 Day of Sex & Chastity: Is It Possible?

     I had an interesting conversation with a (hetero) couple today.  In a long term relationship, they wanted to re-ignite the spark in their relationship, so they decided to both wear chastity belts for a month.  At first, I thought that it would do the exact opposite, until they gave me the twist.  Each of the thirty days, they will try to release their sexual energies by alternate means.  I got blue balls just thinking about it.

     We talked about how the rest of the body will become more available once the sexual center has been made off limits.  Without direct stimulation on the trigger, I imagine it being fun trying to figure out new ways to blast off.  New services will have to be provided.  Secondary erogenous zones will be promoted to primary.  As fun as I imagined it becoming, I still couldn't imagine closing the deal without a money shot.

Do you guys think it's possible to make it 30 days of all sex and no orgasm?

     I give them a week before whipping the keys out.  I imagine it feeling really good to build up the sexual energy for that long before unloading it all, it sounds real messy.  More power to them, hopefully they keep me posted on the developments.  I'll be taking notes.