Monday, June 23, 2008

FORCED! COERCED! BLACKMAIL! Or, the slippery slope...

Yes, I know you're wondering. What's all this about millie?

Actually, if you are wondering that, move along. She's an exceptional person, which is why I've devoted so much verbiage to My time with her.

Still, and I know this will be difficult for some of my faithful followers to believe, I do have time to, let's say, indulge others.

Wickedly, a couple of weeks ago, in any case.

he called, this gentleman (and never has the term been more loosely used before) who I'll call mitch, since it rhymes with bitch, which is what he became. And no, no offense intended to people who have the name Mitchell or any of its variants.

mitch. Mewling like a little kitty about how difficult it is to indulge his desire for 'forced' feminization, as if it were beyond me. And then - quite out of nowhere, really - talking about how he'd long fantasized about being exploited, even blackmailed, for his desires, which he at once loved and thought shameful.

Silly bitch. I mean mitch.

To be forced. Can you seriously imagine?

I can't force anyone to do anything.

Now, focusing a man or woman on her desires so he or she loses track of what she's doing... Well, that's quite another matter.

mitch boasted merrily about his quick work with a camera (and his or her clit, if I'd had to wager). What were his images like, I asked - Diane Arbus? Helmut Newton? These minor names drew what one might call a blank. Maybe the names of any photographers would. But mitch assured me he was "it" when it came to photographs and - try not to be shocked - particularly self-portraits. Goodness! Self-portraits! Well that is a lost art, isn't it, I said.

I need to clarify something here. I am, as some of You know, modestly accomplished with a camera, and I stress - and would always stress - modestly because even though I've done shoots and, yes, been paid for my efforts, I am not a full-time professional photographer. And when someone presents himself to me as "it" when it comes to photography, and in the quite limited field of self portraits, I think of the immensely talented Cindy Sherman... not some guy with a bulge in his panties.

Be that as it may... Yes, that is my snit for this post.

So. mitch. The "it" self-portrait girl.

What could I do, he asked, with compromising pictures?

Enjoy them, I said. And, in fact, I do. I've never counted, but there are people - a number of people, most utterly lovely and gracious - who have shared images with me. Some merely want to share. Others are uncomfortable having them in residence on their computers. But going back to the increasingly less new millennium, quite literally dozens of men have entrusted me with images of themselves.

Why? Hmmm. Interesting question, that, isn't it? Most, like my dear, dear friend Millie, have a facet of their personalities that has no other safe outlet, something in them, or about them, that is as real as the air I breathe and the keyboard under My fingertips, even if it isn't something that can be touched. But it is absolutely no less real, not one iota. No, I'm certainly not Mother Confessor - not with my track record, or not in this lifetime - but for as long as I can remember, I have always rooted for the underdog, for the other - the one that may not win the trophy but whose efforts are valiant and, in some way I can't quite describe, pure.

And, yes, millie might fall into that category. Her feelings are sincere, open. Difficult, challenging, at times maddening for her, but she is coming to terms with things that are part of her to her core and finding parts of being in the process. It's no game. Her feelings are as real as she is.

And then there was mitch. On my monitor, no less! Out of the sea of pixels, in all her glory - pinafored. Tucked. Glossy. Matte. You name it, he had it. It was a deluge.

And there he was, telling me how much she wanted - needed! - to be forced. Forced to do what, I wondered - certainly not to dress. She was a walking, talking, posing, primping, preening one-person catalog of styles and make up.

Puzzled, I asked forced to do what? Find a petrified blue whale penis (they can run 9 feet, you know) and sink down upon the entire thing? I mean, I could no more force mitch to dress than I could force him to breathe: it was happening anyway.

No, she said, her voice dropping. Like i said in the beginning, she said. There were a number of things she'd said and I didn't really feel like playing 900 questions. About blackmail, she said.

Ah, blackmail. In my book, blackmail is a sin. Not to mention illegal. Yet for a few quite particular souls, it is the thing that floats their boat, that does it for them. It's the holy grail of... well, of something. Taboo? Perversion? Powerlessness? Self-abnegation? One gentleman I knew at one point was so obsessed with it he'd call regularly and talk about possible scenarios in which he could be blackmailed. One week it was this scenario, which he'd describe in detail, and then analyze why it wouldn't work. The next week it was a new set up. The time and effort he put into it was quite breathtaking. It entertained him endlessly, though entertained isn't quite the word. Last I heard, he was still scheming up ideas in which he could trick himself into being blackmailed, though I suspect it's much like tickling: when it's done to oneself, it simply doesn't have the same effect.

mitch may have been my old acquaintance's spiritual twin. As she talked about what it would feel like, her voice dropped a bit and quite soon, with no assistance from me other than my ear, she'd reached a qualified Nirvana: it was something she wanted, desperately. Quite desperately. she was - and trust me on this, because I know it when I see it - near a state of despair.

Would I truly know how to do that to someone, she asked, her bluster and photographic arrogance left somewhere in another galaxy.

Was she serious, I asked, dead serious? And if so, would she e-mail me a photograph, but only if it was something she really wanted.

Before I knew it, my inbox was crowded with bitch. Satin gloves and black eyeshadow in a nice goth vamp. Pretty pink pinafore and white thigh highs. Green velvet gown... you get the idea. Suddenly, and quite presto, I had a nice little photo album of bitch in her frilly finery, and before too very long, the subject of posting them on the internet came along.

Just so she could demonstrate just how lovely she looked, how pretty she felt. Just so she could convince me of the sincerity of her desire to be thrown to the wolves, so to speak.

mitch, I asked sweetly. Some things are better left as fantasies. Do you really, honestly, in your heart of hearts, want to know how utterly powerless you can become?

bitch got to be a little confused. First, she said: No, it would be too much. Then: what would it feel like? Then: i can't do this. Then: oh, fuck, please.

she wanted them posted. she didn't want them posted. she did. she didn't. Such turmoil!

I reminded bitch that I couldn't force her to do anything, but how lovely and charming and sweet it would be if I could hear her, just for a moment, or a minute, or a couple of minutes, BEG Me to take my time and make her dream come true. Certainly she wouldn't be able to stand it if i made the photos visible to others she didn't know. Someone who might be her doctor. Her attorney. Her boss.

No, she didn't want that. And she certainly didn't want me to post his phone number in connection with them. No, not that. But that bitch - hadn't she just been begging me to do exactly that?

And didn't she say, just then, please, i need this more than anything.

Quite the confoundation, was it not?

I didn't feel she was quite sincere. No, not really. How on earth could I know what it was she actually wanted? Hmmm?

The sweet girl - who had quite forgotten about the issue of force - asked if sending Me a tribute would be proof of her sincerity. Sincerity of what, I sweetly asked. Why, to use them - to force her, to coerce her, to blackmail her. Well, I allowed that if it accompanied a digitally signed authorization granting me the right to do whatever I wished with the images, including granting me the right to post the image publicly, well, in that case, I might consider her request sincere.

And what do you know - within minutes, there they were: the assignation of rights (I do so love assignations of rights) and a proof deposit of sincerity.

So sweet.

And before long, bitch was begging to know where I would post them, who would see them, what the risk was...

In her state, as you may imagine, navigating her one-handed self (I presume) to the page took her a little more doing than she had anticipated. But she got there and let's just say she could see that the images were getting quite the reception. (Yes, Yahoo and AOL chatrooms aren't what they once were, but their place has been amply filled by niche services.) I chatted away, with mitch's photo in my profile, under an assumed name, and people were quite responsive. Not everyone, of course, was interested in being serviced by such a sweet young thing (I'd chosen the pinafore and white thigh highs), and some of the gentlemen in the room were quite outspoken about it. bitch watched and cringed, while I merrily deflected some comments and indulged others.

When was it that she started having reservations? Hmmm. It might have been - yes, that was it - the guy who said he was saving bitch's picture to his computer and was going to print it out and have his dog pee on it and put it up on boy's night in at the local lodge hall where he lived.

bitch had a difficult time processing that. I supposed I can see why, but it is what he wanted and begged for, in a manner of speaking, wouldn't you say?

It was right around that time that bitch asked a favor of Me. Would I be so kind as to remove the image from the profile? Or, if I recall, it was expressed as the following: "Oh, GOD, PLEASE - PLEASE TAKE IT DOWN - PLEASE!!!!!!"

Poor bitch. How hard it is to be hoist by one's own petard.

By then, I was a bit confused myself. How could I really know that he actually wanted Me to remove that lovely image (hand picked, I might add) from the profile? How on earth - what reassurance could he possibly give Me - that he wasn't being just like so many creatures who say one thing when they actually want another?

Goodness. Decisions decisions.

I explained My concern to bitch. Clearly I didn't want to do anything rash or foolish that she would later regret.

Meanwhile, other chatters in the chatroom were having a bit of fun with her image.

I continued to explain My concern, My reservations about betraying the supreme trust she had placed in Me. How, after all, did I really know what she truly wanted?

And at that point, a light clicked on in bitch's sodden little mind.

"Oh fuck - you're blackmailing me," she whimpered.

Blackmailing? No. Not at all. Had I made a demand? Had I threatened? Had I used anything - an image, say - in a context for which she HADN'T granted me license? Plus, I mean really - not that I would ever blackmail anyone about anything, but hadn't she talked again and again about how strong an interest it was of hers?

That stark accusation - I immediately told her that I would be happy to remove the image from the profile. All she had to do was to let me know that that was what she really, truly, honestly, unequivocally, without a doubt wanted.

And do You know what?

she did. But it was in that moment, after she had expressed herself so elegantly and concretely and I had her look at that image, the one that was being shared by so many interested parties, I think it was then, when I said, "See, look how happy you are - you know it's never, ever going to come down, don't you?" Yes, then. That is when the contractions overtook her.

Sweet bitch.

Happy at last.

How do I know? Well, contractions aside, and maybe this is an unfair assumption on My part, but she did call back.

Can you imagine?

Yes. Happy.

And you, dear reader, know Me. I do so love to make people happy.

P.S. This, I believe, is my first blog post script. In the interest of full disclosure, I went on to scold mitch for his unrealistic desire to slide down the slippery slope of exposure, and that it was lucky for him I had a good foot hold (albeit in heels) on that slope. I will not run up and down and play silly games because that is not something I enjoy, but... if sliding all the way down to the bottom of the slope is what he truly wants, then he should be prepared for a ruinous landing. It is one thing to be at standing at the top of the slope. Another matter, altogether, to be pushed down into the abyss. mitch, to be plain, was torturing herself. Not the fun, teasing, drive yourself mad torture that brings on the thunderous relief of a midsummer storm or one that leads to catharsis. Nor, for that matter, the edgy thrill in revealing information for the purpose of pleasing or feeling powerless.

Why do I mention this? It felt like being mired in the second act of a tragedy. One that was sure to end badly. mitch was evil to no one but himself, but he was driving himself to a place that no one should inhabit. Even if I disliked him, which I don't, I didn't want to be the Charon who delivered him to Hell's maw. But, let this be a warning: When the pursuer of exposure repeatedly pushes to be exposed, a Mistress may feel there is no other choice but to reach into her arsenal and give the silly bitch what he asks for!

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Down, girl!

Yes, it's true. I do tend to think of Myself as a liberal person. Not necessarily liberal with a capital L, but liberal in the sense of "given or provided in a generous and openhanded way."

Liberally applied. For instance, that's how I like guacamole with my red snapper fajitas.

Or, as miLLie has discovered, with Lubricant on the phaLLus...

Oh dear. Getting ahead of Myself again, aren't I?

Over the past few weeks, millie and I have become not only dearer friends, but we've developed quite a bond. It's about, let's see, seven inches long, made of glass, and decorated internally with swirls of silvery and pale blue sparkles with a hint of rose when the light strikes them just so.

Give up? Give UP?

The phallus. Very good. Though I'm afraid I gave it away, now didn't I?

Well. To be quite literal about it, in fact, I did.

It went like this. millie and I were talking one day, sharing thoughts and ideas and feelings, and the subject of exploration came up. Now, as fate would have it, or did have it, I'd just seen quite the loveliest phallus in my on-line travels, and it was so pretty, so graceful, that I immediately thought of millie. Delicate in line. Elegant in form. Quite ungross, as so many dildos are, including my ex-.

Oops. Now, now - no giving away family secrets. he did, after all, come oh-so-very-close to providing me with a moment of sensual pleasure. But then ... the phone rang and the back rub ended.

He was good for something ... almost.

Well. No sense reopening old sores now, is there.

Where was I?

Oh. Yes. I was on-line. And I saw this lovely thing. Glass. Sparkles. millie!

millie had
recently done something remarkably thoughtful, and quite helpful, for me, and, being the liberal, generous soul that I am, well, you know how easy it is. Take out the credit card, fill in the fields, and then click and bingo - not long after, it appeared on my doorstep.

It was a marvel. The smoothness. The heft in my palm. The glittering transparency. The shimmer. Was it the shimmer that I loved most? Or the heft? Or the swell of the head?

Tough to say. Tough to say.

After a careful inspection and with the comfort of knowing that my on-line impression had been born out by a physical examination, I shipped it off to her with a generous bottle of lube, and one evening, when the package had arrived and millie had a little free time, we talked.

As regular readers may know, millie is coming into her own, but she is not, in any way, shape, manner, or form, a slut - nor will she ever be. Not if I remain in control of the situation. Yes, she has explored new horizons, dipped her (unpedified) toes in, and expanded her understanding of herself. But her explorations, her probings, have not been capacious. Or extended.

So, with the help of the lube, we went slowly and before long - quite quickly, really - we'd come to the edge.

you do know the edge, don't you? That bittersweet place where disembodied fantasies end and reality asserts itself? A tight spot, it can be, quite tight, as it was for millie. Anticipation is sweet, always, but the edge is a portal, and once one has stepped through it, it leaves its mark.

What to do, what to do.

Slow and steady wins the race. The mark need not be painful, you know.

The first gentle kiss as the rounded tip sought out its target ... its portal. Its opening. The slither of the smooth surface against that precious rosebud. The activation of all those nerve endings - hundreds? Thousands? The fiery rush of sensation through the synapses up her spinal column to the brain, where they danced through the wakening embers.

Slow. Gentle pressure. The slight opening. The slight stretching...

Steady. Just holding. Relaxing. Opening. Pressure. Stopping. Contracting. Relaxing. Relaxing. Relaxing. A little more pressure...

Yes, the edge can hurt. No secret about that. Or it can be slow and come over one under the cover of caring protection and concern, with the ease of small waves lapping at the shoreline. Persistent. Unending. Calming. The expansion and opening coming incrementally, gently, slowly, until - POP - it's past the wide curve of the head and the muscles settle around the shaft and all those neural pathways can bathe in the new sensation.

Then, slowly, as millie's breathing settled into a regular rhythm, until she felt it being pulled into herself, filling a void, and then slightly expelled, and pulled in again. Those waves. Slowly curling up and breaking with the sensation all through her body, starting at her center, the ripples pushing outwards.

And when it was nicely in, more than halfway, and the rhythmic push and pull was as natural and as comfortable as breathing, I allowed millie a more intimate introduction to the edge. I had her sit up, the weight of her body pushing it in deeper and deeper until the wide base was pressed against her, nestled snugly against her opening.

In that moment, she was free.

she opened her eyes and looked around her, saw the familiar dresser, armchair, the bedside table, the doorway.

It was all familiar.

And all had changed.

she remains grateful ... to My generosity. My liberal affection for her.

All of her.