BONDAGE IN ITS VARIOUS FORMS has always held a special fascination for me. I am just now finding the strength to pushing away from the rigidity of personality imposed on me by the years of strict Roman Catholic discipline. Starting to break free by moving into a most extreme direction. Having tossed off the yoke of my church indoctrination; and moving farther and farther away from the nuns with their musty odor of sanctity and self-deprivation. In the constriction of bondage I now feel a sense of redemption--a redemption far deeper than my Catholic school upbringing when I knelt on a wooden step in a dark confessional and told a priest of the erotic thoughts that, in my youthful ignorance, I felt were keeping me from a state of grace.
A LIFE CHANGING EVENT: I now remember in the sixth grade, standing in front of the classroom for having been heard to say the word "sex". The nun, Sister Gilda standing in front of me, swathed in black from head to toe. She is a harsh-faced woman and her eyes speak volumes about unfulfilled desires. Her lips were hard from lying fallow so very long; hard from a thousand chanted prayers; hard from years of self-deprivation. My hands are out in front of me, palms up. I am forced to stand there rigid, legs locked tightly together. I smiles at me, relishing the punishment I is about to inflict. Her arm swings back and the wooden pointer I holds smacks down across my palms. The first hit is the worst; after that my palms burn with hell's very own fires, but I learn to suck in the pain, and it warms my body. The pointer slams down again and again, and I watch her large breasts, under the black cloth, heave from the exertion of the punishment. My classmates sit and watch as I and I become one integrated sadomasochistic tableau. I love this nun as much as I hate her; it is only much later in life that I will truly understand just how much I really learned from these repressed women in black.
WHO AM I NOW? He loved woman painted and pouty. And yes... especially those women with exacting detailed desires and fetishes that ultimately would make them very special. I was standing in front of a full-length mirror in the bright make-up lights of my room. He standing behind me, the lights slick in his face, and tightens the laces of my corset, which becomes my second skin my skin of pain. Listens to my breath catch. He never wants to let go. He wants to pull tighter and tighter. Me lovingly exhaling short moments of my exquisite and constricting pleasure. The pain and the pleasure mix; they exclude all other moments; they are my only reality. This is all part of my rituals. Rituals are a necessary part of my life: they are like the watch spring that gives motion to the workings of a fine timepiece. To follow the metaphor, my rituals give purpose and movement to the omnivorous demands of my fetishes.
FOR HIM I want to be his picture perfect pinup princess. Dressed in my favourite MGM studio dress and open finger kid-leather elbow length gloves. My jewelry then equally simple: a leather collar with a steel O-Ring and a long chain. Me prancing for him on my fantastic collection of designer 5-inch red ballet boots all about my parquet floor like a spastic flamenco dancer in heat, a painted puppet jerking and writhing; my hair thrown wild about my face. "It’s all for you," I will whisper. Sometimes for me there is never enough…and I want more and more until it becomes an obsession.
MY TRIGGER: A stern interview and interrogation. I arrived dressed in a short sleeved A-line navy striped school dress uniform and parading about as a perfect little and aging schoolgirl slut. Tiptoeing delicately on my tall 6-inch ballerinas and trying to balancing myself precariously on point, welcoming his hands and enticing him to touch me more. Blindfolding, dirty talk, the collar & leash and pussy whipping increasing my more positive responses. I am ordered to telling tales of what my cunt wants and needs; sharing with him my 'fuck' fantasies and suck suggestions. He is drilling down on my weaknesses, while forcing me to masturbate my cunt and as my reward following-up with a pussy whipping. I loved how his expert hands and filthy fuck words made me feel. Every nerve in my body was jumping and pinching and screaming for him. My eyes reflecting ecstasy behind their heavy blue kohl and the flutter of my long false lashes, and my lips that have been over-painted with layer upon layer of rotund machiavellian mauves. I am at the mercy of my needy lips.
WHAT’S NEXT? My memories and words now demand to be recorded. I thus weigh every word trying to emphasize every nuance. As for me the detail is everything. That is what I do best. There are a thousand secrets we could share. So this is my story...but, by sucking in my words they become your story also. I am merely your mirror!
Location
Thunderbird Heights, Rancho Mirage, CA