Like adult bookshops. I never became a habitué. But it was a good place to begin the study of homosex.

Back then there were these really trashy, sleazy sex tabloids. I bought one. It was filled of things not dreamed of in my philosophy. Like butt plugs. Who knew such things existed. Why did they exist? (Something I’ve yet to understand.)

There were things that grab my imagination and would color my BDSM fantasies forever.

There was a crude drawing of a man in bondage. His neck collar as connected to a testicle collar. Movement would pull at his balls or squeeze his neck.

I’d just discovered predicament bondage. Maybe the drawing is why my testicles are so deeply connected with submissive emotions (otherwise they are just there unless I – ouch! – bump into something).

The response of my internal plethysmograph testify to how testicle bondage excites me.

Related posts:

1. Leather Bondage Techniques
2. Workplace Bondage
3. Sailors in Bondage

Predicament Bondage: Testicle Leash
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

This was one of the many periods of erotic evolution I’ve experienced. I’d become uniquivocally bisexual. And masochistic and submissive feelings for women – I’d had them for men since boyhood – began to emerge. (The Playboys may have influenced the latter. That is for another day.)

The lot encompassed five – ten years of Playboy. I rifled through the magazines seeking a woman to whom I could imagine submitting. Playboy is hardly the best source for that kind of thing unless your submissiveness can be directed at any woman with large breasts and slim hips.

The photograph below worked for me. Sort of.

She looks confident, proud without arrogance. She’s happy. (And that she’s holding a book doesn’t hurt.) Later I discovered that I’d seen her much earlier on the cover of a Roxy Music album. It surely helped that only saw this one picture. (I’ve never scene, never sought the issues she was featured in.) She never became an object of fantasy. Why? I don’t know. I find my libido a continuing enigma.

It was her very straight posture that was the basis of my response.

Much later I discovered this photograph (wish I had a better copy).

The high collar and the austerity of her long plain skirt are part of the attraction. And the certainty on her face. But again it is her posture: the way she holds her head and shoulders.

I cheerfully confess that I’ve often imagined her ordering me about and taking that cane to me.

Confidence one of the most important attributes of a top. Maybe she doesn’t feel it. But she knows how to fool you. If she seems certain it is easier for a bottom to relax and submit.

No related posts.

The Posture of Dominance
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

Related posts:

1. BDSM & Masturbation
2. It’s Hell in a Texas Pen
3. Warning to Submissive Men

Macho Men Behind Bars
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

Slave Conditioning

(In this I a share small slice of some of the images that have haunted my fantasy life of late. Vanity, vanity: there are no new kinks under the sun. Nor am I a writer of erotica. Caveat lector.)

We’d spent some time in emails, instant messages and over coffee learning how compatible we might be as owner and slave.

I’d had some experience with sadists but felt I had needs that had never been met. Extreme needs. You were skeptical. Finally I convinced you of my sincerity.

You agreed to give me a taste of what I said I wanted. But only if I accepted your stipulations. My vacation was coming up. If I agreed that for three days I would – with my limits honored – become your unconditional slave then you’d offer me a chance to explore my dreams. At the beginning of the fourth day you’d give me the choice of freedom or continuing until I’d spent a full week within your power.

My need aroused you but you’d heard the same story before from men who could never live up to their pledges.

Hungrily I leapt at the chance.

Friday night after work instead of driving home I went to your house. You let me in and – in accordance with the script you sent me – I dropped to my knees and bent my head down. Then you handed me a trash bag, ordered me to strip and put my clothes within it.

You walked into anther room. I crawled behind you. Stopping you turned and sat. I remained on all fours waiting. Probably you sat silently in front of me for only a few minutes, though it seemed as if my arms would fail me before you spoke.

At last you told me to surrender or leave.

Then I recited the ceremony of surrender memorized from an email you sent me. Almost legalistically I promised my obedience and begged to give my mind and body to you.

You made a sound I couldn’t quite make out but I thought you were laughing quietly to yourself.

You ordered me to close my eyes and lift my head. I felt you pull a hood over me. When you told me I could open my eyes there was nothing but blackness. The hood had no slits for the eyes.

Rising at your command I followed as you led me by the hand. I almost fell as we walked down stair. Again I wondered if I heard a laugh.

Pushing me down you ordered me to kneel. I heard the metallic clanking of chain and felt a collar wrapped around my neck. A lock snapped in place.

Telling me to feel free to do whatever I wished you bid me goodnight.

Goodnight? It was still very early in the evening.

It had been early evening when I’d been chained by a collar. Being bid goodnight and left alone took me aback. Surely you – my new owner – would be back shortly.

As I sat there the world invisible on the other side of the hood I registered that the floor was covered with a thick carpet of straw. Feeling about I seemed to be in a small room but the walls were only a few feet high.

Wondering about my place of confinement kept me from becoming bored. Then, true to my hopes I heard footsteps. What if it were some stranger? Then I heard you reminding me that I’d promised to never speak without being invited.

Off came the hood and I found myself in what appeared to be a stall like you might keep a horse in. I started to look up but you lightly backhanded me and bent my head back down.

This you told me would be both my bedroom and toilet and that I would be expected to clean it every day. Then telling me you’d see me in the morning you left.

A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling shed harsh light all around. The room was so stark and unfinished that couldn’t tell if I was in a basement, garage or barn. The collar’s chain was attached to the back wall, just long enough to let me reach the opening of my stall.

Hurt, confused, strongly aroused I didn’t know what to do. For a time I made an attempt to curl up on the straw but it made me itch and didn’t really soften the floor.

Needing to piss I realized I had no choice and crawled to a rear corner. Relieved I leaned against a wall as far away as possible.

The light and discomfort made deep sleep impossible. I’d nod off only to wake up startled by hallucinations of punishment.

Trying to make peace with getting what I asked for there was nothing to do but wait for the night to pass.

Sustained sleep finally found me that first night, I awoke to the pressure of your boots on my crotch.

When you asked me if I were hungry my stomach began to growl and I admitted that I was. My food would have to be earned you said.

From a box you handed me an ankle cuff. Then cuffs for my other leg and my arms. Chains and locks followed linking my wrists and legs to each other and together. Unlocking the chain from my collar you bid me follow. I stood up. A swift kick sent me back to my knees.

On the other side of the door was a large, completely enclosed backyard. My prison was a garage.

Taking me to a corner you showed me a pile of rocks. My morning task was to pick each carrying them one at a time to another corner. You stretched out in a lawn chair in the shade of a tree. My labor was your entertainment.

As I began to tote the rocks pity for myself was my main emotion. Last night was boring. This was worse than boring. But I’d agreed to it. My natural passivity and not a little fear kept me from rebelling. Quietly I carried rocks.

After a time, weary and hungry, I started to stumble. Coming to where I was you told me to drop down and follow. We went back in the garage. Back in my stall you relocked my collar to the chain.

From a cabinet you took out a bag. Putting your hand in you scooped out something then told me to open my mouth and eat. It was soft cat food. After a moment’s shock I realized I was too hungry to care. I was grateful.

After several handfuls you closed the bag. I heard the sound of running water. You brought me a small bowl and told me to lap it up. It was the most delicious water I’d ever drunk.

Telling me to rest for my afternoon chores you left.

Thankful to have been fed and watered,weary I curled up on the floor and nodded off.

I awoke before your return. When you removed the chain from my collar I didn’t need to be told to crawl after you.

You had me returne to the rocks. Now was to tote to their original location. Tired from the morning this took longer.

Finished I crawled over to you and bowed my head. You ordered me back to my stall.

Back in the barn you gave me a shovel and bag to clean up the space I soiled.

Then handfed and watered me again. Deep hunger made me thankful to eat. And I was thankful for your attention.

Bring out a short chain you put it on my wrist cuffs running it behind my back. Then you locked my collar chain back in place.

Since it was even earlier than the prior day I was disheartened when you said you were finished with me for the day and left. Without you left all I’d have was myself.

With my arms behind my back I couldn’t find a comfortable position on the floor. Leaning against a wall I felt sorrier than ever for myself, wondering what madness had led me to agree to be treated this way.

If nothing else I could pass the time by masturbating. Then I realized I couldn’t touch my own penis. Now I knew why you’d locked my hands behind me. My inability to stroke myself aroused me leaving me even more avid to. Momentarily I thrilled to my loss of fredom. And was able to relax.

Tired from slave labor, from a bad night’s rest I nodded off. Sleep was fitful but each time I awoke I forced myself to fall back asleep.

The second day was identical to the first. Except my muscles were sore. Being fed and watered were the high points of my day.

Locked in place I rehearsed telling you on the fourth day to return my freedom. I must’ve been crazy. Some would be surprised that I didn’t beg or demand release. You’d made it very clear that I’d be held to the letter of our contract. And made to regret any plea to cancel it. And my natural passivity took hold of me.

On the third morning I woke very early. Uncomfortable and restless I waited for you. Even carrying rocks for no reason was better than sitting doing nothing. Your presence was all I had to look forward to.

On the third morning you gave me food and water immediately. Eating from young fingers had become to feel natural. You left for a bit.

Returning I saw a cane and a stool in your hand. Sitting on the stool you told me to get up on my knees and look in your eyes.

As you told me that I had adapted well to being worked. You stroked my head. Acknowledgement and contact made me even more grateful than the food.

Carrying rocks you told me was a lesson. That as a slave my goal in life was fulfilling your desires even if they served no purpose.

You told me that you could tell how appreciative I was to eat from your hands. I was learning, you said, that if I wished to serve you then I must accept total dependence.

Leaving me alone was to teach me that the greatest punishment I might know was to be forgotten and ignored.

This was all so true that my Goosebumps slalomed up and down every part of my body.

Holding the whip in front of me you told me that today I would learn about pain. Pain you would inflict only for the joy of watching me suffer. It would be a long day and I would come to know many devices and toys.

If when I awoke tomorrow with welts, bruises and cuts I still wished to remain then there might be a permanent place for me in your life.

Afterword

When my inner movie house shows this feature it has many variations. A small cage instead of a stall or one of those chain link pet confinement areas and I’m kept outside.

Naturally it is all embellished with hesitations and failures that require correction.

But I didn’t want to tax my circumscribed powers anymore than I already did. And wanted to keep the sequence away from typical male slave written S&M porn (nothing wrong with that, but there’s a host of it out there).

(It was split into sections because I was chatting with Alexandra while typing it up and the divisions made it easier for me.)

To focus on the training was my goal.

Learning to accept orders that have no point other than to be obeyed.

Coming to feel grateful for even the food and water allowed.

Using loneliness to make the owner’s mere presence fulfilling in itself.

A spare scenario of emotional conditioning.

One trusting reader asked me how long ago all of the above had happened.

No related posts.

Attitude Adjustment
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

As I noted elsewhere this morning awkward bondage exerts a strong fascination on my masochistic imagination. This image captures that fairly well:

• Being bound in stocks
• My own movement contributes to my discomfort and pain
• Beat whipped on the front

Not that I care much for the sadist in the picture. Nor do I want blood to come out of my mouth. My brain will redraw this image if I fantasize of this later.

No related posts.

Cruel, Fierce Beating of Slaves
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

Image by Rhodes. Brush CBT feels incredible.

A couple of nights ago I had a kinky dream.

In the dream a woman was massaging my penis while she tortured me. She would cease if I objected to my suffering. The pleasure of her touch was so great that I couldn’t bring myself to ask for mercy.

Then my dream stepped back and I dreamed I was masturbating to a fantasy of the prior situation.

A happy dream. I rarely dream of sex; almost never of BDSM.

A surprise: I don’t ordinarily connect my own physical erotic delight with my masochism.

The idea of masturbating or having an orgasm during S&M never occurred to me until I read of it in a story on the Nifty Archive. I found the idea incongruent, discordant. Ending a scene with my own orgasm didn’t fit the preconceptions of a thousand fantasies.

To this day if a dominant person were to order me to wank for her or his pleasure I’d probably feel confused and unable to do so unto completion.

The inevitable exception: I have imagined masturbating at the beginning of a session. Normally before being beaten. The post dopamine release refractory period would surely make the masochistic experience more challenging.

No related posts.

BDSM & Masturbation
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

Just when you think there are no kinky fantasies that you aren’t aware of:

i have fascism fantasies. submitting, recruiting others, having my entire world-view changed, etc. i like the idea of serving in a society of slaves…kind of a orwellian fascist fantasy…being controlled completely by the state. a powerful leader who uses complete obedience to create world peace and security in exchange for freedom. i like the idea of serving in a uniform.

No related posts.

Fascism Fantasies
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

I greatly wished to be ridden. To be a human horse or as it is more commonly called by kinky folk a ponyboy. Not that I cared about the flashy appurtenances: manes, tails, costumes. The bridle and saddle were the items that fired my imagination.

Gear made for pony-persons is very costly. At least anything other than the bit gag I always meant to buy. The saddles were far beyond what I could afford.

I wanted a the saddle and stirrups to enable easy and extensive riding of me. Otherwise there would be no real pleasure for the rider.

A stirrups substitute would’ve been sufficient but that eluded by very limited mechanical cleverness. Given the stirrups I’d have bought her boots with spurs.

NB: The woman on the right is holding the most unlikely instrument of corporal punishment that I’ve ever seen.

No related posts.

Being Ridden
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

Being chained in a dungeon must be one of the most common of fantasies among BDSM bottoms.I’ve played images of confinement though thousands of convoluted and subtly differentiated variations.

Not that I have hooded menace fetish. This cover is probably meant to be suggestive of the garish mythology that has accumulated around the Spanish Inquisition.

The Hitory of Torture has been the title of a number of books. Here’s a second instance.

This detail from a photograph of man hanging by chains does nothing for me. I need to see more of him, ideally his face. And where is the sadist who supplies the mana, the necessary catylst?

Both of these histories of judicial torment are in print. People used to read them, desperate for aids to their fetishistic imagination. Given the superabundance of kinky imagery available to us in the 21st century I wonder how many do now.

No related posts.

The History of Torture
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy

In a comment on my note about frustratingly vague profiles AlmostMagic mentioned the guys who have overly precise scripts they expect the top to follow.

The best such profile I recall has been my benchmark for too much specificity for years.

Not only did he know that he’d be ‘forced’ to wear a dress. He also knew it would be a green dress. And that air would blow up from a vent on the left side. A top has to be a bit of a stage manager at times but that is just too damn much.

No related posts.

Love Robots
BDSM Romance - Notes on Power Exchange and S&M by an Erotically Electic Guy