When he informed me that we were to spend the coming weekend on a farm I was really pleased. As an animal lover I envisaged cute little lambs to pet, chickens to feed. I imagined plenty of fresh air obtained through country walks, and pleasant evenings watching the sun go down, accompanied by a glass of wine and stimulating conversation. I did wonder however why he laughed at me when I appeared at the car with a small suitcase and a pair of pink Wellingtons.
“You won’t be needing much of what’s inside there”, he said pointing to the case.
We arrived just a little after lunchtime, a gorgeous Victorian era stone built farmhouse with two barn type structures at each side. The day was perfect for July, the sun reflecting off nothing but field after field, tree after tree – we truly were in the middle of nowhere. I smiled happily as he unlocked the door, following him down the long hall and into the kitchen. The pine table was laden with bread and cheeses, a coffee machine sat idle in the corner primed and ready to be switched on. I was duly impressed that he had had the forethought to arrange this for us.
“Sit down and eat” he told me, “You will need some sustainance to see you through the afternoon”. I smiled happily at him, the picture of a leisurely stroll forming in my mind.
But the moment that lunch was over, I saw the change in his eyes, the look that I had come to both fear and desire. He stood, and beckoned me to do the same and follow him. Five or six paces behind him, he led me into the barn at the left of the house. I looked around at the fenced area on one side, the floor spread with hay.
“Strip”.
As I removed my clothing I was aware of him reaching into a large kitbag he had clearly pre-arranged to be there. As he moved towards me he held a few length of rope and a thin latex hood. His eyes met mine and he uttered a single word – “Girlcow”.
My wrists and arms were bound tightly behind my back, the hemp rope rough and scratchy on my skin, then he tipped me forward a little and bound my breasts tightly. Whilst still bent over I felt his fingers massage my anus, the silky feeling of lubricant coating me, then the invasive solidity of rubber as he pushed a butt plug deep inside, a length of dark wiry hair hanging from the end – a tail for his girlcow. Pushing me back upright he scraped the hair away from my face and pulled the mask over my head. No eye holes, no mouth hole, only small breathing holes situated below my nostrils.
I felt him loop a rope through the middle of my breast bondage and moved forward as he tugged it. No idea where he was leading me but certainly outside as the concrete smoothness of the barn floor under my feet changed into a rougher, dirtier feeling and I became quickly aware of the burn of the afternoon sun kissing my naked skin. I must have slowed down a little at the change of sensations as he tugged at the rope lead, jerking my body forward, causing me to stumble a little as I once more felt a smoothness under my feet, the other barn I assumed. I felt the rope go slack and felt his hands on me, palms flat against my bound tits, my nipples hardening under his circular motions. His speech was slightly dulled to me underneath the latex enclosure,
“We all know what cows are good for don’t we”.
I felt the pressure in my breasts lessen as he unwound the binding, then he took my arm and led me towards a steel structure – two upright poles with horizontal poles attached at the bottom acting as feet, steel shackles attached to the bottom of the two upright poles. At waist level there was a bar to bend over and a further bar that would sit just under my breasts,and a final mid-level bar on which to rest my chin. An adjustable pole slid down the structure to hold me in position with my bound wrists trapped underneath.
He pushed me forward and bend me over the waist bar, the metal cold and unyielding making me gasp. I winced a little as the holding pole was slid into place and my legs pulled apart as the shackles were clicked around my ankles. I suddenly felt exceptionally vulnerable as my cunt became exposed, my breasts hanging down below in the middle of the structure.
Already slightly chilled by the touch of the steel on my skin I squealed aloud as a further freezing sensation was inflicted upon me. A small china bowl of icy cold water was placed under each nipple in turn, moved up to submerge each one, hardening them for his purpose – the milking machine.
The gentle hissing of the electric pump began as he switched it on. He placed the first glass cup over my left breast. I wriggled uncomfortably as my nipple and some breast flesh was sucked inside harshly. He repeated the procedure with my right breast, the hissing sound now much quieter now that the cups had been filled by me. He moved back to observe. Suck, tap, suck tap, the only sounds echoing in the barn as the pump sucked greedily on my nipples, my discomfort increasing with every passing second. He watched as slowly but surely tiny droplets of milky fluid began to trickle through the cups and filter down the plastic tubes into the container. And as the pain increased so did the milk flow – soon the droplets turned into multi sprays. I moaned as my milk began to freeflow from me, a great throbbing in my cunt distracting me from the great soreness in my nipples. But not for long, as as my milk ebbed, my bleeding began, my nipples cracking. I began to wail and to my great relief I heard and felt the machine being switched off. He loosened the suction seals on the cups and removed them, seeing my elongated and swollen teats red, sore and dotted with pinpoints of blood. I felt his tongue lap against them, soothing yet also stinging.
I felt his breath through my mask, his words leaving me trembling with fear –
“Now that the girlcow has been milked her next duty would be to be covered by the bull.”
I heard the sound of footsteps approaching, my heart racing, not believing that he would bring a third party male into this equation. I felt my tail being flicked up to lie on my back and felt unfamiliar fingers stroking at my sodden labia, spreading my lips, felt a hard and stout cock push up against my opening, coating itself in my juices, ready to violate me. Then it struck forward, ramming itself into me, widening my already bloomed cunt, slamming against my cervix. I cried loudly as I was fucked harder than I had ever been fucked before, my insides feeling as if they were being ripped raw, each thrust forcing my tail plug deeper and deeper. Through my cries I could hear him gently laughing, encouraging my tormentor to thrust harder and deeper. Lost in a summerland of torturous pleasure I felt my womb tighten and my orgasm spewed forth.
“Enough” he said, and I felt the cock pull out of me. Through the haze I was in I felt his fingers grasp the back of the hood and peel it from my head. I gulped in air and blinked hard against the rays of sunlight that filtered through the barn door. I looked up at him and he smiled, looked away from me and beckoned his ‘bull’ around to the front to stand beside him – a plump attractive brunette female wearing a large black strap-on. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, thanked her for her services and motioned for her to leave. I watched her exit the barn, heard her metal tip heels click over the concrete then crunch further and further away across the yard.
He released me from the bondage of the milking stand, and untied my arms, my body stiff and sore, my nipples still enlarged and still aching, dried specks of blood decorating their surface. He took the rope and noosed it around my neck and led me back to the first barn, into the fenced area, where he instructed me to get down on all fours in the hay. I looked up at him as he told me that I would be sleeping here tonight, as a good girlcow would. He hunkered down and stroked my hair gently, telling me how good I had been and that tomorrow would bring him even further joy. He stood up, tied the end of the rope to the fence and left. I lay down on my side, and curled up in the sweet smelling hay, my body exhausted, my udders swollen, my cunt still throbbing, and my ass still filled. I felt my cow eyes close as I drifted into sleep, my dreams filled with anticipated erotic agonies to come.
©2010 by shapeshifter
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Saturday, 27 February 2010
ROBOTIC REWRITE
Quirk Classics takes famous novels and rewrites them to incorporate elements of more modern fantasy horror. Previous titles include "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Dawn of the Dreadfuls", but the latest offering is more of the correct genre for this particular blog! It is of course "Android Karenina".
Thursday, 25 February 2010
MESMERISING
I am aware that many people use hypnosis for sexual purposes,be it for dollification, submission, or simply to achieve better sex. This is something that fascinates me, mainly because I appear to be one of those people who are unable to be hypnotised. It has been tried on me twice, once in a medical capacity and once in a fun setting, both times by trained and experienced hypnotists, both times complete failures!
There is a theory that the more intelligent you are, the more naturally expanding your imagination is, then the more chance you have to be able to be hypnotised, and that people of low intelligence cannot be hypnotised at all. I can assure readers that I am extremely bright with a very active imagination so it is not this particular reason that is the issue! With hindsight, I imagine that the reason both occasions failed were down to trust and fear. After all, surely in order to be hypnotised the subject has to be willing to be taken there and lack of trust will automatically make the subject, albeit perhaps on a subconscious level, unwilling.
However, I do not fret greatly over this matter because, as I have mentioned in an earlier posting, I do believe that I invoke a form of self-hypnosis when is necessary for dehumanisation or objectification. I certainly find myself in an altered consciouness with little effort - perhaps the physical preparations for roles are the trigger points for the mind to change?
But is it self-hypnosis or simply meditation of sorts? I'm sure there is a fine line between the two.
I have pondered a couple of times whether to encourage my Owner to study hypnosis in order for him to use on me. But given what I have said in the previous paragraphs re self-inducing, I doubt it is really necessary, unless of course he simply fancies giving it a go!
Something that does confuse me a little though is how did my Owner train me to orgasm on command? How when he utters two words can my body respond in such an extreme way? One thing I find weird about this is how the commanded orgasm compares to a natural one, ie there is no pleasure involved, it's simply a physical action, if that makes sense? Is this ability(?) down to brainwashing - having my mind associate the words with a bodily action over and over until all it takes is the words? Perhaps that is not what brainwashing is - I don't know enough about it. But I am pretty sure that it is not hypnosis that makes me do it.
There is a theory that the more intelligent you are, the more naturally expanding your imagination is, then the more chance you have to be able to be hypnotised, and that people of low intelligence cannot be hypnotised at all. I can assure readers that I am extremely bright with a very active imagination so it is not this particular reason that is the issue! With hindsight, I imagine that the reason both occasions failed were down to trust and fear. After all, surely in order to be hypnotised the subject has to be willing to be taken there and lack of trust will automatically make the subject, albeit perhaps on a subconscious level, unwilling.
However, I do not fret greatly over this matter because, as I have mentioned in an earlier posting, I do believe that I invoke a form of self-hypnosis when is necessary for dehumanisation or objectification. I certainly find myself in an altered consciouness with little effort - perhaps the physical preparations for roles are the trigger points for the mind to change?
But is it self-hypnosis or simply meditation of sorts? I'm sure there is a fine line between the two.
I have pondered a couple of times whether to encourage my Owner to study hypnosis in order for him to use on me. But given what I have said in the previous paragraphs re self-inducing, I doubt it is really necessary, unless of course he simply fancies giving it a go!
Something that does confuse me a little though is how did my Owner train me to orgasm on command? How when he utters two words can my body respond in such an extreme way? One thing I find weird about this is how the commanded orgasm compares to a natural one, ie there is no pleasure involved, it's simply a physical action, if that makes sense? Is this ability(?) down to brainwashing - having my mind associate the words with a bodily action over and over until all it takes is the words? Perhaps that is not what brainwashing is - I don't know enough about it. But I am pretty sure that it is not hypnosis that makes me do it.
PUPPET ON A STRING
Yet another gem of a photograph from Bela Borsodi (another here), this time a wonderful pink puppet. My only criticism of this photo would be the string - a less wire-like look would have seemed more authentic.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
TRANSFORMATION
Bleed out my blood
Skin off my skin
Solder the wire
Transformation
- Papa Roach "Singular Indestructible Droid"
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
Skin off my skin
Solder the wire
Transformation
- Papa Roach "Singular Indestructible Droid"
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
WOODEN HEART
Dutch sculptor and furniture maker Mario Phillippona creates wood items inspired by the female form.
To dim the lights - touch the nipples!
No prices on the webpage - might be cheaper to get a slave to be your desired furniture :)
To dim the lights - touch the nipples!
No prices on the webpage - might be cheaper to get a slave to be your desired furniture :)
Monday, 22 February 2010
THE WORD
I came across a new word yesterday. Well, not actually a new word but more of a new useage of an old word.
REDUCTIONISM. The dictionary definition states that it means (1)the theory that every complex phenomenon, esp. in biology or psychology, can be explained by analyzing the simplest, most basic physical mechanisms that are in operation during the phenomenon, and (2)the practice of simplifying a complex idea, issue, condition, or the like, esp. to the point of minimizing, obscuring, or distorting it. And if you look up the word on Wikipedia then there is a shit load more to it!
However, what I came across last night was using the word to describe, for example, billboard adverts, whereby a person is reduced to no more than a body part. This, I suppose, fits in roughly with the second dictionary definition and also gives a better title to certain scenarios within my BDSM life.
This vetwrapped me for example:
or perhaps the scenario here could both be described as being reductionism in the sexual and/or BDSM sense. This word actually sits extremely well with me in cases like the examples given, more so than the term 'objectification', as 'reductionism' narrows the act down to one body part.
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
REDUCTIONISM. The dictionary definition states that it means (1)the theory that every complex phenomenon, esp. in biology or psychology, can be explained by analyzing the simplest, most basic physical mechanisms that are in operation during the phenomenon, and (2)the practice of simplifying a complex idea, issue, condition, or the like, esp. to the point of minimizing, obscuring, or distorting it. And if you look up the word on Wikipedia then there is a shit load more to it!
However, what I came across last night was using the word to describe, for example, billboard adverts, whereby a person is reduced to no more than a body part. This, I suppose, fits in roughly with the second dictionary definition and also gives a better title to certain scenarios within my BDSM life.
This vetwrapped me for example:
or perhaps the scenario here could both be described as being reductionism in the sexual and/or BDSM sense. This word actually sits extremely well with me in cases like the examples given, more so than the term 'objectification', as 'reductionism' narrows the act down to one body part.
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Friday, 19 February 2010
PAST AND PRESENT
I was asked not so long ago if the reason that dehumanisation and objectification was my 'thing' because I did not like myself in some way, shape or form. I did not have to think about the answer and the word “no” instantly fell from my lips.
There was times in the past that I did hate myself, both in the way I looked and the way I was. There were no valid reasons for this, simply mental confusion and scars from the past causing low self-esteem. One thing I could safely say about those periods in my life is that there is no way on earth I could have been sexually dehumanised or objectified and I suspect there are two reasons for this. Firstly, I do not believe that I would have had the confidence – my mind would have told me that I would not be able to do it properly and would fail. I would not have taken the risk of failing as it would have made me feel even worse about myself than I already did. Secondly, I think if someone had wanted to dehumanise or objectify me I would have taken that as a rejection of the human me and validated my self-loathing.
These days, my scars have healed and my self-esteem is basically on an even keel. Yes, I suppose there are still parts of me that I am not keen on but rather than dwell on them and let them drag me down, I simply accept them. Maybe it is just age and maturity that have led me to this place, but then again the love of a good man assists greatly :)
My former lack of confidence and fear of failing have transformed into what can only be described as sheer bloody mindedness – I do not fail because I tell myself I will not fail. And as for my feelings about rejection of the human me, they don’t exist any more. I KNOW I am valued as a human, and, probably most important of all, I value MYSELF as a human.
There was times in the past that I did hate myself, both in the way I looked and the way I was. There were no valid reasons for this, simply mental confusion and scars from the past causing low self-esteem. One thing I could safely say about those periods in my life is that there is no way on earth I could have been sexually dehumanised or objectified and I suspect there are two reasons for this. Firstly, I do not believe that I would have had the confidence – my mind would have told me that I would not be able to do it properly and would fail. I would not have taken the risk of failing as it would have made me feel even worse about myself than I already did. Secondly, I think if someone had wanted to dehumanise or objectify me I would have taken that as a rejection of the human me and validated my self-loathing.
These days, my scars have healed and my self-esteem is basically on an even keel. Yes, I suppose there are still parts of me that I am not keen on but rather than dwell on them and let them drag me down, I simply accept them. Maybe it is just age and maturity that have led me to this place, but then again the love of a good man assists greatly :)
My former lack of confidence and fear of failing have transformed into what can only be described as sheer bloody mindedness – I do not fail because I tell myself I will not fail. And as for my feelings about rejection of the human me, they don’t exist any more. I KNOW I am valued as a human, and, probably most important of all, I value MYSELF as a human.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
BARBIE BOYS
I get the impression, through reading other blogs, forums and websites, that the majority of males who wish to be (female) dollified desire to be pink and fluffy and look like Barbie. There appears to be a lot less females with this particular view of what their doll persona should look like.
Perhaps this is down to some males and their warped view of the perfect woman - big breasted, long legged, dressed like a hooker and a bit of an airhead! I also wonder if it is simply down to lack of imagination - ask most men to name a type of doll and the majority would surely answer Barbie. Can't blame them for that I suppose as little boys were not really encouraged to play with dolls in the past, it was all Action Man and guns and cars for them!
Maybe it is about attempting to escape from all their maleness - a complete transformation into something they see as being as feminine as possible within the confines of having a penis and a five o'clock shadow lol! Barbie is the ultimate in fake female therefore if the cap fits..:)
Perhaps this is down to some males and their warped view of the perfect woman - big breasted, long legged, dressed like a hooker and a bit of an airhead! I also wonder if it is simply down to lack of imagination - ask most men to name a type of doll and the majority would surely answer Barbie. Can't blame them for that I suppose as little boys were not really encouraged to play with dolls in the past, it was all Action Man and guns and cars for them!
Maybe it is about attempting to escape from all their maleness - a complete transformation into something they see as being as feminine as possible within the confines of having a penis and a five o'clock shadow lol! Barbie is the ultimate in fake female therefore if the cap fits..:)
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
I PLUG YOU IN
I knew when I first saw you on the showroom floor
You were made for me
I took you home and dressed you up in polyester
Princess of my dreams
Emotionless and cold as ice
All of the things I like
The way you look
The way you move
The sound you're making
In ultra-chrome, latex and steel
You were made for me
I took you home and dressed you up in polyester
Princess of my dreams
Emotionless and cold as ice
All of the things I like
The way you look
The way you move
The sound you're making
In ultra-chrome, latex and steel
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
CARE & RESPECT
Just because a human being is temporarily transformed into an object or non-human entity does not mean that respect flies out the window. Whilst it is perfectly acceptable to use the 'thing' as one wishes, just like any other object of value or trusting animal one does not break or damage it, but instead cherishes it and cares for it as necessary. No matter how hard the 'thing' has been worked, no matter how much consensual abuse it has taken during the scene, it is the owner's responsibility to show respect afterwards in the form of care and attention.
It's really no different to the aftercare offered after a BDSM scene. And whilst not everyone requires or enjoys being hugged/giving hugs etc, there is always a need to check on certain things like sore bits or mental state.
Basically, it's about keeping your possession in good condition and working order, both physically and mentally.
It's really no different to the aftercare offered after a BDSM scene. And whilst not everyone requires or enjoys being hugged/giving hugs etc, there is always a need to check on certain things like sore bits or mental state.
Basically, it's about keeping your possession in good condition and working order, both physically and mentally.
Monday, 15 February 2010
SHOE FETISH WITH A DIFFERENCE
High heel shoes, bondage and objectification - this could be the perfect picture lol!
This appeared in V Magazine issue 48 and was taken by Bela Borsodi.
This appeared in V Magazine issue 48 and was taken by Bela Borsodi.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
DEHUMANISATION AND MUMMIFICATION
Is there, generally, a great deal of difference between dehumanisation and mummification (both in the BDSM sense obviously)?
I suppose a lot depends on how you mummify the victim and what your intentions are that may define the difference. Say, for example, your intention is to physically use and/or abuse the victim in any way then they are less dehumanised. And if they are permitted the power of speech or one can plainly see their face, then they are not dehumanised.
But if they are simply wrapped, bondaged, with all facial features gone, with none of the five senses available to them, and left completely untouched then they are dehumanised - they are simply a shape on the living room floor (or wherever!)
The picture below is of what I deem one way to be dehumanised. I cannot move within that sack due to restraints both inside and out, the headbox is totally dark and the padding within blocks out all sounds. My mouth is stuffed with fabric and wrapped around with duct tape. I simply lie there, immobile and ignored, for a long time, being thought of as, well, nothing.
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
I suppose a lot depends on how you mummify the victim and what your intentions are that may define the difference. Say, for example, your intention is to physically use and/or abuse the victim in any way then they are less dehumanised. And if they are permitted the power of speech or one can plainly see their face, then they are not dehumanised.
But if they are simply wrapped, bondaged, with all facial features gone, with none of the five senses available to them, and left completely untouched then they are dehumanised - they are simply a shape on the living room floor (or wherever!)
The picture below is of what I deem one way to be dehumanised. I cannot move within that sack due to restraints both inside and out, the headbox is totally dark and the padding within blocks out all sounds. My mouth is stuffed with fabric and wrapped around with duct tape. I simply lie there, immobile and ignored, for a long time, being thought of as, well, nothing.
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
Friday, 12 February 2010
HUMAN INFLATABLE DOLL
An amazing human blow-up doll photograph conceived by Adrian Samson. How much is 'dressed' and how much is photo manipulation I do not know. There is a male version of the blow-up doll, but I don't like that so much!
Thursday, 11 February 2010
JUST A DOORMAT
Ahhh the good old days when advertisers could do as they pleased without any comeback from the politically correct!
DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
If you have a few thousand pounds to spare and are utterly dedicated to your robot roleplay, check out Robot Costumes USA.
Whilst most of the costumes, in my opinion, are a bit too cartoon character like, the custom robot babe one like the one below is quite cute.
Whilst most of the costumes, in my opinion, are a bit too cartoon character like, the custom robot babe one like the one below is quite cute.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
BOXED
A surprise he said. But his surprises tend to fill me with apprehension rather than excitement. And rightly so, as past experience had taught me nothing else!
And so I enter the room with some intrepidation, slightly shivering if the truth be told. And all I can see is some large wooden pieces propped up against the back wall. I look at him, slightly confused, and he smiles that smile that makes me weak at the knees and faint of heart.
He beckons me over and kisses me lightly on the forehead before making me bend from the waist and tightly binding each breast with bootlaces, two solid mounds now standing proud on my chest. My hands behind my back in metal cuffs, the same treatment of my ankles. I can feel the sharpness of the edges cutting in a little and relished the feeling of no hope of escape. He opens my mouth and forces a pair of my own panties inside, duct tape applied over my lips and vet wrap tightly encircling my lower face and neck. Well and truly gagged.
He moves the first sheet of wood over to me and lays it flat on the floor, taking my elbow and guiding me to stand on it. I watch as he brings the next two pieces over and realise he is creating a box for me. As he slides the third sheet into place I notice the two holes cut into it. He adjust my position through the remaining gap and steps slightly inside with me. He pushes me flat against the holed side and manipulates my bound breasts through each of the holes – I suddenly realise what he had a tape measure out for all those weeks ago – to achieve the perfect fit. He moves my head to the side to face him and the open gap, my left cheek squashed against the holed side. He moves away and returns quickly holding a small electric drill and a curved length of polished silver metal. He places the metal around my neck and I notice the flattened edges that sit tight against the side of the box. I feel a slight panic within me as he takes a screw from his pocket and proceeds to drill it through the tiny hole in the metal, right into the wood. The same on the other side of the metal and I am absolutely attached to the box.
He steps away and returns with the fourth side of the box, slotting it into place, and finally, whilst up on a chair, pops the lid into position. I am completely in the dark and completely helpless, my breasts the only part of me visible to the outside world.
I feel the harsh pinching of clamps being applied to my nipples, feel the chain attaching them being pulled to a maximum. Then the hitting begins – nasty, whippy streaks of pain on my breasts as the thin cane he uses leaves lines of scarlet over them. And when he tires of that the dull thud of the leather flogger smacks into me, re-igniting the pain in the cane lines. A single salty tear trickles from my eye.
An internal scream deafens my mind as he pulls the clamps off, I feel the palms of his hands, cold and soothing, caressing my hot and swollen breasts, gently kneading my nipples back to life. My expectation is that he will leave me in here for a while, just sit and relax and enjoy the view, but I should know better than to second guess. I feel the clamps go on again, followed by the dragging sensation of weights being attached. The pull is horrendous as he adds more and more, my nipples feeling as if they may become detached from me. I feel the palm of his hand again, but this time slapping the tops of my tits, causing the weights to swing and jiggle and so increasing my discomfort.
And it is then he moves from me and enjoys his tableau. It feels like hours but I know it is not. My breasts ache and the sharp pains from my nipples radiate into every part of my conciousness. My neck begins to stiffen and my subconscious struggling against the metal cuffs has hurt the tender skin around my wrists and ankles. But my soul is singing with a deep and contented joy because I know he is out there, happy with his handiwork, happy with me.
©2009 by shapeshifter
And so I enter the room with some intrepidation, slightly shivering if the truth be told. And all I can see is some large wooden pieces propped up against the back wall. I look at him, slightly confused, and he smiles that smile that makes me weak at the knees and faint of heart.
He beckons me over and kisses me lightly on the forehead before making me bend from the waist and tightly binding each breast with bootlaces, two solid mounds now standing proud on my chest. My hands behind my back in metal cuffs, the same treatment of my ankles. I can feel the sharpness of the edges cutting in a little and relished the feeling of no hope of escape. He opens my mouth and forces a pair of my own panties inside, duct tape applied over my lips and vet wrap tightly encircling my lower face and neck. Well and truly gagged.
He moves the first sheet of wood over to me and lays it flat on the floor, taking my elbow and guiding me to stand on it. I watch as he brings the next two pieces over and realise he is creating a box for me. As he slides the third sheet into place I notice the two holes cut into it. He adjust my position through the remaining gap and steps slightly inside with me. He pushes me flat against the holed side and manipulates my bound breasts through each of the holes – I suddenly realise what he had a tape measure out for all those weeks ago – to achieve the perfect fit. He moves my head to the side to face him and the open gap, my left cheek squashed against the holed side. He moves away and returns quickly holding a small electric drill and a curved length of polished silver metal. He places the metal around my neck and I notice the flattened edges that sit tight against the side of the box. I feel a slight panic within me as he takes a screw from his pocket and proceeds to drill it through the tiny hole in the metal, right into the wood. The same on the other side of the metal and I am absolutely attached to the box.
He steps away and returns with the fourth side of the box, slotting it into place, and finally, whilst up on a chair, pops the lid into position. I am completely in the dark and completely helpless, my breasts the only part of me visible to the outside world.
I feel the harsh pinching of clamps being applied to my nipples, feel the chain attaching them being pulled to a maximum. Then the hitting begins – nasty, whippy streaks of pain on my breasts as the thin cane he uses leaves lines of scarlet over them. And when he tires of that the dull thud of the leather flogger smacks into me, re-igniting the pain in the cane lines. A single salty tear trickles from my eye.
An internal scream deafens my mind as he pulls the clamps off, I feel the palms of his hands, cold and soothing, caressing my hot and swollen breasts, gently kneading my nipples back to life. My expectation is that he will leave me in here for a while, just sit and relax and enjoy the view, but I should know better than to second guess. I feel the clamps go on again, followed by the dragging sensation of weights being attached. The pull is horrendous as he adds more and more, my nipples feeling as if they may become detached from me. I feel the palm of his hand again, but this time slapping the tops of my tits, causing the weights to swing and jiggle and so increasing my discomfort.
And it is then he moves from me and enjoys his tableau. It feels like hours but I know it is not. My breasts ache and the sharp pains from my nipples radiate into every part of my conciousness. My neck begins to stiffen and my subconscious struggling against the metal cuffs has hurt the tender skin around my wrists and ankles. But my soul is singing with a deep and contented joy because I know he is out there, happy with his handiwork, happy with me.
©2009 by shapeshifter
Monday, 8 February 2010
FIVE
Five years ago today, my Owner took possession of me and I became, and remain, the most precious thing in his world. Together we have explored the darkest recesses of each others minds and lived out what had only been fantasy for both of us for too many wasted years.
Happy anniversary my love - you know I don't ever want to be any place else other than with you xx
Happy anniversary my love - you know I don't ever want to be any place else other than with you xx
Sunday, 7 February 2010
WHAT LIES BENEATH
The burqa is used in Islam as a way to stop women being looked on as sex objects, but we use it to MAKE me a sex object. We use it to take away my identity and my feminine form. When my owner decides he wants to use me, my facial features remain hidden but my body is exposed for his pleasures. Sometimes he permits my eyes to show, other times not. Often, I am gagged beneath the veil.
The wearing of the burqa does not really make me feel dehumanised, rather desexualised, even with the knowledge that I am wearing something completely feminine and sexy underneath. This feeling however changes dramatically when my body is exposed and used by him - sexual objectification is then the order of the day!
According to the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, the burqa “reduces women to servitude and undermines their dignity”...........sounds like the perfect garment for me then!!
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
The wearing of the burqa does not really make me feel dehumanised, rather desexualised, even with the knowledge that I am wearing something completely feminine and sexy underneath. This feeling however changes dramatically when my body is exposed and used by him - sexual objectification is then the order of the day!
According to the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, the burqa “reduces women to servitude and undermines their dignity”...........sounds like the perfect garment for me then!!
Photo ©2010 by Alternative Mindsets
Friday, 5 February 2010
THE UNDERTAKER - a work of fiction
She did consent to him administering the drug that would render her inert, initially excited at the thought, fear being a great aphrodisiac to her. But as she lay on the marble mortuary slab, every muscle frozen, she began to wonder if she would come to regret such consent.
Her eyes could only stare up at the stained ceiling above her as her senses told her he had re-entered the room. She could hear his footsteps cross the aged linoleum tiles and move towards her helpless body, hear her own heartbeat in her head, loud and ever increasing. The scent of rubber from his apron filled her senses as he leant over her and ran a gloved hand over her bare skin, planning his sadistic artistry.
A slight prickle on her belly alerted her to his cutting, the scalpel blade lightly slicing through her soft skin, his creativity unleashing as he patterned her flesh with his carving. She tried to follow his cuts and envisage the design in her head. Small streams of itchiness irked her skin slightly as the flows of blood meandered over her.
A gentle clatter signalled to her he had finished his masterpiece, a vague feeling of abdominal pressure as he pressed a square of pure white linen over the cutting, taking a bloody impression of his work.
He left the room, for what seemed like an eternity to her, an underlying sense of panic threatening to take hold. Then a deep sense of relief as she heard the door and he returned to her. Gently, he turned her head to the side so as that she could see him and what his plans were. He stood in an ebony tail coat suit, a top hat with black feather plume – true old fashioned undertaker style. She smiled inwardly at his handsome malevolence but as he moved slightly aside and revealed to her the dark oak coffin with brass handles that mindsmile vanished.
He stepped forward and returned her head to its original position. Leaning over her he kissed her lightly on the lips and gently thumbed down her eyelids. Pushing his arms underneath the backs of her knees and the middle of her back he lifted her from the slab and placed her in the coffin. She felt the creamy satin lining cocooning her, the lightly padded cushion under her head. He took the cloth that had traced her wounds and lay it gently over her face, the coppery aroma of her own blood filling her nostrils.
She tried to cry out to no avail as he moved the lid of the coffin into place. There was no strength available to her to be summoned to detail the terror she felt as the lid slid into place. A solitary tear began to wind its way down her cheek as the sound of screws being put in place murmured in her ears.
He kicked the brake off the trolley and began to wheel her to her resting place. The movement strangely calming to her, the silent internal screeching quietening down. She relaxed into the motion, moving her mind to a better and safer place.
Journey's end and she felt the coffin being pushed from where her feet lay. She listened carefully to the change from metal to stone occurred and knew where she was. The ancient vault he had showed her on their first meeting, his favourite place he had told her. A dark and dry place, rectangular holes cut into the stone walls, coffin shaped holes.
She strained her ears, was aware of his footsteps going off into the distance. She was alone, entombed, paralysed, bleeding, but she was singing inside. All fear had dissipated, been replaced by an undescribable feeling of contentment.
He contemplated as he enjoyed his glass of Merlot, knew he had a couple of hours until the drugs he had injected into her would wear off. She would be safe until then, unaware of course that there was air holes drilled into the coffin. Then he would go to her, resurrect her, rebirth her. Together they would embrace her new found purity of soul. The soul that belonged to him.
©2009 by shapeshifter
Her eyes could only stare up at the stained ceiling above her as her senses told her he had re-entered the room. She could hear his footsteps cross the aged linoleum tiles and move towards her helpless body, hear her own heartbeat in her head, loud and ever increasing. The scent of rubber from his apron filled her senses as he leant over her and ran a gloved hand over her bare skin, planning his sadistic artistry.
A slight prickle on her belly alerted her to his cutting, the scalpel blade lightly slicing through her soft skin, his creativity unleashing as he patterned her flesh with his carving. She tried to follow his cuts and envisage the design in her head. Small streams of itchiness irked her skin slightly as the flows of blood meandered over her.
A gentle clatter signalled to her he had finished his masterpiece, a vague feeling of abdominal pressure as he pressed a square of pure white linen over the cutting, taking a bloody impression of his work.
He left the room, for what seemed like an eternity to her, an underlying sense of panic threatening to take hold. Then a deep sense of relief as she heard the door and he returned to her. Gently, he turned her head to the side so as that she could see him and what his plans were. He stood in an ebony tail coat suit, a top hat with black feather plume – true old fashioned undertaker style. She smiled inwardly at his handsome malevolence but as he moved slightly aside and revealed to her the dark oak coffin with brass handles that mindsmile vanished.
He stepped forward and returned her head to its original position. Leaning over her he kissed her lightly on the lips and gently thumbed down her eyelids. Pushing his arms underneath the backs of her knees and the middle of her back he lifted her from the slab and placed her in the coffin. She felt the creamy satin lining cocooning her, the lightly padded cushion under her head. He took the cloth that had traced her wounds and lay it gently over her face, the coppery aroma of her own blood filling her nostrils.
She tried to cry out to no avail as he moved the lid of the coffin into place. There was no strength available to her to be summoned to detail the terror she felt as the lid slid into place. A solitary tear began to wind its way down her cheek as the sound of screws being put in place murmured in her ears.
He kicked the brake off the trolley and began to wheel her to her resting place. The movement strangely calming to her, the silent internal screeching quietening down. She relaxed into the motion, moving her mind to a better and safer place.
Journey's end and she felt the coffin being pushed from where her feet lay. She listened carefully to the change from metal to stone occurred and knew where she was. The ancient vault he had showed her on their first meeting, his favourite place he had told her. A dark and dry place, rectangular holes cut into the stone walls, coffin shaped holes.
She strained her ears, was aware of his footsteps going off into the distance. She was alone, entombed, paralysed, bleeding, but she was singing inside. All fear had dissipated, been replaced by an undescribable feeling of contentment.
He contemplated as he enjoyed his glass of Merlot, knew he had a couple of hours until the drugs he had injected into her would wear off. She would be safe until then, unaware of course that there was air holes drilled into the coffin. Then he would go to her, resurrect her, rebirth her. Together they would embrace her new found purity of soul. The soul that belonged to him.
©2009 by shapeshifter
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
DISTURBING IMAGES THAT ARE A TURN ON - PART 2
I know there is nothing erotic about a gyno training model, but this picture brings to mind the times when I am objectified to nothing more than female genitalia. read on below for my experience of one of those times.
He objectifies me so as that I am become nothing more than a cunt. I am on my back on the table, my legs up in stirrups, splayed apart. My genitals are the only thing that exists for that time, the rest of me, body, mind and soul eradicated and non-existent, my features and form hidden from view.
He uses me for a display at first, a speculum inserted, cunt wide open and vulnerable. And when he tires of this, the pain begins. A small flogger used to good effect, swelling and reddening the labia; a metal electrode attached to a TENS machine pulsing harshly inside, making me want to yell but I cannot – I, the complete me, doesn’t exist after all; a suction cup applied on the clitoris, again a need to use voice but the inability to do so, internalising the pain and discomfort.
A fucking machine is clamped to the table, a Hitachi wand strategically placed and taped over the already swollen clit. Flicking of switches and both machines are on. He moves away from me and sits to have coffee and a cigarette, using the remote control for the fucking machine, increasing the speed gradually until the false cock bangs against my cervix at an alarming rate. Every atom of me is concentrated on my cunt, on the mesmerising mix of rapture and pain as that solid dildo fucks hard, as my clit becomes so sensitive I think it will explode. Orgasms simply roll into one long excrutiating wave of ecstacy.
And when he tires of the game, he uncovers my face and strokes and kisses me, allowing me to return to full persona.
He objectifies me so as that I am become nothing more than a cunt. I am on my back on the table, my legs up in stirrups, splayed apart. My genitals are the only thing that exists for that time, the rest of me, body, mind and soul eradicated and non-existent, my features and form hidden from view.
He uses me for a display at first, a speculum inserted, cunt wide open and vulnerable. And when he tires of this, the pain begins. A small flogger used to good effect, swelling and reddening the labia; a metal electrode attached to a TENS machine pulsing harshly inside, making me want to yell but I cannot – I, the complete me, doesn’t exist after all; a suction cup applied on the clitoris, again a need to use voice but the inability to do so, internalising the pain and discomfort.
A fucking machine is clamped to the table, a Hitachi wand strategically placed and taped over the already swollen clit. Flicking of switches and both machines are on. He moves away from me and sits to have coffee and a cigarette, using the remote control for the fucking machine, increasing the speed gradually until the false cock bangs against my cervix at an alarming rate. Every atom of me is concentrated on my cunt, on the mesmerising mix of rapture and pain as that solid dildo fucks hard, as my clit becomes so sensitive I think it will explode. Orgasms simply roll into one long excrutiating wave of ecstacy.
And when he tires of the game, he uncovers my face and strokes and kisses me, allowing me to return to full persona.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
BODYBAGS - THE NEW LBD!
Veasyble is described by its makers as " set of wearable accessories that can be converted at a touch into a means of isolation", and according to the blurb 'The project is based on three keywords: isolation, intimacy and ornament'. Veasyble is available as a visor, ruff, bag or mask. The last two are of interest to me!
Whilst the items would do quite well on their own, the addition of perhaps bondage straps to a top to toe bag version may well add an extra dimension!
I love this picture below - definately an example of the decorative useage!
Monday, 1 February 2010
CARDBOARD DOLL
This cardboard doll was constructed by Bert Simons, basically an experimental project mimicking realistic sex dolls. He also makes rather fabulous paper sculptures of heads.
I am sure this look could be created for roleplay with perhaps a dull brown tape, possibly putting some sort of splints at the arms, legs etc in order to stiffen and immobilise the subject.
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