Expectation vs. Reality

This ended up being a bit longer than intended, and I want to take a second to clarify that the experience described herein is as close to factual as I could make it. It touches base on some very severe abuse I endured, and I want anyone who feels concern for those events to rest assured they’re presently of no consequence to me. I’ve had a hell of a lot of fun since - some of which was directly a result of what I learned during that weekend - and just wanted to show that it’s possible to come back from scenes that go awry. Moreover, I wanted to discuss how to try and prevent things from going awry.

Everyone has sexual fantasies: some may be incredibly detailed and involved, some may be as simple as wanting to feel a certain way in the moment, and some may be a specific goal or idea we want to incorporate into a larger scene. Most of the time it’s fantasies which drive us to seek a new level of play that helps prevent stagnation and keeps things fresh. They’re a perfectly natural part of sexual development - even when aberrant activities are involved - but there is a very real risk of literally losing yourself in a fantasy. As we focus on details that get us more and more aroused, it becomes easier to forget our thoughts and feelings at the time are also a part of the equation. When this happens you’re very apt to have a rude awakening when you actually find yourself in the fantasy.

One of the most recurring themes of this blog is helplessness. I’ve written stories - both fantasy and real - about it, and I’ve tried to deconstruct and detail how it can be accomplished. My approach to this kind of play has always been that when one agrees to waive the right to revoke consent, one must accept responsibility for misjudging the severity of one’s response to a situation. There will always be times where the Dom may be at fault, but only when ignorance, dishonesty, or incompetence is the cause; if a Dom does precisely as discussed in scene negotiations the end result is not necessarily his fault. It can take a lot to swallow your pride and admit you really shouldn’t have been so adamant about your request, but stubbornly insisting you didn’t make a mistake does absolutely nothing productive. Learn from it: incorporate how you felt at the time into sculpting your fantasies and be more careful when you negotiate your next scene. The main thing here is that refusing to accept responsibility is denying yourself the opportunity to recalibrate and improve future scenes.

For several years now, I’ve sought a loss of control that is as close to absolute as possible - the helplessness that is such a recurrent theme here. Whether it’s needing to know I can still be controlled even if I break headspace or deliberately putting myself in scenarios where resistance is nearly impossible, it all hinges on being unable to change my mind based on circumstance. From seeing first-hand how these changes of opinion can arise mid-scene, I’ve gotten pretty decent at limiting variables in scenes with unfamiliar or inexperienced Doms. Limiting variables results in reducing confusion as to what is an acceptable level of duress as well as helping establish what level of responses can be ignored. I’ve also learned that negotiating scenes is a walk in the park compared to finding someone with the ability and drive to wholly disregard your plight. With this in mind, I decided some time ago I place more value in a scene in which I ask for too much and am given it than one where I feel like I can walk all over the guy, even bound and gagged.

There was a particular scene a few years ago that was exceptionally difficult for me to get over; not because of how much I regretted it in the moment, but rather because it felt like a tremendous failure to communicate (or interpret) the desired “tone” of the scene. Based on my understanding of the discussions we’d had, I thought it was clear that it was supposed to be centered around a level of degradation akin to the treatment of a POW. To be precise, I thought this was mutually agreed upon as opposed to just a request or demand on my part. I’d even recommended some specific fantasies that would be so horrible while happening I knew they’d break me out of headspace and solidify my inability to deter him even in the worst of circumstances. I’d given him plenty of ammunition and he had a rather sizeable playspace in the basement, so it definitely seemed like a weekend of uninterrupted dehumanization was possible.

Prior to arriving at his house I received instructions to enter through the side of his garage. Upon entering I was to strip, hood, and handcuff myself, then wait for him on my knees without my ass touching my feet. My memory is a little hazy of this part, but I remember that the garage was not fully closed off. I couldn’t see any people, but what areas I could see felt like places you would be apt to see people, and where people could easily see me. It made me a little uneasy since I had no idea how long he’d keep me waiting, but I kind of liked that the weekend was starting off with a bit of a mindfuck. I’d read a number of fantasies when I was younger where someone happens upon a helpless boy and proceeds to take the reigns, and the memory made my dick twitch. So for a while I waited there, silent, vulnerable, and nervous, with old fantasies swimming at the back of my mind and swelling at base of my cock.

Eventually he came to grab me, and I was lead into his house. The uneasy fear of walking too fast or missing a step was something I was used to from previous scenes but, after waiting as vulnerably as I had been, every step still drove me deeper and deeper into headspace. He dragged me along to his St Andrew’s cross where he tied me securely enough I was confident things would continue to go well. The cross had never much been my thing, but I felt pretty immobile and contented. After I was secured he explained to me that his boy had moved my car, so even if I somehow managed to get my belongings I’d still be fucked. It made me feel even more helpless, and my dick jumped again.

One of the “shoot myself in the foot” things I had given him was that face-slapping infuriates me. Like, full-on rage within half a dozen light slaps. What happened next was not one of the light or moderate slaps I’d grown accustomed to in rougher scenes, but what felt like being backhanded, full-force. Stars exploded in my hindered vision, and instead of rage a wave of panic washed over me. This wasn’t a “no warmup, start out intense” kind of scene, this was turning out to be a “get a black eye literally within the first 30 seconds of abuse” kind of scene. Apparently he had taken much of what I had said about pain play to heart, and it didn’t stop there. Unfortunately for me I had also mentioned to him that slapping my dick elicits a similar response to face-slapping, and at this point he proceeded to use a harsh enough impliment to do so that my cock and balls were bruised for about a week after the scene. Before this I didn’t even know you could bruise a cock.

I have no idea how long it lasted; I’ve had scenes less than half as intense produce a time dilation effect so significant it caught me off-guard after the fact. What I do know is that at one point I remember sobbing and then screaming for help, literally, and meaning it. But the St Andrews cross held firm and the assault eventually diminished in intensity at some point after I instinctively realized screaming for help was futile. By this point I had fought so hard that my wrist hurt like hell from the struggling against a slightly misplaced rope, and I was pretty sure I had drawn blood. The crying didn’t stop, but now it was because of the issue with my wrist as opposed to the deliberate pain; it wasn’t that the pain was too severe, but rather that I felt so overwhelmingly helpless to correct it.

Had things continued along the same vein of being so dehumanized that screaming at the top of my lungs for help didn’t even phase him, it might have actually been really hot come the end of the scene. Instead I was met with conversation after this barrage, bringing me back into being myself and making me a whole person again. I felt empowered, and it largely undid the impact of what had just transpired. As a continuation of intensity, we had discussed me sleeping restrained, nude, and without a blanket, but with the conversation in between and being re-humanized it was more like being tucked in for the night. By then, the handcuffs and leg irons couldn’t rob me of feeling like myself again and any concern about waking him had dissipated.

Suffice it to say this made for an incredibly long night without a single sexualization of the situation. I hadn’t anticipated he’d have hardwood floors and my belongings were also left a few feet away from me, so things were pretty substantially different than I’d imagined. With freedom within reach, at several points in the night I contemplated using the handcuff key that was surely still in my pocket. If the intensity had been consistent I likely would have been afraid to even try; in that scenario I’d have had no way to predict how intense the punishment would be for such a serious infraction. Eventually I settled for using my clothes as a pillow (something else I should have been afraid to do), and managed to sleep for around an hour or two collectively.

The next morning the sense of normalcy continued and, instead of the desired POW-level degradation, I was treated as a boy and given enough freedom to serve him breakfast. I’m not opposed to that sort of service in a different setting or as a part of a more long-term dynamic, but after the abuse from the night prior it felt very out of place. Even more out of place was alternating from having the freedom to move around only to be “forced” to eat out of a bowl on the floor while still feeling as though I could look up, free to continue our conversation. After breakfast there were a few things that blurred together fairly uneventfully: a flogging scene during which I also broke down and cried, an easy/nice scene in a sleepsack, and some very eager foot worship. Even after being disappointed that I hadn’t been adequately subjugated, I was still elated to get a chance to service his feet. In contrast to the abuse it was more than enough for me to stay hard pretty much the entire time, and almost enough to get me begging for more.

One of the primary features of the weekend was that there was to be no “out;” no safeword, no ending the scene, no breaks. If I got too enraged or collapsed into a sobbing ball of putty, too bad for me: the scene must go on. By this point it was pretty apparent I wasn’t going anywhere despite my malcontent with the tone, and I was getting frustrated. One of the specific countermeasures to tantrums I had suggested centered around how sensitive I am about my neck. I saw a video a long time ago where, as punishment, a boy had a chain padlocked around his neck and was then aggressively led down into a basement by it; you could see him panicking as he realized he couldn’t prevent himself from being taken down. Once downstairs, the end was attached to the ceiling and pulled taut enough to make him stand on his toes, his hands clawing at the chain digging into his throat. As the Dom pulled his hands away to be restrained behind his back you could see him fighting, for real, to keep his fingers under the chain in order to protect his neck. Once his hands were secured his thighs and ass were belted and otherwise beat brutally, and he was too focused on minimizing the pressure on his throat to move even an inch. There is not a single aspect of this I would enjoy in the moment, and constriction on my neck is very likely to cause me to panic - something which seemed appropriate for punishing a particularly grievous slight. Rather than this situation being used for punishment or to exude further control over me, I was simply walked down and strung up as though it were a casual scene. More importantly, this made me feel as though he believed it was something I’d actually enjoy to some extent.

By this point I had reached the maximum level of disappointment that I could force myself to tolerate. Casually approaching the most severe punishment I could think of proved too much to handle, and within less than a minute of abuse I lost it and yelled, “Oh, yippe! You’re going to fucking break me AGAIN!” Apparently the sarcasm and rage rang clear enough to show there was no coming back because immediately after this he ended the onslaught. My hands were instead locked in front of me with a set of allen-wrench irons shaped like an ‘8,’ and the chain was removed. Still blindfolded, he led me into a standing cage and locked me in, heading upstairs without so much as a word. There was no way I was getting out of those irons, there was no way I was getting out of the cage, and there was especially no way I was getting out of his house without him letting me ... and I was done.

While I was unattended I used the time to pull myself as far out of whatever level of headspace was left, and to channel every ounce of willpower I had. Part of this included sitting down in the cage and taking off the blindfold, more or less as an act of defiance. Apparently gathering my will worked because when he walked down the stairs and I looked him in the eye saying “I think we need to call it quits,” he agreed and proceeded to let me out. As I was leaving his house I apologized to him and his boy for how my attitude had soured - truly meaning it - and set off for the road trip home, bruised and battered. I never harbored any resentment for the severity of my treatment, but I was incredibly bitter for quite some time about the purported miscommunications surrounding how the weekend should have been structured.

The important thing to keep in mind here is that the issue with the scene was not the intensity of the abuse, but rather dissatisfaction with how the weekend played out. When there is a conflict between expectation and reality, it can stem from a number of different aspects of a scene. It’s easy to understand that being beat too hard can ruin an experience, but it’s less intuitive to understand that sometimes things we view as an afterthought in fantasies can have a significant impact in practice.

There’s a difference between …

… beating a boy and training a boy,

… humiliation and degradation,

… your play partner making a mistake and regretting your own informed decision,

… service-oriented servility and dehumanization,

… a sub requesting something because they enjoy it and requesting something they dislike because they believe it could benefit the dynamic.

In fantasies, the ways these situations manifest are nearly identical without further context. A boy crying from being beat in an of itself will always be a boy crying; how that relates to the scene or dynamic is a different story. Does he receive less abuse when compliant? Is the purpose for pushing him to increase his pain tolerance? Is the Dom sadistic and expressing control through making the boy miserable? In this single instance, these are at least three different approaches that could drastically change how the sub experiences the same event; this is why in prolonged or weekend scenes observance of these subtle differences can be especially important. When we read or develop our own fantasies, it tends to just be the “highlight reels” of the interaction - the contextual nature of what is happening in the fantasy is not always apparent because what’s happening is hot and we don’t give a shit while we’re stroking. Variables like these different approaches can not only make or break the highlights, but also the times inbetween where things can be, to be frank, dull. What about bathroom breaks? Eating? Stretching? Sleeping? No scene spanning more than a few hours - and even few of that duration - will be free of monotony, but with the right chemistry and dynamic it can be manageable. Knowing how you will react in given situations may help preempt this by enabling conversations about the scene’s momentum, but simply realizing that lulls need to be discussed, pointedly, is half the battle.

Expecting your scene to be perfect or that your weekend will result in you feeling completely helpless 100% of the time can still lead to a lot of disappointment - something I surely still have issues with. While a perfect scene may not be possible, learning to actively identify differences between fantasy and reality is the best way to minimize the impact of this eventuality. The better you understand these distinctions, the more it allows you to guide discussions and make changes to yield a more positive outcome. Above all else, it is paramount to make sure you know yourself and your play partner well enough to ensure you’re both actually a part of your fantasies. Generalities might give you something more fun to fantasize about, but extensive (and often grueling) attention to detail is what will help you live your fantasies.

Weekend Wishlist

Just a few things on the mind. Busy weekend, so we'll see if I get to check any of these off.

Identity and Humiliation

There’s a huge difference between identity and experience, but it can still be difficult to reconcile emotionally. What happens a lot is that people assume individual experiences are going to instantly change their identity. Look at “100% straight” homophobia: the thought is that their identity has very strict requirements and anything contrary to those guidelines invalidates that part of their identity. When dealing with more specific sexual interests, this is still true; a “100% Dom” guy may neglect to disclose he subs for specific guys for fear of diminishing his image as a Dom, but that doesn’t invalidate the dynamics in which he is a sub. A good litmus test as to whether an activity is a part of someone’s identity or solely experiential might be “Would they flag that color regularly?” Claiming something in that way has certain implications, stigmas, expectations, and assumptions that come with it which is why some are hesitant to do so. I’ve been participating in kink for over a decade and still have issues with letting my concepts of identity interfere with play, so I wanted to share how some of these conflicts can manifest.

Submission has always been difficult for me because I’m a very strong-willed person. A lot of what enables me to feel confident enough to be so strong-willed is my affinity for words. Words are powerful. Words, to me, are a source of power: I’ve changed minds with words, I’ve consoled with words, I’ve repaired relationships with words, and I’ve undoubtedly crushed some spirits with words. One might argue that it’s really the ideas behind words that have power, but an idea that can’t be communicated is powerless when measured by its potential to impact others. As such it’s words that give ideas power, not the inverse. This is part of why one of the most significant contributors to being in a sub headspace for me is having my words taken from me. Even when I’m in a social setting and not expressly in a scene, if someone elicits so much as a slight submissive response from me I’m apt to go silent. Not “less chatty,” silent, and almost compulsively. When this began to appeal to me it came from a place of genuinely wanting to lose control to the fullest extent possible: by essentially losing any ability to vocalize objection. What I’ve noticed recently is that it’s easy for silence to become an excuse to keep my sub experiences and my identity separate. Instead of enhancing submission, silence has served to compartmentalize identity and experience; after all, I wasn’t doing or requesting these humiliating things at the time, they were just being done to me. How can your unwilling or coerced action possibly impact your identity?

It took me a very long time to notice but silence had degraded from a tool aiding submission to a copout that enabled avoiding humiliation. Some time ago there was a party at Johnny Gear’s in which he somehow wound up having me hooked up to a shock collar - not that I objected in the slightest. Naturally this made me pretty malleable, to the tune of having to worship someone’s feet despite almost never doing so in public (even to this day). Eventually what broke me out of headspace was being instructed to ask permission to continue licking the same feet I had just been enjoying lapping at. From my viewpoint at the time the only reason I had interest in feet was how degrading servicing them was; having to ask for something I expressly felt was degrading was humiliating and I couldn’t process it quickly enough. I knew why I was frustrated at the time, but it still took me a while to unravel what that meant for my growth (or lack thereof) as a sub.

For a little over a year, I’ve been chatting extensively with someone who is very interested in forced puppification. By no means have I been discreet about this dynamic, but there are aspects of it that I’ve kept fairly private; I posted a handful of photos, but never quite detailed how it went. The whole scene was a huge mindfuck since I have/had no direct interest in being pupped out, only in seeing how far He could push the limits of what I was willing or able to do. In this scene, I happened upon another crutch: eye contact aversion. I definitely think deliberate, forced eye contact aversion can be degrading and hot but, as with speech, I tend to see eye contact as something that is too linked to my identity instead of the experience I am involved in. Making eye contact is difficult since it feels like someone is seeing me when I’m in that state instead of just the submissive aspect of myself. Based on the extensive discussions we’d had and His innate ability to predict my response to things, He knew this would be too much for me to handle and, of course, capitalized on it. Having to stare at Him in the eye while taking on the pup postures He demanded was easily one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever had to endure. I would never demean what it is to be a pup for those who identify as one, but I don’t which means instead of expressing my identity I was having it erased, meticulously, piece by piece.

Over the course of our discussions, I’ve progressively been broken down to the point where I value pleasing Him more than being myself in any particular moment. This has manifested in some interesting ways as it relates to pup play - some of which I’ll likely write about later - but most recently it was His assertion that next time He trains me He’ll be requiring me to bark .. with enthusiasm. That I bark, and mean it. Barking is by all accounts the final nail in the coffin for me and the cherry on top of the cake for Him. Because of how silence empowers me to avoid humiliation, I couldn’t really call it “speech bondage;” it’s not so much limiting my speech as letting me try to be a distinctly different person. Exclusively barking, however? Not only does it require communicating very real emotions like excitement or apprehension, it can be used as a command to demand an eagerness which can be punished if found lacking. One hell of a mindfuck if you ask me.

I realize that these specific internal conflicts may only pertain to me, but I wanted to write this as someone who has had exposure to pup play for nearly a decade and only recently understood its appeal, regardless of context. Keep in mind as you consider experimenting with certain ideas, that they may come back to you in unanticipated ways (in this case, pup play as a means of humiliation instead of as a willing headspace). Additionally, I really hope that some of the examples here will demonstrate how paramount it is to constantly assess the real reasons and motivations for your interests. As you grow and develop as a sub, the things that helped you take that first step towards expressing submission may end up being something that can hold you back from a new level of play. Who knows, you might just end up being forced to bark eagerly for your Sir while your cheeks are beet red from embarrassment and your cock is throbbing in its chastity both confusing and humiliating you further.

Full-Weight Trampling

It's really easy to forget how heavy people are; I'm not commenting on obesity or anything, just how much even an average-weight person actually weighs. The extent to which people commonly feel most of a person's weight on them would be either during sex or in a situation like wrestling. In both these instances, you have most of one body supporting most of another, so it's much more spread out and all your muscles can work to support or resist it. When you have a man standing with his full or near-full weight standing on your chest, you suddenly find yourself with all that weight concentrated in a very small area. What's more is your brain intuitively understands this and knows that fighting with the same fervor when you had your entire body to work with is likely to cause injury, so you almost naturally suppress fighting it. When a good bit of that weight shifts to the other foot which is cutting off your windpipe, you also realize that no matter how hard you grab onto his ankle and try to lift it, from your current position you're not stopping the onslaught.

 Basically, you're fucked.

Hotfoot

One of the things that makes bondage difficult occasionally is how difficult it is to truly immobilize parts of a guy. I personally think bastinado's really hot since most guys simply can't process it, but it's really difficult to actually immobilize a foot the way you can an ass or thighs or nipples. Generally I'm not particularly picky about what implements I use so long as they produce the desired reaction. I've never had long enough hair to need a hair dryer, but the idea of not really needing to worry about immobilization since no amount of movement can stop the constantly assailing heat? I might just have to buy a hair dryer.

The vid's a little slow to build, but by a little after 9 min there're some fun reactions and noises.

Sole Roasting powered by XTube

Mr. Chicago Leather

Though I've been a part of kink culture for a little over a decade now, leather is actually a fairly recent acquisition. When I was younger the complex D/s dynamics that the leather community seemed to harbor were simply of no interest to me. History was of little interest, and I was scarcely able to identify history in the making as it unfolded before me.

A lot of people like to scoff at contests using "pageant" as a pejorative, and pointing out how some title holders do nothing with their title - at some points I even agreed with this derision. As my exposure and desire to provide meaningful contributions has increased, it's become clear to me that the process of selecting these individuals is still not only important but necessary. Hearing where these men have been, what they aspire to, and their thoughts on bettering our community is nothing short of inspiring. To know someone with such ideas is one thing, to see that you can fill a stage with this caliber of man is something completely different.

Events like these are built with the help of people who believe in this and are willing to give their time and dedication to see it happen. Whether it's a starry-eyed kid volunteering for the first time to meet the people that make this community so great, or someone who's been around for decades trying to help their friend's event succeed, they acknowledge there's something worth their time and energy.

This weekend I had the opportunity to volunteer for Mr. Chicago Leather, which has a storied history of successfully choosing men who would go on to actively try to make meaningful changes. Despite having a sinus infection and feeling rather under the weather, I was still very excited to be able to offer my time.

Through the entirety of the six-hour registration shift, we were approached by at least a dozen volunteers, demonstrators, or VIP guests with questions regarding their accommodations. We had been assured that this information would be made available to us, but as 5 PM neared and registration was set to close we still had no answers for those with growing concerns that they had driven to a contest they may not have a ticket for. As we continually pushed for more information we were told, and I quote, "Just worry about the paying customers for now."

About an hour into my shift as an usher, with 11 ticket-holders standing outside the door without seats, my friend and I were asked to give up our seats for paying customers and instead given drink tickets. I also found out later that at least a few paying customers who arrived late had been turned away at the door since the theater was at capacity.

I want to be very clear: I am not at all bitter about missing the contest. I had honestly not even expected to be able to see the show for my paltry contribution and was expecting to be stationed at the door to monitor those who had to leave and reenter. What is upsetting to me is that an event which purports to represent a community with pillars of trust, honor, and respect managed to demolish all three in a single blow. While I appreciate some token of goodwill, trading what should be a piece of history for a cheap buzz is more of a slap to the face of what the contest represents than to myself.

From what I understand - and I do try to place very little value in hearsay - something similar happened last year as well, and this is by no stretch of the imagination acceptable. How can we expect those outside the community to believe we truly place value in the selection of those who represent us when an event cannot even honor its own commitments?

I really hope they're able to correct these issues next year, but I don't know that I'll be able to view the contest with anything but apprehension for quite some time.

The Loss of an Icon

One of the main things I expend effort and energy on is trying to be genuine which means, believe it or not, trying to avoid being imposing – or at least avoiding presumptuousness. Laugh or scoff as you will, but it is the most significant source of anxiety present in my life. I try to trust people to show me where I stand with them, and in cases where I am unsure I do my best not to presume how they perceive our dynamic. Naturally this is particularly difficult with acquaintances or people I don’t interact with very regularly.

When dealing with public figures or well-known individuals, this is especially important to me. I’ve known some larger-than-life people, and have seen first-hand that no weight of responsibility or notoriety can diminish a person’s humanity. We all have a finite amount of time and energy, and with that comes the need to prioritize with whom we are willing to share these precious resources – *no one* is exempt from this. The last thing I want to do is to be audacious enough as to make someone feel uncomfortable by overestimating my relevance or importance to them.

It’s for this reason that condolences are particularly difficult for me. I see people around me willing to offer them in earnest, without ulterior motive, and with a warmth and understanding that I wish I knew how to express openly with such brevity. I would never in a million years diminish how heartfelt these wishes are, nor would I discredit the good that a kind wish from even a literal stranger can do, but the whispers of anxiety continually tell me “It’s not your place, grieving is for those who had a greater investment in the person than you did.” After all, how can I sympathize with a loss I cannot fathom?

In believing that humanity is innate and that no one is above being flawed, idols have never been my thing. As such, it’s rare that the death of someone I did not know well affects me directly, emotionally speaking. That being said when I heard of Alan Penrod’s passing, I was beside myself – or to be more precise I compulsively exclaimed “holy shit” in shock despite my surroundings.

I’ve always had trouble expressing my submissive side, largely because my interests are very out of sync with most gay men. While it doesn’t bother me that most people don’t respect or understand that I identify as submissive, it’s been a very difficult part of me to grow despite how long it’s been around. For a long time I had given up on trying to form any sort of D/s dynamic, thinking that there weren’t any Doms who adequately respected what it takes to help a sub like myself (as damaged as myself?) grow.

The extent of my interactions with this amazing man were a perfunctory introduction and a quick Recon message lauding his profile for its depth of thought, but he was always in my periphery and it was apparent that goodness seemed to follow him and the company he kept. What he had to say about building D/s relationships was inspiring enough that it immediately revitalized my interest in exploring my sub side, and gave me additional insight as to how to go about doing so.

While I’m glad I was able to send the quick message of appreciation, I guess I had always assumed I’d run into him at some point where I had more than a second to tell him thanks. In retrospect, I don’t know that I’d ever have had the courage to speak my mind on something so heavy to me in person.

As I see posts of condolences and well-wishing, I can’t help but think “If he impacted a bystander such as myself so much, how momentous was his impact on others?” I can’t fathom the pain his family must feel right now, and I sure as hell can’t find the words to adequately sympathize with such a loss, even after writing this long.

Inclusivity

People are as great as you allow them to become. 

There’s a Kevin Smith quote someone made an amazing comic out of that always stuck with me. It had the narrow scope of referring exclusively to artists, but I personally believe it applies to every person we encounter:

“Remember: it costs nothing to encourage an artist, and the potential benefits are staggering. A pat on the back to an artist now could one day result in your favorite film, or the cartoon you love to get stoned watching, or the song that saves your life. Discourage an artist, you get absolutely nothing in return, ever.”

We’ve all dealt with people who were only in it for themselves. Sometimes it comes from using others as tools to serve one’s own ambitions, sometimes it’s bullying that was learned as a source of power in childhood, sometimes it’s insecurity that necessitates an “Us vs. Them” mentality to abate feelings of loneliness. Regardless of what flavor it comes in, it does nothing but cultivate misanthropic sentiments and erode one’s confidence and ability to trust.

There will always be valid reasons to keep specific people at arm’s length, particularly those engaged in such self-serving behaviors, but when we are unmindful of how low this threshold becomes we deny people the opportunity to become amazing. The person who’s a little “off” and socially awkward doesn’t get a chance to hone their social skills because people don’t invite them places. The person who was a jerk occasionally because they lost their job and lover in tandem doesn’t get to build a support network to help them out of their rut. The person recovering from addiction returns to old vices after being met with glaring disapproval for their past. Everyone will, at some point in their life, need help from those around them, and it’s our responsibility to be mindful of this fact. This may be as direct as needing a couch to crash on during a tumultuous living situation, or as indirect as just having people who will – to be frank – put up with their shit so they don’t feel worthless when they’re in a rut.

As the holiday season speeds up, I worry a lot about people in these sorts of situations. I have been there – and likely will be again – and no one deserves to be alone for the holidays, any of them. Suicide rates skyrocket to levels our culture should be ashamed of every year, and something as simple as inviting someone to a holiday dinner can make them feel welcome and wanted enough to feel better about themselves.

I understand the importance of family being somewhat exclusive as it relates to trust, but as you plan your holiday gatherings this year (and beyond) give someone a shot at feeling that warmth that comes from that sense of togetherness. Make them feel acknowledged, and appreciated, and welcome, and watch them grow in ways you’d never expect the following year. It’s a few nights a year that you might be risking a little awkwardness, but it’s the best investment you’ll make all year.

Forced Pup Play

I've known pups for years, and never quite got anything about pup headspace. I always thought the gear was either adorable or, in some cases, fucking hot, but the idea of actually role playing as a pup never resounded with me.

That is, until someone sent me this story. It pretty much takes a bunch of elements from fantasies I've had like my "Control is Best When Stolen" story, and applies those elements to pup play. Needless to say, mixing force into the equation piqued my interest. Hopefully this'll cast some new light on how a pup dynamic could potentially develop.before readily dismissing it as I had previously done.

"Student Living," by ManaPuppy

I whimpered, my sobs muffled by the penis gag locked into my mouth. So close. I had been so fucking close.

I had been so sure he’d been sleeping, he was grunting and all I heard from his room was deep, steady breath. He had come home exhausted after track practice, his shirt soaked through from the sweat off his chest, hair matted against his head. He had left me leashed to the coffee table with some water, naked, locked in fist-mitts and chastity. Waiting. When he came through from the outside he greeted me just as he’d done the past three days, “Hello Milo.” He said, smiling. Fuck, I hate that smile. I had spent the entire 2 hours he’d been gone seething, just as I had the past 3 days. I didn’t know who this fucker thought he was, but I knew I sure as hell wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “My. Name. Is. Alex.” I growled at him. He grunted. With a soft ‘whoomfph’ his track bag dropped on the floor, and there he was, in flight: six feet of blonde-haired jock, lunging toward me. Excellent. Come at me, bitch. I lunged at him in the next instant, bound fists extended, hoping to take him down. He jerked to the side, rolling, I carried on through the air…until I hit the end of the leash. The chain of the leash jangled, snapping against the table. The table was bolted to the ground, so there was nowhere for the force to go, my body carried forward, jerked back by the collar Tyler had locked around my neck. My ass spun away from my head, legs jerking toward Tyler’s bedroom, my fists flying up to my neck as the collar pulled tight, my body rebounding against the floor. I sputtered. Breathed. Barely had time to recover before Tyler grabbed the chain, dragging me, collar, corpse and all, across the floor. One strong arm looped under my abdomen, drawing me, kneeling, parallel with his side. “I’ve told you before, puppy. Your name is Milo now.” Tyler’s other hand — I assume it was his hand — slammed full force into my right ass-cheek. I screamed. Tyler tightened his grip with the arm holding me on my knees. “That was a human sound, Milo. Try again.” He drew his arm again, and once again slammed his hand across my ass, fire spreading from his hands. “FUCK!!” I screamed, tears welling. “NO!” Tyler roared, spanking me again. “NO HUMAN NOISES!” I started to cry, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. Tyler was relentless, and emotionless. I didn’t struggle — couldn’t. The hand that held me, had my chain as well, I couldn’t move my head, let alone excape his grasp.

Finally, his rage seemed sated. Tyler rubbed his hand gently, almost lovingly across my abused ass, and unwound his other arm from my body. I collapsed, shaking to the ground, tears still streaming down my face. The whole thing had probably only taken a couple of minutes, but I have no tolerance for pain — never have. I’m pretty, not sexy. Cute, not masculine. Now somebody was taking advantage of that. And I, ashamed as I was, was losing the strength to fight. Fuck. How the fuck am I going to get out of here? I couldn’t think. Couldn’t form words. All I could do was whimper, my mouth closed, a long, sustained tone that spoke to hurt, and abuse and sadness. Trembling, I looked down, turned away, completely still, barely aware that I was making any sound at all.

Tyler knelt down then. He reached forward with both hands, and took my face in them, he turned his face up, toward me. My tear-splotched cheeks, red and angry from yelling looked up into his chiseled features. “…good dog. Good Milo.” He said, his words quiet, a breath. “That’s right. Dogs don’t speak. They do whine, though. Good boy.” Keeping one hand on my cheek, he raised the other to my hair, petting me gently. His fingers tangled in my curly hair, almost absently. He maintained eye contact. …I didn’t do anything. Slowly, the hand that had been on my face worked its way downward, playing over my chest, and coming to rest on the metal cage that enclosed my cock. He thumbed the cage, then reached under, his fingers stroking my balls. I jerked away, squeaking in fear. He gripped my balls, chuckling. “Sorry we had to get you fixed, Milo.” He teased. “I didn’t feel like cleaning up after you if you hump things. …besides.” He added, his eye glinting. “If you’re a very -very- good boy, maybe I’ll let you cum.” He released my balls, standing. “M’taking a nap.” He slumped off to the back of the hallway, where I knew his room was.

I waited. I didn’t move. I swear, I barely fucking breathed. At first it was the shock. Tyler punished me every time I defied him, but usually it was bondage or making me go without food, or making me eat something disgusting. That was the first time he had ever hit me. Then I noticed that he’d forgotten his track bag. And I knew what I was going to do. As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I started. Carefully, slowly, I took the chain of the leash in my mouth, lifting it off the ground so it wouldn’t jangle. Then I moved across the floor, as softly as I could, crawling toward the navy hold-all. Lowering my head to the ground I released the chain, and then started working on the zipper. It felt like an eternity: every inch was hard-won, trying to make sure the bag didn’t make that sound that zippers make. …as soon as I got the hold-all open, I knew this was going to work. …I was going home. There, on top of his street clothes, was Tyler’s wallet, and inside, his keys. Fuck, I didn’t care that I was naked or had a collar locked on me. All I had to do was get out of this room, and anybody, any sane fucking person would help me. Once I’d found the key to the fist-mitts, I managed to work the key into the lock of my right hand with my teeth. As soon as it was off I unclipped the leash, sprang to the door, used the deadbolt key Tyler kept on the same ring to open the internal lock, and wrenched on the door.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!" …somebody was screaming. That was the next thing I noticed, before I even knew it was me. Then, black.

The world swam together. I was still in the living room, and my head was fucking killing me. …this is where you joined us. I was later able to figure out what had happened. Tyler had pulled me away from the door by my hair, and slammed me to the ground. My head had rebounded and I had fallen unconscious.

Tyler was sitting behind me, petting me like an angry, obsessive child might pet a cat: too hard, too deep, as if he was trying to exfoliate my skin as he rubbed my arm. “….I thought we were doing so well.” He said, his voice smooth and deep. Slow. Deliberate. “It was my fault. I need to be more careful. I can’t have you running off, you could get hurt.”

I was still trying to figure out where in the living room we were. I realised, eventually, that we were by the sofa, I was on the ground, he was sitting up on the sofa. “Still,” he continued, “you do need to be punished for trying to escape. I had been letting you be my human pet up until now, I took away your hands, true, but I didn’t take away anything else. Clearly you can’t be trusted with any of your appendages, so.” He patted my arms. …that’s when I realised what he had done. He had cling-filmed my forearms to my biceps and my calves to my thighs so that I couldn’t possibly use my hands or stand. He had also locked the aforementioned penis gag in my mouth. I squirmed, panicking. My knees had kneepads taped onto them, as did my elbows, so I could balance myself, if precariously. I tried to walk back toward the door, fell. Felt nauseous. He shook his head.

"It doesn’t have to be this way, Milo. Just until you’re trained. Then you can earn back some of your body. In the meantime, we’ll keep you like this for a few hours at a time so you can walk around the house. I can’t keep you like this all the time, though, it’s too stressful on your body. So, the rest of the time, you can be tied to the bed in the spare room so you can stretch out your limbs in between sessions. Okay, boy?"

I grunted, whimpering. ‘Please’ was what I was trying to say. What I had been saying, every day since I had come here. All that came out was a wet slurping whine. I kept trying to get up onto all fours. Kept falling over. I desperately wanted out. I felt that even if I could just get to the front door, it might make a difference. Silently, Tyler unzipped himself, pulled his cock out and started stroking. Watching me struggle.

I felt sick. …still, I kept trying. I knew I would get out. I KNEW it.

Deconstructing Coping Mechanisms

While I love a guy who is actively masochistic and directly gets off on pain, as most people know I much prefer pushing someone well past their threshold of enjoyment. This doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the intensity of what is being administered, but rather how it is impacting the boy involved. I want a boy to know I'm in his head, and that it's not only his body I'm in control of. It may sound melodramatic, but it really amounts to a battle of wills.

If you've ever stubbed your toe so bad you yelled or cursed, it should be easy to understand that this is your body/mind's attempt to process the pain. Naturally, people have different coping mechanisms and they can vary even for an individual through different levels of pain or discomfort. Sometimes this might be as significant as their demeanor completely changing, or as subtle as clenching their jaw. If you're not very observant on an intuitive level, well-paced repetition is the best way to glean new information - too frequent of repetition can end up with lingering responses compounding instead of giving information on a singular stimulus.

Once you've got a feel for how a boy is responding to a number of different stimuli, you want to deliberately elicit those reactions. What ends up happening is the more you force someone to use these coping mechanisms, the more they become dependent on them. Essentially, it almost works like addiction: the more you make a someone rely on a coping mechanism, the more dependent on it they become. The result is it takes an increasingly small amount of effort to evoke a response. This doesn't necessarily have to be done by intensifying the specific action, it's just as useful to simply reduce the cooldown before you start up again. The latter is a much safer alternative given that, for someone with a high pain tolerance to begin with, you run the risk of escalating to the point of causing harm.

Now that you've got a guy flinching in anticipation and reacting when you barely touch him, you have a lot more flexibility with how far you can choose to take a guy. To quantify it, eventually you could get a guy to react as severely at a 3/10 intensity level as he used to at 7/10. What this means is that you have a lot more room to take a guy's brain further before you cap out at what is physically safe. Suddenly a guy doesn't freak out at 9/10 intensity and then you have no place else to go, leaving you incapable of correcting the behavior. This is where training opportunities begin.

The goal with any training should be to make as staunch of a difference as possible between desirable behavior and unwanted behavior. Use this newfound, elevated dependence on coping mechanisms to coax out whatever reaction you're trying to quell, and increase the intensity drastically as soon as it presents. Since by this point a guy's head will be pretty fuzzy, he may need a verbal reminder of why the intensity is ramping up; his brain can be so overwhelmed it's letting his body operate unintentionally.

At this point it's really as methodical as lather, rinse, repeat; the more frequent the reaction you're trying to stop arises, the greater the gap in intensity should become. If you can isolate enough individual behaviors this way, you're very apt to have a boy that just whimpers pathetically and becomes putty in your hands - not to mention one whose brain is frantically trying to predict what comes next.