John082
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Posts posted by John082
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Totally agree. It would be one thing to be forced into doing something at, let's say, gun-point, but it's an entirely different thing to be coerced into one's acquiescence. When I'm talked into giving up my permission, the domme has raided a part of my psyche, and she has co-opted a deep-seated part of me. So hot!
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Also, knowing that you think of me every time you see that item in your home is a great thing as well!
I transported a personal toy to a session, and I cannot touch it without thinking of Mistress Tran.
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Ah, Mistress Kang,
For her, I sang.
Even with a bucket, I can't carry a note,
She crushed my manhood, back to zygote.
The goddess dwawdles in my dreams,
Taking darkest delight in my screams.
Despite her endowments, curvaceous delights,
It is her nimble, capable fingers that haunt my nights,
She is avatar of might, and demon of destruction,
The echoes of her memories evoke nocturnal eruptions.
DO NOT HESITATE.
SERVE HER AS SOON AS YOU CAN
AND PREPARE YOURSELF FOR FATEFUL ADDICTION
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Not sure if the correct pronunciation is more in the neighborhood of “Soon-yah” or “Sun-yah,” so I kinda did both (with liberal use of near-rhymes).
If Sunya is pronounced “Soon-yah” then:
There is a Goddess named Sunya,
Who loves to anally harpoon ya.
With enthusiastic smiles,
She charms and beguiles,
While with each thrust she yells, “Booyah!”
If Sunya is pronounced “Sun-yah” then:
There is a Goddess named Sunya,
Who can take your dignity from ya,
She’ll trampled your balls,
Yet leave you enthralled,
And you’ll beg to see her tomorrah.
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How did it go, Phred?
Take comfort from the fact that the "breaking" didn't take.
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I admit I'm curious about this too. The notion of being dominated by a Mistress in plain clothes is very exciting to me. I know I would have no issue with the missing "level of separation," but perhaps the Mistress might feel differently.
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Terrified is the appropriate response, but bear in mind this: your fate will be in Mistress Tran's delightful, delicate, deft, and devious hands--a delicious place to be. The Petite Enigma will suss out and see you to your ideal destination.
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Yum yum!
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When Mistress Kang and Mistress Sunya entered the Steel Room, I was naked and shivering on the floor, covered in my own sweat. Mistress Tran had worked me over for two hours as a warm-up for the Amazon Goddesses, and the plan was to sell me to them. Mistress Tran told the Amazons: “I broke him. You can have him for free.”
I was no more than a crumpled paper bag at their feet.
Mistresses Kang and Sunya are naturally tall, but in my prostrate state, they appeared all the more gigantic. I felt like a tiny doll at their feet, and I was. For two hours, I was their plaything. Both Mistress Kang and Mistress Sunya are possessed of such youthful exuberance they are like two giant teenagers, and I was the inanimate prop at their impromptu pajama party.
It is cliché on these forums to say that the Mistresses are more beautiful than their photos reveal, but clichés are clichés for a reason—they are true. Mistress Sunya is no exception. She is possessed of a very open and pleasant demeanor, and although I am almost six feet tall, she towered over me in her heels. She has a PRESENCE that is unbelievable and completely diminishing. Mistress Sunya utterly dominated me simply by standing next to me. I cannot overstate what a turn-on it is to stand naked before such a giant and beautiful specimen of raw feminine power.
Mistress Sunya joyfully wrote all over my body, declaring ownership of me, and I was in no position to disagree. Mistress Sunya employed her powerful hands on my ass, and decorated my body with clips of various sizes. No place was safe, not my neck, face, ears, nipples, or torso. The pliers applied to my (body) was particularly…”stimulating” (i.e. hurt like the devil). All the while she laughed, joked, and smiled and bathed me in her joy.
Did I mention how big she is? SUCH a turn-on. And I’m around 240 pounds, so I’m not tiny. My God, I had no idea how much her size would affect me.
I must also note how Mistress Sunya’s eyes lit up when she asked, “Do you want me to make you pretty?” That, combined with how fervently exciting her physical presence is, and how tiny she makes me feel, and her pleasant demeanor, all adds up to the inescapable compulsion: I must go back soon so that Mistress Sunya can make me her bitch.
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What fool would book two hours with Mistress Tran right before two hours with Mistresses Kang and Sunya? This fool. “What fools these mortal men be!”
The “warm-up” session was more of a tenderizing, such as is done to meat with a spiky metal mallet to spread it thin and make it pliant. I was properly Tranderized. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
The thick metal collar Mistress Tran squeezed and locked around my neck restricted my Adam’s apple and enabled Mistress Tran to lead me about on all fours—around the steel room.
Mistress Tran was uber-sexy, as always, this time in a skin-tight blue leather outfit (skirt, corset, half-jacket), fishnet stockings, and thigh-high leather boots. It was a sublime pleasure to clean her spittle from her boots with my tongue and worship at her feet.
The key to my collar lay at the bottom of a dog bowl filled with her urine and other effluvia, including the river of fear sweat coursing off my body.
Without spoiling the thrill of the unknown for future travelers, let us just say that when Mistress Tran says she’ll pump something up to 25, even when 10 feels unbearable—SHE WILL PUMP to 25. She did, and although my body wasn’t rendered asunder, it felt like it was. My ego was pulverized.
Getting the Hook is probably more pleasant in the Vaudeville sense, where one merely gets yanked off stage. With Mistress Tran it is a lesson in posture and compliance—a lesson which cannot be ignored.
I, for one, have always been intrigued by the time-travel paradox presented by movies such as The Terminator. However, The Tranminator presented a different paradox: voice activated electrodes attached to one’s (more sensitive regions) proceed in an infinite loop when the attachee starts screaming.
Baptized in her liquid gold, I eagerly swallowed her blessing (as if I had a choice, but if I did have a choice, I would have chosen to open my mouth and welcome her).
Mistress Tran trussed me up in quite the painful predicament, and a trap of sorts, that immobilized me and made me cringe each time there was an echo of footsteps in the hall—or a horn honking on the street. She proclaimed her ownership with felt marker all over my body, which at this point she owned inside and out. She had already laid siege to my soul.
Stripped of her clothing, but still wearing her fishnets and thigh-high leather boots, Mistress Tran puttered about the room, humming like a fifties housewife on television. Doo-dee-doo. Um-um-um. The incongruity of me (bound, pinched, collared, gagged, and rigged as a nipple booby-trap) while this petit fleur of powerful sexiness strolled around the room fully clothed in her naked allure was a peak of ecstasy for me.
But nothing compares to how Mistress Tran lit up when she started to use my sizable stomach as a punching bag. At first she kicked me with her heels on—quite impressive, since that means her kicks were as high as her perfect breasts—but then she took off her boots. With her feet bare, but for the fishnet thigh-highs, she had much better traction on the ground, and her kicks were powerful. The memory of her toes on the ground in those stockings causes a pleasant reaction in me even now as I type this. Powerful imagery. Mistress Tran clearly enjoyed my ability to withstand her kicks, and then she moved in like Rocky Balboa in the meatpacking plant, and went to work on me with her fists. She packs quite the wallop, and I saw unabashed joy wash across her face.
While I relish every bit of her precious perfection, it is her eyes that captivate me. Dark and mysterious, they are an enigma. I could never play poker with Mistress Tran. There is no hint whether her eyes conceal malice, dark schemes, pleasure, or disgust. Most likely it is all of those and more. Her brown/black jewels are deep and sensuous, and I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and think I can see them taking my full measure. Then I shiver in delighted fear.
Mistress Tran left me broken and destroyed—exactly as I asked. Bravo!
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Sploshing, not splashing--damn you, auto correct!
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John082- Here's a brain exercise for you.
Ah, the illusion of choice.
ANSWERS: For the vice: head, toe, cock (sorry if one of those answers is too big--and it's not the toe and certainly not the cock). For the symmetrical diabolical: ass cheeks, inner thighs, and my prodigious yet symmetrical belly.
QUESTION: What is best for splashing? Cupcakes, mayonnaise, peanut butter, or something else?
Of course I am ever grateful for the opportunity to worship at the Temple of Kang, Amazon Goddess, in each and every way.
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"Press here to activate"
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I eagerly look forward to meeting you Monday, Mistress Sunya.
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Jeopardy topics might include: Insertables that Start with a D; Secrets You'd Never Tell; Torture du jour; and my favorite--Famous Safe Words, where safe words (things that a person wouldn't normally say) are up on the board and the speaker must be guessed. For example, "Raise Taxes" would be Mitt Romney, "I love Israel" would be Ahmadinejad, and "Great Call Ref" would be anyone from Green Bay, Wisconsin.
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Ooh! If it's one of those wheels with little pie slices, like Wheel of Fortune, consider having a Wild Card selection, where improv is the order of the moment (as if it ever isn't), and a Darkest Fear, which the sub has already communicated.
"I'd like to buy a bowel."
Although, as game show analogies go, I've always fondly thought of The Fortress as more like Jeopardy!
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Nice. Address the little fella. "Hello robo-worm. Welcome to my worm-womb."
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Woof! That looks like trouble.
Simply watching the video. Caused me to squirm uncomfortably in my chair.
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Let the kidnapping begin...PLEASE!
Ditto!
I'll be the one wearing the green baseball cap.
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There could be so many games and performances....I just need to start hiring...and by hiring I mean kidnapping and enslaving men into my circus.
Any particular locales you kidnap from?
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Respectfully submitted--The Circus of Trouble might also feature some carnival games, (although some would probably not be so new) such as:
Skee-Ball
Whack-a-Mole
Ring The Bell(s)—where relative success is measured in decibels
Fill The Balloon (water gun, clown’s mouth, exploding balloon)
Milk Bottle Throw—softballs thrown to knock object off small stand
And the crossover sideshow/game: Bang the Bearded Lady
Oh, and no sword swallower?
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I believe I have sussed out the deep meaning of the photos, and like much that we encounter on a day-to-day basis, fundamental truths lie within the chaos.
Brad is, in truth, a recent graduate, stymied by the dearth of job opportunities. The shopping cart contains all that he retained from his undergraduate education, and he stands there replete in all the glory that such an education entails. However, he is jobless and homeless, despite four years or more of hard work. This is all the world, and the current job, market offers Brad. He looks longingly across the street, wondering if his future lies on the other side, but he lacks the courage to make the crossing. Perhaps someday he will. Unbeknownst to Brad, the backpack in the foreground, yet behind him, contains all he really needs to know, but Brad is so busy looking across the street that he cannot recognize that all he needs is passing by his back.
In Times Square, Lola the French Maid is the embodiment of all Brad’s notebook doodles. They are the representations of his fractured consciousness spilled out on a naked page. Sure, they were separate on the leaves of his Composition Book—the French Maid, stars, rainbows, and duckies. The French Maid is a long repressed fantasy, although it is unclear whether Brad sees himself in the maid outfit or someone else. The stars are his deep held aspirations, unattainable and forever out of reach because he has cast them at such a lofty height. The rainbows represent the elusive treasure of Leprechauns, forever out of sight and illusory in nature. And the duckies…well, he’ll just have to visit the Fortress to learn about the duckies.
The moral to the seemingly random collection of four pictures: there is nothing to be gained in not having the courage to cross the great divide of one’s fears and reservations, and one’s meanderings will cavort in the Boulevard of Dreams, alone and separate from one’s self, if one doesn’t clutch his or her dearly held dreams close to their chest. Never let your dreams go.
OR, they could be totally random photos.
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I wonder how many of you out there, our Forum readers, are lifelong fetishists of some sort or another, and how many are just getting their toes wet but certainly willing to dive in for a swim should the temperature be just right?
After much introspection, I confidently put myself down as a lifelong fetishist. Being in my late forties, this was an engaging memory exercise. If the past is a somewhat reliable predictor of the future, I’m sure some curious engrammic flotsam shall arise over the next few days further supporting my position.
Memories: fifth grade, mean homeroom teacher. I had a dream whereby me and all my fellow students were sitting in a banquet hall, and we were supposed to be quiet. The student next to me was talking, and the stern homeroom teacher singled me out for it, although I had been silent. I don’t think he liked me, because I had an independent streak and spoke my mind. I didn't rat out my buddy (fifth grade omertà) , and as a result I was told to come up to the dais, and was beaten with a cotton tablecloth that had a knotted corner with a goblet in it (Catholic school—goblets all over the place). When I didn’t make a sound, the teacher gave me a grudging respect and let me return to my seat.
Memories: tenth grade, shapely, raven-haired Italian Chem teacher. She often wore a leather jacket, tight jeans, and moccasin boots. I used to fantasize about her holding me down and forcing me to have sex with her. (All hail hormone-fueled optimism!)
Influences: also around tenth grade, was a reading geek—anything not assigned by a teacher, that is. Read through the existing Gor series of books, which at the time I only recognized as being enjoyable. The Gor books are alternate world adventures which I now know are actually thinly veiled BDSM soft-porn. In most books, the women were servants and objects of the warriors, and to a scrawny and shy teenager this seemed like a great set-up! They occupied my mind quite a bit during those years. Thankfully, B. Dalton sold them, so my parents and teachers didn’t recognize what a porn-fest they were for a teenage boy. There was also at least one book where the roles were reversed, and the men were objects. Thoroughly enjoyed that, too.
Influences: early eighties, early MTV. One of the first videos to feature a storyline was Golden Earring’s Twilight Zone. At 2:48 or so into the video, the hero of the piece is tied up and being interrogated. Cue the Dancing Dommes. Three girls wearing leather playsuits (or rubber, or PVC, not sure), black gloves, black stockings, thick collars around their necks, and black policeman hats, come dancing into the starkly empty warehouse space and try to coerce the hero into talking. They end up injecting him with truth serum. The lyrics are somewhat telling, featuring: “It’s 2 a.m., the fear is gone…there’s a storm on the loose, Sirens in my head…Help, I’m steppin’ into the Twilight Zone, place is a madhouse…Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?” Definitely strongly aroused by this video (hey, it was the eighties, I was young, and Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet).
Through my twenties and early thirties, I remained strongly attracted to such fare, but life intervened, and partners were not so opened minded. I think for my generation one's forties are a breakpoint, in that most people of that age quit censoring themselves as much as they have always done, and tend to care less what people think. Open-minded partners are easier to find in mainstream settings, and of course the proliferation of porn on the internet breaks down some barriers too (gee, there are other people like me! Maybe I’m not such a freak, or maybe being a little freaky is as fun as it looks!)
Starting with my late thirties, adventures and indulgences ensued, to much great mutual satisfaction. The seeds, however, were there from long before.
Your Most Memorable Decade of BDSM
in Fortress Guest Forum
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Hmmm. Excellent question. My BDBDSM (Best Decade BDSM). Hmmm.
For me, it's the last ten years.
If all goes well, that will always be my answer.
My wish is for my BDBDSM to be forever like the tail on a comet blazing through the heavens--my best ten years always tight on my behind.
Mmmm, yes, most definitely. I aspire for the rest of my years to be trailed by a decade of bests: ten years of transcendent thwackings, ten years of psyche-tattooing "forcible" entries, ten years of ego-stripping cavortings well outside my comfort zone, ten years of sublime ritualized groveling, ten years of the best spirited and giggliest mocking of me, ten years of glorious dopamine rushes fueled by abject humiliation while bathing in the aura of sublime beauties.
Ideally, as I grow and improve, my playmates will hopefully agree, and at my graveside say simply this: "The last ten years were the best."
As aspirations go, it's not a bad one.