ConsentOptional

Hard to pick against Brady/Belichek in a big game. Between media attention, 2 week delay, 45 minute halftime, etc, it's a weird game in a sport that is so scripted for the players and coaches. That's why there are so many bad games. One team loses its bearings and by the time they recover, the scoreboard got ugly. Experience is all on New England's side. But I wouldn't root for them if I was on fire and they were a hose. Atlanta has to survive the jitters in the 1st quarter. Then they have to survive the adjustments B&B will make at halftime. If they can get to the 4th quarter in one piece they can take these guys. How bout 31-27?

Or would like to be. Will find out tomorrow......

A little story about a great change. If nothing else, a temporary distraction from the other change that is going on. ***** He no longer knew what day it was. Between the intensity of the experiences and the way they manipulated light and dark, his circadian rhythm had evaporated. Sounds pumped into his headphones suggested morning, night, city, country, an opera, then death metal, then a gentle voice urging him to relax, accept his fate, and submit to his superiors. Then silence, then new sounds, then low light, intense light, flashing light, dark. Presently he was blindfolded with a gag that made him drool. He was bent over some padded frame and strapped to it at the wrists ankles and across his back. He went in and out of dreams indistinguishable from reality. The headphones fell silent. He felt a gloved hand remove his gag and wipe a cloth across his mouth where the drool continued spilling. "What day is it, 114?" He wasn't sure until then if the name "114" was part of a dream. But he recalled that delayed answers were dealt with swiftly, so he croaked, "I don't know." "Good boy. The day is not your concern. But as it happens, this is a special day for you. It's your birthday." A clue! But no, he couldn't have been there that long. The last date he could remember clearly was early January. Or late January? But January sometime. She watched this debate playing out in furrows on his brow and brought her lips down to his ear. "What did I tell you about thinking? It will only confuse you here. Your thinking has been done for you." She removed his blindfold. In his present condition he couldn't raise his head to look at her. His gaze stopped at the latex dress that barely reached to her thighs, a sight that abruptly reminded that he was locked in chastity and had been since early-, mid- or late-January, a fact that she intentionally worsened with some sort of unseen feather behind him. "...Of course it can't be your birthday until you officially begin your new life. That is to say - legally begin your new life..." Legally? How could any of this ever be 'legal'? He could still remember this slender, stunning woman telling him that a decision had been made about his 'treatment' and he would be remaining indefinitely. He had said "whatever is wrong with me, nothing like that is going to happen," and made to leave. In two swift, deft movements, despite his marked size advantage, she had put him on his back. She smiled at him. "You're ready now. I'm sure you'll do better this time." Damn right, he had thought. But he again found himself landing hard on the floor, and this time the lights went out. He woke up naked in metal restraints in a room bathed in red light. The ordeal of light and sound was beginning. He had gone through phases. "You can't do this to me." "You are breaking every law in the book." "Why are you doing this to me?" "Please stop." "I'll give you whatever you want." "I promise not to tell anyone." "What do you want?" "Please let me go." "Please, I can't remember myself." "Please...." And finally now, when he didn't know what day it was. She continued. "Yes, legally. Slavery is presently illegal. Quite a quandary for little girls like you who were born for it. Obviously we don't want you to wait until the laws catch up with your condition. What kind of doctors would that make us - to ignore the obvious anxiety that pretending to be equal causes you. Poor little 114..." In the mirrors he could see that S114 had indeed been tattooed on his ass. Were they skipping numbers? Had they really kidnapped 113 other patients? She brought a crop down on his ass hard. "Do not let your mind wander when a woman is addressing you, boy. Do we need a few more days of lights and sounds?" No, no, please, no, I'm listening, I'm listening. She held a control in front of him and pressed one of the buttons. He felt warmth spreading in his ass. "Mmmm, that's good isn't it. Such a little slut." She pressed another button and waves pulsed through him. Another button sent spokes of light. The pleasure was both exquisite and deeply troubling. What had he become? "What a dirty little whore we have. Naturally, you can't be returned to your past life, a wanton little cunt like you. Would you try to touch your clit right now if it weren't locked up? Tell the truth." Yes.... "Even if I told you I would make you eat every drop?" She grabbed his hair to make him look at her face. Yes.... "Then we can't unlock it, can we?" She turned off the machine. "You see the dilemma now. A slave and his Master in a dark time when slavery is outlawed. What is a Mistress to do?" He knew this was rhetorical. She had already found the answer to that question at least 113 times. She took a folder down from the shelf. It had been there all along. He remembered seeing it weeks or months or days or hours ago. She showed it to him. There were two blank pages with a place to sign at the bottom of each. "This," she said, "Is your confession. You agree that all the above statements are true, that you have done or hoped to do everything listed. You will sign and date at the bottom." But there are no statements..? She ignored him and continued. "This - is your patient agreement. In light of the deep depravity outlined in your confession and your complete inability to control the many perverse impulses that will be listed, you give complete control and authority to me - sexual, psychological, physical control. You do what I say, think what I tell you to think, wear what I tell you to wear, perform any act I tell you to perform. You even agree that I may assign your gender as I determine." He was involuntarily blinking as she pulled the noose tighter. "And here is my favorite part - you agree that you have consented freely under no duress to this radical, irrevocable transfer of power - to me, your Goddess." His head slumped to the table. "Yes, it's over now. No more useless struggles, no more denying your natural position at the bottom of the true social order, no more wondering why things don't quite make sense and why you don't quite fit. Sign the papers and be reborn, birthday boy - or girl. That, too, is for your Mistress to decide." As she knew, as she had seen 113 other times, he couldn't sign - yet. The totality of meaning was too much. She wasn't angry. She eased the gag back into his mouth and pulled it tight. She replaced the blindfold. "Raise 2 fingers when you are ready to surrender to me and I will free your right hand and give you a pen. Until then..." She re-situated the headphones. Mozart's "Sleep Safely" aria, a role reversal in which the heroine rescues the male in distress. The pulsing spikes resumed in his ass, followed by the crash of the whip. It was only a matter of time.

I actually don't like humiliation. Yet, I am attracted to a million things that should be humiliating but aren't. Other people might see them that way, but I'm not permitted to. I am attracted to not being allowed to think of them as humiliating; and being punished if I do. For calling them humiliating would be to call my submission and therefore her dominance a thing to be ashamed of. It's more along the lines of humbling; accepting what is. So the most humiliating thing might be an endless series of ostensibly humiliating acts for which you are allowed to register no humiliation at all. You have fallen that far down the ladder.

No marathons for me. Have done some halfs. Above that level my body invents new forms of pain that are decidedly un-erotic. I use these things to give my knees a night off. But as you say it's the mental aspect that is so compelling.

Yep. In about a week I figure.

I had an introductory session, a week of chastity, then a second, longer session. The level of seduction and teasing in the first, effortlessly hypnotic session made the lock-up particularly grueling. The mind kept returning to those moments when you are reminded exactly which of the chess pieces you are. Each time, you relive the experience of being reduced from the bishop or rook you thought you were to the pawn you are now. Helplessly aroused and hopelessly incapable of relief. Around the 3rd day I started running again for the pure distraction of it. My device is metal and smooth with no pinch-points. You forget it's there - which is a nice change from what you were feeling. Probably 3 times in all that week. Just a few miles. But it's intoxicating, not the same way as being tuned up by a Goddess; but that is how your brain was constructed. It wants this exquisite exhaustion. So you run some more. Now it's over 20 miles a week again. In the dark cold urban night through good neighborhoods and bad ones. It isn't for your health, for you could seriously get your ass kicked in some of these streets. It's for the drug. Getting lost in the original maze of wild imagination that you were born with and that persists despite all the crap you've piled on top of it. If comfort could bring you there, then seek only comfort. But comfort doesn't bring me there (fuck...). So it will have to be this way instead.

Adore "spanking dresses" though possibly the most incorrectly named article of clothing ever - at least when worn by a dominatrix. Latex in general is my kryptonite - but just one on many.

I remember a line from Günter Grass, I think it was in The Flounder. "Demitasse teacup-fuls." Quite charming.

Per Eihi Shiina, your best option is probably piano wire.

zzzzzzzzzzing!!!!

Both. The crux of the scene is reprogramming/mind-control/brainwashing. The first precondition is to realize you can't get away. This is why the bondage opportunities at FF are so great. In my sessions, all the bondage was of the no-doubt variety. So you have the sense that whatever happens next, you won't be able to do a thing about it. You are physically overmatched, you are incapable of preventing your captors from pursuing their plans for you. But all captives initially feel superior to their captors. They don't deserve this; maybe they can never escape, but still they are the victims. Right is on their side. But (in a good scene..) this feeling is eroding from the start. They are where they belong. The one who should be in control is in control. The natural hierarchy of things is being restored. Goddess and subject. Stockholm Syndrome seeps in like a drug thru an IV. In a narrative there would be 2 panics. The first when the 'victim' realized he could not get away or oppose his captor(s) in any way. The second when the 'victim' realizes that if he does not somehow free himself from this facility, his captor will completely colonize his mind, much like a spider patiently injecting its restrained prey with neurotoxins. In short, once physical resistance is eliminated psychological resistance can be shattered. He will become whatever she wants him to become. A slut, a slave, a whore. A toy for her amusement. It might sound scary. But sometimes letting go (or being forced to let go) is necessary.

Interesting subject. It holds the possibility of nonconsensualism by a benevolent dictator rather than a hateful shrew. But a dictator nonetheless. Incorporating chastity and mind-control/brainwashing as JJ suggests. Psychological reprogramming a la Clockwork Orange, but under the direction of a dominatrix.

The idea of an apprentice dominatrix is always intriguing. There is an implied hierarchy: not only will you submit to me, but if I am training someone, even if she is only beginning her journey, she will nevertheless be completely dominant to you - and you will be completely submissive to her.... It places you 2 levels below your Goddess and implies an unlimited number of possible levels. Another fantasy is to be forced by a Mistress to submit to her female slave. It appeals to my notion of Female Supremacy. I'm not a fan of the man-hating and/or male self-loathing that is often called "Female Supremacy." But the FS that feels instinctively true; the innate sense that a woman can touch the tuning fork of the universe and I, as a male, simply can't. The woman who possesses that knowledge is my superior, and even her slave is my master... Safe travels, A-D. Hope you hit one out.

Some time ago I went for a session at a well-known dungeon. The Mistress I had asked for (in advance) was not available when I arrived. So all the Mistresses on staff were paraded in front of me. It was quite depressing. So commoditized and impersonal. I could barely proceed to the session at that point and spent much of the time feeling sorry for the Mistress. I don't have a switch bone in my body and was viscerally uncomfortable with being placed in what felt like the "dominant" role. In my fantasized re-imagining of the scene the right Mistress grabs me by the hair just as this sad parade is about to start; drags me down the stairs, out to the street and throws me in the trunk of her car. The last words I hear are, "You are in soooo much trouble, little CO...." Mercifully, FF does not hold Mistress parades. Quite the opposite. I bet their cars have trunks though... But if you want a parade, go to Macys... Speaking of which, happy TG to all you beautiful pervs - boys, girls and tbd's. Don't forget to let your bird chill.