I just wanted to put down somewhere, the singer Lorde is the most over-hyped artist of the 21st Century to date.  She's like Pink after smoking too much weed. 

That is all. 

In celebration of Israel's 60th anniversary, find a Zionist and teach them that discrimination is wrong.  Always. 

I'm a sadist.  An Artist.  An admirer of beautiful things in unique circumstances.   I'm self involved. 

I am not however interested in needy creatures who demand my attention be at all times one way or another.  

It's sometimes really difficult to explain yourself to others.  One areas I have with this is in de-humanization, and humiliation. 

Yes, I want a wonderful, beautiful, smart and terminally kind-hearted woman to mold into a personal pet and plaything, even to dehumanize her and use her as a domestic or even furniture.  However, I do not keep anything around me I do not find beautiful and enriching.    I would never put my feet on a decrepit ottoman.   If I hated a piece of wall paper that much I'd simply get rid of it. 

Only in California can the words "owned" and "open" be used to describe the same relationship.   No, you cannot be both and keep the sense of either except as terms to describe your sexual "play" among weekend warriors or Dom(me)s. 

I am fascinated by public humiliation and Dominance lately.  I don't mean game or scene play.  I mean complete display of a woman's status as subordinate to all men and a slave to her master while still behaving well within cultural norms.   For instance, never looking a man in the eyes.  Never speaking to anyone without permission, whish she asks in a private whisper.   Always dressing impeccably.   Always reaching for her master's hand.    Never sitting without permission first.   Learning to act just like that no matter who we are with.  Strangers, her parents, her co-workers or doctors.   Always showing her happiness at her situation and eagerness to strengthen her bonds with her Lord. 

Often the key to driving out a woman's wanton self is knowing what not to stimulate.   To be flicking a flogger across her legs when she most wants a kiss.  To kiss her when she wishes to be fucked.  To gag her when she wants to be heard.

I get most of my erotic pleasure from a woman's lips.  The things she might say as her ego is unravelled, the cries of pain, the whimpering demonstration of her unprotected true self.

If you see a profile of a user who claims to be 20 years old and on their desk you see a stack of 3" floppy disks, you KNOW it's a fake.  A 20 year old wouldn't even know what those are. 

Ignorance has a cure, but there's no helping stupid. 

Funniest profile of the day:  "i know i will be getting a ton of emails, so i will try to keep this profile short." 

Unfortunately this person then goes on for 3 pages.  Hahaha. 

The worst mistake profile writers make?  They write 5 pages of personal diatribes on how relationships should be and then at the VERY bottom of the page put: NO LONGER LOOKING. 

Ugh!  Is it really any wonder at all we can't be bothered to read more than the first couple of sentences?

How to write a really great profile!

First, think about what you are looking for in terms of a relationship.  This will drive the rest of the profile.   These generally fall into one of two styles as primary (but not exclusive):

a - Sexual

b - Personal

This is also a time to think hard about what you need and want.  How important is love to you?  Do you have that already and want more?  Do you have enough?

At the start, describe what you are looking for in 1 sentence.   For instance:

"I'm looking for a Mistress under 35 years old who likes gags for weekend play.  No men" or

"I'm looking for a boyfriend who is kinky and over 40 to get to know" or

"I'm looking for a no strings attached domestic."   Full stop. 

Next, add short paragraph about yourself based on the style of profile you want to have  This should match what you wrote in your first sentence.   3-5 sentences.

Use a profile pic should match the style in 2.  Don't start with giant pictures of your boobs, and then say "I'm looking for love."  Men will only see the pic, and ignore the rest.  If personal, put G rated pic first, and maybe activity pic.

 THEN add any X rated.   Men, unless you are appealing to other men, don't start with a picture of your penis.  There are better one's available via mail order.    Just don't. 

Leave rants to your journal.  People DO read them.    At this point, if you want to talk positively about yourself and what you seek I'd suggest keeping it  under 3 paragraphs, but if you have followed my tips above, you have already weeded out people who wouldn't be a match.

Good luck!

Speaking only of adults here, it's a shame parent's can't be more involved in their submissive offspring's training.  It would not only be more honest, but also cement the bonds, as the Master sees to their training and maintaining a level of manner's and respect that is appropriate towards himself and her family.

Discipline is more important to me than Sadism.  If your goal is to be abused, how can i possibly use you?

Imagine a market from the past that sold slaves.  Not your pathetically sexualized ideals, but a real one, where slaves, animals, spices, and other valuable goods would be sold.

Would you be there, chained, in silks next to the scribes, house managers and golden mirrors, or would you be in the muck with the goats and pigs, looking for slop to feed on?  Would you be bought by the lord of a manner to make his home seem elegant and stylish or a drunken ape who's gambling just happened to pay off that day.

I know who you are.  Most of you disappear within moments of conversation, knowing you have nothing to offer.

I've read a few profiles today from all over North America of women who wanted "bimbo training."  << sigh >> Is this a trick question?  Bimbo's aren't trained, they are born.  If digestion required any thought at all you could identify the bimbo's because they wouldn't remember which hole to shit from.

Seriously, have these women ever met genuine bimbo's?  It's amazing they live to adulthood.  The lack of IQ makes the real world as dangerous to them as to the boy in the plastic bubble.   For them bondage isn't a sex enhancer it's a life preservation system to keep them from doing something fatal when we aren't looking.

I've recently changed my age requirements to allow for those over 40.  This isn't me lowering my standards, but realizing that since I am not looking for a romantic relationship I can be more flexible in the service I accept and the number I can accept it from. 

Being worthy of love is a phrase and thought I have found causes more trouble than it's worth.  The reality is that love and life, have no relationship to being deserved.  Some who deserve to be alive are dead.  Some who do not deserve love find it easily.  As such, I find that the very concept is a waste of time and energy and too often demeans us from within.  So, cast those ideas aside.  Luck has no desire to comfort the needy or lonely.

Having said that, a wise man once said that luck appears to those who have best prepared.

Serving me is exactly the same. 

Discipline is mankind's only tool for self-improvement. 

There is a big difference between discipline and punishment.  Punishment is administered when discipline has failed.  It is not a sign of discipline, but a sign it is on the verge of collapsing.  If disciplining a child or slave occurs often, the problem is not with the one being disciplined.  Seek help.

On the other hand, I am a sadist at times.  What tools and methods I use for THAT are not for punishment but for my deep satisfaction.

Bit of a rant.

This morning I was watching the Today show before exercising, and they had a now famous "Plus-sized" model.  It disgusts me.  It sickens me that a perfectly healthy woman is considered by the gay male run advertising world as "Plus-sized."  Maybe if Ralph Lauren didn't want all women to look like the boy's he'd prefer to have over his couch things would never have gotten so far. 

Filed under things I don't like:

=======================

Ruffles in underwear.   They seem so 1940s, there's just NO way to make them sexy.

Public Humiliation

Outside my home you would appear the steely, unflappable personal assistant.  At times, the girl might be taken out for vanilla social events.  You will be introduced as my personal assistant at all times.  There will not be any outward BDSM related clothing, or language or any thing else that would be offensive to the vanilla world, but only the blind would fail to recognize your place.  You will keep your eyes down when speaking with other men, and only look at women and children directly.  You will not offer your own opinions or points of view unless asked.  You will keep your answers short, pleasant and humble.  Complements from women may be returned, but from men only a short thank you.  If you must speak, you will put your hand on my forearm and whisper to me when I give you attention.   We shall not share any other physical contact while out.   Your reward will be the libertine exhibitionism these events allow, as well as the knowledge that your mere presence will challenge the women as well as the men.  The men will all want you, and the women will be as bound as you, bound by their morality and feminist demands, while wishing to be you.

Some one asked me about being Safe Sane and Consensual.  In the terms of those who consider themselves keepers of the true BDSM religion, no, I'm not.  I'm happy not to be.  Let me explain.

First, get the words "play" and "scene" completely out of your head, because they have no place in my world.

Safe:  I keep my implements clean at all times.   I have no reason to cause physical damage, directly or through the exchange of bodily fluids, nor do I generally practice life or health risking activities.   I have myself tested regularly.   If you have allergies, food or otherwise, tell me ahead of time, but I tend to avoid latex. 

Sane and Consensual:  An applicant can always leave, but I have nothing but disdain for pre-arranged role play, "scene's, etc.  What do you think this is, the kink that you get out of your system on Tuesdays and Thursdays?  I'm not here for a mate, partner, play partner or other normal set of roles, or anything Dr. Ruth or Dan Savage would be extolling on their blogs.   If you stay you are implicitly allowing me to mold your behavior and thoughts to suite me.   My work is emotionally challenging, and deeply psychological.   I will not use vulgarity as punishment, retribution or as part of my sadism.   I don't have to.

Oddly, none of that is what most applicants have problems with.  It's the domestic duties this role entails.   The fact that I'm in no particular hurry to fill their cavities with suitably large implements that usually causes the most discomfort and distress.

Safe words:  I have a safe phrase.  "Please, Sir, may I be excused?"  When it is used it is the end of our time for the next 24 hours.  No explanations, no apologies.  No e-mails, IM's, phone calls until I deem it appropriate for an explanation.

SPOILER Alert!  This is the last of three journal entries.  Read this last

=================================================

As she smelled the Filet Mignon next to her, she remembered suddenly of the past week's diet.  Nothing but fresh vegetables, and pasta in butter and rosemary, sage, garlic and an ounce of chicken.   It was all delicious, but consistent so much that she was getting sick of the combination. 

Master opened up the bottle he had brought to the table.  He clicked off the remote for the vibrator, causing her to issue a sigh of relief, her impending orgasm had been at the edges of her mind for a while, and she'd tried to use logic to keep it at bay, more or less successfully.   There was a glass prep bowl ready to receive the egg as he pulled it out by it's cord, an unmistakable wet sound marking the end of her torment.

Into a shallow porcelain bowl he poured the red wine, a recent California vintage that was not very expensive but they always enjoyed.   Suddenly something hot and moist was at her clit, she had no idea what it was, the shock made her turn to look at him, to see if he was still in his seat and his cock was not behind her.  But he was right there, intent on the fork in his left hand, a rather thick chunk of filet mignon at the end of it, soaking up her juices.   "What are you doing???" She forgot all of her manners.  "I'm seasoning my steak.  Why do you think you've been on a restricted diet all this time, Cassandra?"  She almost, almost grasped the meaning of his words, but he again pushed meaning away from her by spreading her labia with the meat.   "I don't know sir" was all she could muster.    "It was so I could have the perfect dinner.   Now, drink your wine."  She lowered her head to lap at the dutch bowl, she felt the inconvenience of the rope even more so, as her cum tried to squeeze out and fought her attempts to clench.  Even so, she covered his meal, she tasted herself on the meat and asparagus he placed in her bowl, she had forgotten the pretense of this being a game, and gorged herself on his eyes.

She would eat dinner in the kitchen, alone and silently.  She wondered if she should stay, wondered if he really thought of her at all except as a domestic, devoid of her original sexual attraction.    Then he asked for dinner, and all that changed.  She arrived ready to break it off with him, afraid his original demeanor had been an act.  She almost walked past the chest in the hallway without looking, ready to just have it out with him, but there was the school girl's uniform she was wearing now, with a vibrating egg inside it. 

She was still wearing it now as she considered herself truly in a predicament, she felt insecure in a way his sadism of before had never taken her.  She no longer knew her place, and the soft humming in her cunt kept pulling her ability to make sense of them just beyond her grasp.

She knelt on his living room table, as silent as she could.  She was turned so that her head and feet were at each end, while her Master sat at the side.  The table was up against two large windows in a converted school house.   A single pink and white orchid in her pony tail matched the flowers scattered around the suite.    Candles illuminated some of them, giving their shadows the aspect of alien creatures as the flame flickered in the gentle draft that was inevitable for a building so old.

Her clothing, what was left of it, was a testament to the circuitous route that had taken her there.   The recently ironed and starched blouse was still tucked into her pleated skirt, though it no longer covered her breasts.  Instead, together with the rope, formed a perfect frame for them to hang through.  No longer protecting her, they were partners in her display.  Her skirt was upturned,  held in place by that same cord, turning around her thighs, and spreading them before disappearing beneath the table.

The smell of grilled asparagus, Filet Mignon and wine filled her nose, making her mouth water, keeping her moist at both ends of the table.  For the past three days she had barely been allowed to speak with him, his contact with her growing seemingly more and more distant, his orders more mundane.  She had wondered if he still found her attractive at all, so when he announced he was making dinner, she wondered if he'd caved in, if he'd been unable to remain her Master because of a love she had not expected existed between them.    There was a chest in the entry way, where she would exchange all of her belongings for whatever was placed there.  Lately it had been a Victorian maid's uniform, with lace-up low rise flat boots.   Nothing like the fetish wear, this was a strictly utilitarian look, and if some one had walked in the gossip would have been of his money squandering, not of their relationship. 

I'm amused how many girls claim to want to be humiliated and degraded who can't take the mildest form of mental discomfort.  Perhaps there is a psychological truth to be learned here, that self-abusive, self-indulgent creatures somehow wish to sacrifice their bodies in exchange for mental relief.