When it comes to external stimuli Master and I often differ with what arouses us.  Since first speaking with Master, he has expressed desire for rather revealing outfits; short skirts (or what I call wide belts), low tight fitting blouses which accentuate the nipples and high glossy heels.  Although for me there is a time and place for such an outfit, in the general public eye I believe it is far more flattering and seductive for a woman to express her assets in a more conservative manner.  When I am taken with a female most often she is wearing something similar to a knee length pencil skirt and a form fitting blouse, one dyed in what I consider to be a feminine colour, one that shows the silhouette without actually exposing her feminine curves.

I truly appreciate the female form. I have spent endless hours observing women of all different shapes and sizes, different ethnicity's, different backgrounds and the one constant for me is that I am attracted to the woman who shows less.  Even when it comes to fetish wear I am more aroused by the long latex dress that blankets all flesh; hugging each and every curve, leaving an audience wanting for more, rather than the "not so there" dress which exposes the breasts, the ass and the cunt.  My feelings, contrary to Masters opinion, do not come from any form of shame or uncomfortableness with nudity and the human body.  In fact I often find a completely nude woman far more enticing than one dressed in an outfit that barely covers any of her bits.  Full nudity can be  exceptionally arousing as I find the human form intoxicating, what I do not find arousing is what I consider to be a cheapened replica of the female form.  I realise that my words might very well hit a nerve with many and I wish to stress these are my opinions. I am not claiming anyone else should feel the way I do, I am not asking nor encouraging others to follow suit, I am merely expressing my own sentiments.

I think my desires partly stem from the fact that, overall, I am not a visually stimulated slave.  Much of my stimulation comes from a mental connection and I have noticed that photographs that do stir a sexual response in me often elicit some element of a story; that when I look at a particular photograph I do not merely see a body but rather I envision an entire scenario and it is my imagination more than the actual picture that creates lustful butterflies.

When I first explored the world of fetish photography I found myself rarely interested.  I was always open to view any picture and I even welcomed all the links Master would share with me, unfortunately, most of the pictures did not create the response Master was hoping for.  As time has passed and my desires have evolved, my acceptance of who I am and what I crave have blossomed and I now found myself curious and excited while peeking at numerous pictures.  There are still many items of clothing that I simply do not desire to wear both in the bedroom as well as in public; however, there are far more outfits, far more possibilities that are accepting, that do create a need to be used, to be played with, to be exploited.

Although I am certainly "set in my ways" with regards to some opinions, I am in awe that I still find myself pleasantly surprised when confronted with a completely unexpected reaction.  And I am even more surprised that I am often left in shock considering the number of times this occurs.  Just recently, I received a photograph(s) from a fellow writer and erotic enthusiast, Deity and I was positively stunned at my internal response.  Still, the moment my eyes scanned the white hood, the instant I witnessed the four locked rings, I was left breathless. I was left wanting.  I am certain I could analyze myself to learn what causes my rather primal response to such a photograph but in all honesty I do not care to learn.  All that really mattered to me then and matters to me now is how desperate I am to feel that slippery material hug my face; how eager I am to hear the clinking of the lock against the rings; how very much I desire to be transformed into such an object.  Even now as I catch a glimpse of such a creature I feel the immediate rush of my heart, my body instinctively accelerated.

I learned a very long time ago just how very much I like hoods, masks, any form of head gear.  I can recall a moment many years ago where a friend of mine taped my entire head in black electrical tape.  I was in a hypnotic trance by the time he finished, my mental high brought forth first from the sound of the tape twirling around my head and second from the tightness, the sensation of being cocooned as blackness filled my eyes.  I was left for two hours, filling my lungs with air through my two small nostrils, my lips cracking as the bindings pushed into my soft flesh.  When at last I was released I sat dumbfounded by my arousal, my fingers continuously running up and down my cheeks, appreciating the small design of indentations left upon my flesh.

Tape has been a favourite of mine since, along with saran wrap and even stockings.  Truly anything covering my face, anything removing my eyes, my ears, my nose, my mouth (but still permits me to breathe, to be safe) intoxicates me, fills me with a sense of human abandonment.  There is something overwhelmingly beautiful about losing oneself, about disappearing entirely, becoming something foreign, something inanimate and hoods do just that for me. They remove a sense of self, they reject the human element and provide both the wearer and the observer an artificial landscape whereupon anything and everything is possible.

The material of the hood also plays an important role.  Granted I find the scent of a leather hood to be an aphrodisiac simply because it is actual flesh, foreign skin upon my own, latex or rubber hoods appeal to my desire to be objectified, to be anything but a girl.  Perhaps it is the combination of the pungent scent raping my nostrils along with the stickiness of such material that brings a powerful lust to my being, causing me to alter my posture, even my speech.  Regardless of what creates such an aggressive response, I find myself drawn to such doll like creatures and find the idea of complete bodily submersion to be highly arousing.

Although I am most drawn to clear, transparent, pink or black encasing, there is one photograph that lures me, almost as though the devil himself is curling his finger towards me, commanding me to march ahead.  I am shocked to find any form of interest in such a toy simply because its' skin is red, a colour that generally creates anger inside of me.  I would say this is a very unique circumstance and even though I do not quite understand it, I can not deny how my body responds.

I am not certain if anything dehumanizes a girl quite like that of a second skin; a plastic cocoon which brings a surreal metamorphosis; an altering of the human body and spirit.  When the latex skin coats all flesh, that is when a deep pulsating arousal ignites within me; however, when the artificial flesh exposes the mouth cunt and the cunt, the doll no longer is solely an object, no, now the toy is a degraded fuck beast as well and that adds an entirely new element of arousal, one I am not yet comfortable with but acknowledge exists within me.  This form of display is truly an exception and one I truly desire to leave within the confines of our home, this is an exchange of intimacy and trust that I feel most comfortable with when not shared, when others are not permitted to witness, (whether the dolly is me or anyone else for that matter).  No matter how private I feel with regards to such an experience, the mere thought of such degradation causes my head to spin and my flesh to swell.

There are thousands of photographs of beautiful felines clad in fetish gear or completely naked and everyone will have his or her own interpretation of what he or she considers sexually arousing.  After spending much time perusing the internet I have come to learn that for me what triggers erotic thought are those pictures which cause me to be speechless, which create, upon first sight an endless work of fiction; stories jumping out of my head and onto my paper; those photographs which share an intimacy I can relate to, an experience I have or wish to explore one day.

The photographs I have shared thus far all revolve around the objectification of the fairer sex and although my arousal is intense those portraits are not the only images which I hunger for.  The reality is, I am very much a girly girl.  I like pink, no, I adore pink.  I appreciate the whimsical magic in which the colour pink evokes inside of me and for me there is never enough pink when it comes to girly outfits.  There is something inherently cute, adorable, affectionate and alluring when it comes to the shade of pink, even on a primal scale pink is the lustful colour, for all sexual organs display some shade of pink.  The cunt, the cunt lips, the mouth cunt lips, the nipples, even a mans cock all bear some resemblance to the colour pink - how can it not be associated with lust and all pleasures associated with eroticism?  Pink for me is the colour of submission, the colour of servitude, the colour of passion, the colour of lust, the colour of obedience, the colour of desire, the colour of everything that is feminine and although I respect not all people share my internal response to pink, for me, pink is my drug, my euphoric sensual high.

And as cute and cotton candy like as the pink picture is and as much as it appeals  more to the child like nature of my beast, there is one other style of photograph that resonates within me.  It is not a photograph of fancy clothing or wild fantasy but rather of servitude, of being calm with my choices, my lifestyle, my innate desires, it is an expression of how I feel about Master, towards the man who Owns me, who cares for me; it is an essence of how I feel about myself, the slave in me and how this lifestyle, this exchange between Master and myself goes beyond a want but rather a need.  Because my need to serve, to be owned is innate, it is part of my DNA, it is no different than having brown eyes, having freckles, being RH A+.  Simply said, it is as fundamental to my life and my being as oxygen is in keeping me alive.

Photographs that are erotic yet exhibit no nudity, demonstrate no sexual act truly entrance me.  The instant my eyes traveled across the slaves' thighs I found myself smiling at her posture, at her kneeling embrace.  This photograph demonstrates a part of myself I was not aware of, my ritualistic side.  It is no wonder that my mind responds to rituals seeing as I am such a fanatic about structure; however, I did not realise just how aroused I get every single night I kneel before the front door, arms locked together behind me, anticipating Masters' arrival.  Every evening my stomach is in butterflies as I wait for his return and part of that stems from my love for Master but another part comes from the reality that I am kneeling, that I am waiting, that I am obeying and serving even when Master is not around.  Serving feeds me. Fills me up. And the small act of resting upon my knees in the front foyer cradles me in my slaveness and it was through a photograph that brought that acknowledgment.

Life is one big photograph. Through the years I have taken numerous snap shots,  memories now framed, hanging from my frontal cortex and although the images all vary, there is one thing in common, they all stimulate me in one way or another.  I think it would be rather intriguing if I were able to visit other peoples internal galleries, to witness what he or she displays, what images evoke sensations. Until my travels permit such excursions, I shall take pleasure in the sharing of photographs, in my continual people watching and like all times before I am certain I will grow, I will learn and I will find that what once did not excite me, eventually might.

~His

(I would like to give credit to the photographers, however I do not know who they are. With that said, I wish to stress these are not my photographs, I did not take them nor did I pose nor do I own. Thank you to all the photographers for their art.)

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