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My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images,
and sketches written for the amusement of and offered as tribute 
to my Liege and Lady.  They were always longer and never so well
crafted as Suki's short masterpieces, and over time, my Images
files began to include various email excerpts and other works
in progress or ideas for works and became more journal than art,
so some juxtapositions may seem odd.


A few selections from my Images files follow.  They are generally 
cruel and nonconsensual and of interest only to sickphuxs, so please 
read no further if such doesn't appeal to you.

The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and
should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be 
imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward 
of the state.

Steven S. Davis


---------------------------------------------------------


I've always liked the idea of taking an elaborately coiffed,
elegantly dressed, and heavily made up (but tastefully so)
woman, binding her, and securing her inside a sealed car 
on a hot summer day (in such a away as to prevent opening 
the doors or windows), and watching her elegance melt.
Which inspired this variation which might amuse:

*********

"Glisten"

The woman was doing a good job of hiding her discomfort.
Not that her bondage was particularly painful; the leather
and nylon restraints had been chosen for her because
they were secure w/o being painful.  However, sitting at a
table in a strange place waiting for people she'd never seen
to explain why she had been abducted and what was going to
be her fate was distressing to her.  Her main comfort was her 
certainty that this was for all money, and the equal certainty 
that her family would pay any ransom.  Indeed, the only thing
she found distressing about the prospect of a ransom demand
was concern whether the ransom would be larger than any 
previously paid for anyone else in her circle.

She was perhaps a bit upset by the fact that her gated
community had proven so ineffectual.  A gated community,
armed guards, an expensive security system - and none of
it had kept her from ending up a prisoner.  And she was
more than a bit miffed about needing to miss the party
tonight.  A new gown and an new coiffure wasted, probably.
Tugging again on the restraints that held her silk-sheathed
ankles, it seemed unlikely she'd be going anywhere.

It wasn't such an unpleasant place to be a prisoner;
a nice ocean view, and a pleasant breeze which made the 
warm day bearable.  This direct sunlight made her evening 
makeup a bit gaudy, but she hadn't expected them to take
her while she tested a new combination.

Wiggling in her chair, she indulged a pique at her captors.
The twits presumed to act so imperiously with her, of all
people.  To imagine such common types refusing to answer 
her questions.  And the gall of carrying her around like
a sack of groceries.  And tying this plastic penis in
her mouth was just intolerable

Finally, she thought, seeing a man and a woman approach
her.  Now some answers.


If, that is, being carried to a post, stood against it,
and tightly bound to it answered any questions.  Even more
bizzare was affixing steel rods from the post to the concrete
floor on which she stood.  And whatever was that clear plastic
wrap and the hair driers for.  What kind of joke was this,
sealing her in this clear plastic pyramid.  The plastic wouldn't
hold her if she got loose, one stab with a stilleto heel would
puncture it.  Not that, with the ropes so tight around her, she'd
be likely to get a foot free, or that she could make much of a jab
cuffed and hobbled as she was.  But this plastic wasn't adding
to her restraint.

And it certainly wasn't hiding her.  It was so clear that at
a distance one might not know it was there.  The light passed
through quite easily.  Very easily indeed.  It was getting rather
warm.  Well, so fine, she was a lady and she'd glisten a bit.

Time passed.  Lady or not, she was perspiring.  So hot and still
in here, the sun came right through and the air didn't move at all.
She shook the post again, as best she could. Nothing loosened or
opened, and the exertion made her even hotter.  Her gown was
getting sticky, and for once she wished she wasn't in silk stockings.
Bits of hair were starting to hang down, and little lines appearing
in her makeup.  When the hell were they going to let her out of here.

OK, so, sometimes, gentlepeople do sweat, even those of the most 
feminine persuasion (hmmm, well, that would be her ex-husband's
new boyfriend, she thought, cattiness not requiring coolness).
And she was sweating.  Her shoes were filled; next kidnapping,
I'm wearing open toes, she thought, almost managing a smile,
until the movement of her mouth reminded her what was between
her lips.  Her stockings were soaked, her gown sticking to her
in ways the designer never intended.  Her carefully balanced
coif was so weighted with water it was about to collapse, and
her skin gleamed with sweat, except where her makeup puddled.
She'd felt mascara running, and knew she must look dreadful,
but she was so hot and so miserable she almost didn't care.

And then she saw the camera.

Oh, no, she, thought.  Not now.  They weren't going to take
the photo for her ransom demand now.  Oh, god, they are,
she thought, as they shot several photos of her now comic
visage, hair drooping and in makeup no clown would ever
wear, no matter how hilarious it looked.  And from how
they were acting, she knew she must look hilariously pathetic,
worse than nouveau riche in new suits and old homes.
However could she show her face again; she never live this down
(ignoring the issue of whether she was to live at all).


"Here comes the boat", one of them said, and the two of them
went away.  A bit later they returned, and the man opened one
of the panels, allowing a small bit of air into her still 
stifling stand while he cut the ropes holding her to the post.
And she slumped away from it, the couple caught her and held
her while she briefly enjoyed the glorious feeling of cool air
on her hot, wet skin; oh, what she'd have paid for that feeling.
And then it was gone, as they shoved a large plastic bag over
her head and down to her ankles, imprisoning her again it hot 
stifled air, and she hoped her captors couldn't see that the 
rivulets of saline now rolling down her cheeks were coming 
from her eyes.  But through her blurred vision and the steamed
 plastic, she could see them laughing at her.  The bastards
had made her cry, and seen her cry, and were laughing at her
tears.  She could have killed them.

Except, as she realized, when she convulsed against her bonds,
that she couldn't.  She couldn't do a thing to them, or for 
herself.  And when they turned her around and pushed her towards
the boat, she couldn't do anything.  And then she felt her ass 
burning from the cane stroke, she couldn't do anything but hobble
a little faster.  And when the man on the boat handed her captors
what couldn't have been more than a few thousand dollars, she could
do nothing.  As she was dragged onto the boat, and heard them 
laughing about how they'd be sure the papers got her pictures, 
she seethed inside, but could do nothing.  And when she was dropped
into the damp, smelly hold, and told that tomorrow she'd be
on a freighter, and next week she'd be in Dakar, and they'd
dye her hair blonde because blonde white prostitutes were
popular, and that she'd be making a lot of money, but she'd
never see any of it, that she'd never again see anything 
save a windowless room in which she'd be chained to a bed 
and forced to work 20 hour days doing whatever the customers 
wanted, she could do nothing but bring her knees up and her 
head down and cry as she never had in her life.

-------------------------------------------------------------
The Classroom


[Based on an correspondent's idea of being alone in a classroom
after school, and encountering a man bearing a blade]


If I were the man with the open blade, the first thing you'd do
is take off your blouse.  Then your skirt.  Those nice thigh highs
you can leave on.  The bra, however is coming off &lt;blade snips
one strap, then the other, then the dull end rubs aganst your
chest as it slides between your breasts to cut the bra&gt;  As do
the panties &lt;they too are cut off&gt;

My hand grips your hair, and the sharp point of the knife slides 
around your chest and up across you neck and over your face.
With the knife now pressing ever so lightly just below your
chin, I pull up on your hair, raising you up on your tiptoes,
the knife rising with your head, so as I release your hair
the tip of the blade under your chin makes you stay up on
your toes while my other hand plays with your nipples and
caresses your breasts.

Then I take you by the hair behind your head, and force
you to your knees, where I bend back you head by my tight grip
on your hair and stroke your face, then bend to kiss your mouth,
a series of long kisses, after which I slap your face, not 
terribly hard, and push your head downwards as I order you to 
put your face in the floor, and put my foot across the back of
your neck and press down.  Then I reach down and pull you up 
onto your hands and knees, and order you to stay just like this,
the sharp blade very gently sliding across your throat while
my hand plays with your dangling breasts.

Then I walk away, giving you a sharp command to "stay".
Sitting down across the room, I watch you, nearly naked,
on your hands and kness, your dangling breasts trembling
with each beat of your heart.  I pick up a ruler, and toss
it into the corner of the room, well away from the door,
and say to you "fetch".  You hestitate, and I glower and
repeat the command, and start to shift in my seat as if
to rise, and you crawl across the floor (while I enjoy
all the jiggling), pick up the ruler in your teeth, and,
a blush across your face, crawl to me and drop the ruler
in my outstretched hand, at which I run my hands through
your hair and say "good girl", then rise and order you
to heel, and as I walk across the room to the desk you crawl 
at my heel, and then I sweep everthing off the desk and reach 
down for your, pulling you up by your hair and then spreading
you face down across the desk, pulling your wrists forward and 
binding them together, the tying the other end of the rope to 
the leg of the desk before moving to spread your legs and bind
you around each knee and then fasten your legs to the legs of 
the desk.

And then I stroke your back, and sides, and kiss your check
and the back of your neck while stroking your shoulders and hair.
And then I step back, and run my hands over your buttocks and thighs,
and then lightly touch the ruler to your ass, and then begin to beat 
your buttocks and thighs with the ruler, and when you start making
noise I stuff your ruined panties in your mouth and go on spanking
you over your barely muffled cries, until the tears flow nicely,
and then I stop to admire your tears and run my fingers over your
wet face, before taking a yardstick and starting in on you again,
and then taking a point and using it on your ass and thighs before
breaking it across your shoulder, and then putting an arm across
your shoulder as I kiss and stroke you, and a hand fondles your
breast while another unties first one knee, then the other, and 
you are turned over on your back while your knees are raised up 
and pushed back, and then pressed down while my cock finds your
pussy and I press into you, thrusting and withdrawing with long 
strokes while holding you down on the desk, sometimes stopping 
when my should replace my hands on your thighs as my hands reach 
to squeeze your breasts or stroke your clit or run my hands through
your hair, but always soon resuming my thrusts, these interruptions 
becoming shorter as my thrustings become quicker, until they
stop, and I hug you and kiss your breasts and your face and pull
the panties from your mouth to kiss your mouth and hold you
close, while pulling the knife again and raising it up till I
find your wrists, and cutting the cord holding your wrists above
your head, and your still bound hands arms come down so your arms 
can encircle my neck as we cuddle.

As we recover, I pull you from the desk and push you on the
floor on your belly.  I pull your hands behind your head
and tie the end of the rope to a ring attached to the end
of another rope.  Raising your feet, I wrap the end of that
rope around your crossed ankles, leaving you in a nasty hogtie.
Then I take a long candle and squirt some lube on it, and
take and light another candle, and while dripping warm wax
on your glistening back I gently work the lubricated candle
into your anus, and move it back and forth within you until
you begin to squirm.

"No, Dear, not again, not just now", I say, as I stop moving
the candle.  "Just a little preview for later", I tell you,
as I light the candle that's in your ass, and roll down your
stockings (nylon is such a nasty burn).

"I'll see you later.  It shouldn't take that long for the
candle to burn through the rope, not if you keep your ass
on target.  Then just untie your wrists with your teeth, 
untie your ankles, get dressed, clean up this mess, and
come home.  I should have dinner ready for you by then".

"Bye, dear".
 
----------------------------------------------
"I'd never fear you, Mistress"


The subject is blindfolded and led to a bench on which he is 
required to lay on his back.  His arms and abdomen are strapped
to the bench securely, and his legs placed on either side of the
bench and his ankles fastened to bars.

The blindfold is then removed, so that he can see that he's
facing a guillotine, and then the block thru which the blade 
will slide is placed in position.  

"Scared ?", she asks.

"No, mistress", he replies.

"Really", she says, as she brings a tall candlestand under
the rope that his holding up the blade.  Flicking a lighter
and lighting a candle just below the rope, she says "Are you
sure ?".

He answers "yes, mistress", but he sounds less sure.

She walks around her helpless subject, studying him from different
angles, sometimes running her fingertips across him as she passes
him.  Then she plays with his cock and balls for a few minutes,
before she starts to undress, stoping every so often to stroke
him some more, until she's completely naked.  And then she
straddles, mounts, and begins to ride him, slowly but with 
increasing force and velocity and enthusiasm.  

An enthusiasm he would like to share, except that the candle
is rather quickly burning through that rope, and he can't stop
staring at it.  And as the rope begins to flame, he starts
to say "mistress ?", and she tells him "Shuut Upp".  He waits
a moment, and tries again.  "Not-t n-n-ow" she manages to grunt out
as she enthusiastically humps him.  "Ah, it's rather important",
he remarks, and she exasperatedly stops and takes a plug and 
shoves it in his mouth and then tapes it over, saying "I *told* 
you to shut up" as she does so, and resumes fucking him, oblivious
in per passion to the state of the rope, and rides him on and on
while he stares in growing terror at the freely burning rope,
his fear now overwheming his trust in her and he squirms madly
beneath her, trying futilely to get her off him and himself off 
this bench, which urges her on, and then, which just as she seems 
to be nearing climax, the rope finally breaks, and he screams 
through the plug and bucks madly as the sharp, heavy blade
descends.

To within a couple feet of his throat, before the steel chain
that formed the core of the thick rope, folded back on itself
several times at the spot where the tautly woven rope (lightly
oiled to enhance the burn) was to be placed under the candle.
Unraveling several feet of steel chain as the heavy blade
pulled it downward, the chain reached full extension and
stopped the blade just above his vulnerable neck.  But didn't
prevent his reactions, which might have been very different
had she allowed him to eat or stopped forcing him to urinate
again and again during the day preceding this activity, but 
which, as things went, she found quite satisfactory.

---------------------------------------------------------

A Brass Bed Image


Hello, dear.

I hope you haven't become too uncomfortable.

You do look very nice on that brass bed.  I know that sitting
in a split with your legs spread wide and your ankles tied
to the sides of the brass headpiece, and your wrists in front
of you raised and tied to the top of the headpiece, that must
have become quite uncomfortable after the first half-hour.
And the scarf gag, which mainly serves to hurt your mouth,
combined with that pillow case over your head, these haven't
made it any easier for you.

Hopefully the caning of your bare buttocks and the whipping
of your bare back after a half hour helped distraction you.
At least any frustration you had must have been relieved
when you cried.  Just a dozen strokes on each, but it was
enough to make the tears flow.

And to mark you nicely.  Though it's hard to be sure if
those marks came from the dozen each you got after
30 minutes, or the next set of 12 each you got after
an hour.  The set you got after 90 minutes is more distinct.

It's harder to identify the time pattern of the crop marks on
your thighs, as they've been coming at random for the past
85 minutes.  Your thought your thighs were going to be the
one safe part, didn't you dear, when I made you strip naked
and then slip on stockings ?  But stockings can be rolled
down, can't they, precious ?

Almost two hours now.  You squirm and squeal delightfully,
dear.  No, don't worry, dear, it's not going to be another 
whipping of your upper back and caning of your ass.

I think a nice long paddling over those nasty welts on
your ass would be much more interesting.

Two minutes to go, dear, then you get your paddling,
and I get the joy of seeing you sobbing again. Well,
seeing your body wracked with sobs; it's only by the
wet spots on the pillowcase that I know how much you
cry in there.

As you'll cry much more tonight, my sweet.  The clock
you like so much will strike in a bit more than a minute,
as it does every half hour.  When it gets done striking, 
I'll start paddling your ass, this time for as long as
feels right to me.  But by the next half hour mark after
that you'll have stopped crying.

Almost time, dear &lt;tapping your ass lightly with the paddle,
and waiting for the chimes, while admiring how you squirm
and squeal and struggle&gt;


**************************

Toy



You're naked.

Your hands bound behind you, a hook slipped into the ropes
to raise your arms.  A rope tied to the front of your
collar, and pulled back between your legs, rubbing your pussy;
this rope would make you bend over even if the raising of your
arms didn't.  Your ankles bound together and secured to two
rings in the floor so your feet can't move.  Thin ropes tied
around your big toes and from them to your bound breasts.
A nice red ball-gag filling your mouth. Which, as you stand
bent over my bed, helpless and hurting even when I'm not
swatting at your dangling breasts, causes you to involuntarily
drool onto my cock as I stroke myself, hardening it with
your pain and lubricating it with your drool, until I can stand
it no longer, and a squirt of some cold jell in, followed by 
the rubbing of some warm oil on, your anus, tells you what
to expect when your ankles are untied and your legs spread.

*************************************************************

"Busy"

Wake up, dear.

It's about 3:00 AM.  Friday.  Yes, I know.
I've been busy.  My apologies for neglecting you.  
I hope you haven't been too terribly bored.

I suppose it has been boring being alone in this
bare room, no window, no TV or radio or reading
material or any distractions, chained to that bed 
for the past week.  Especially since most of the time 
your hands were above your head.  And always above
your waist.

I trust extending the chains from your collar
and cuffs at varying times and for various periods,
to allow you to reach the toilet and the food and 
water dispensers worked out OK ?  I hope being
kept hungry and thirsty hasn't been too great a trial.
At least it made the bland food available more tolerable;
the best you can say for those nutribars is that they
are barely adequate sources of vitamins, minerals, sugars, 
and, as I'm sure you noticed, salt.  Enough to prevent
malnourishment during a short captivity.  But not hunger.

I'll bet you never imagined a week ago that you'd
ever be anxious to eat those nutrient bars, or be so
dissappointed when your chain extended and you could
reach the dispenser and it was empty.  Or that you 
would actually cry when the chains pulled your hands away
and pulled you back onto the bed just as a bar dropped
into the dispenser.

Or that you would ever find yourself straining to lick the 
wall for the water that leaked down it.  By the way, the water
was quite healthy.  What looks like slime is just some
harmless coloring, and the water was dripping from a clean
nozzle, not some distant broken rusty pipe.  Well, yes,
it had a diagreeable odor from the additives, but they were 
harmless.

Aside from being diuretics, of course.  I hope that didn't
cause you too much distress.


Well, that's all over with, dear.  I've some free time,
so we can have dinner.  Yes, dear, your favorite.  And
all you want.  &lt;rolling over cart, lifting lid and letting
delicious odor fill the room&gt;  See how much, dear ?
Even now you couldn't possibly eat all that.  And see these
pitchers ?  More than you can possibly drink.  

After a very nice meal, I'll help you with a bath, and then,
well, then with something else that you've been missing.

Just let me get these chains off you and we can enjoy our
meal.

&lt;ring-ring&gt;

"Yes ?  Now ?  OK".

Sorry, dear &lt;rising from bed, scouping some quick spoonfulls
into my mouth&gt;.  I have to go &lt;pushing cart out of the room 
before me&gt;.  I'll get back as soon as I can.

&lt;pausing at door&gt;

Oh, dear.  I am sorry, but I didn't arrange for anyone to 
load the food dispensers, and there's no one available
now.  I've leave a note and someone will start loading them
again on Monday.  You'll be alright till then, won't you ?

Bye. &lt;closing, and locking, the door behind me&gt;



**********************************************
"Fire and Ice"


She looks so pretty with her hands bound behind her and 
a choker chain around her neck (fastened to steel bar
above her head), standing naked on a sort of walkway made by 
two rows each consisting of several large blocks of ice and 
two narrow blocks made of cement blocks.  She has one leg on each 
walkway, and the walkways are far enough apart that she can't 
remain standing with a foot on just one, and high enough up 
that she'll choke if she falls off.  Between the two cement blocks
is a small (but very securely mounted) brazier full of very 
hot coals, the coals being just below the height of her pussy
as she stands on this walkway.  The only place she can stand
without standing barefoot on ice is with this brazier below
her, and she's no way to get out of this predicament (except,
perhaps, pleading with us, and, of course, we can gag her
whenever we want to stop that noise).  She can stand to stand 
on the ice only so long, and has to step onto the cement,
putting her pussy over the coals, and she can only bear
that for a short time before she must step off.  So she have to
keep stepping on and off the ice, and, as her feet get colder
and her pussy hotter, the period she can bear the torture
of either gets smaller and smaller, until she's constantly
stepping forwards and back and in constant agony and wondering
when and if this will end and if, perhaps, the only way to
end the pain which is getting closer and closer to unbearable
is to try to jump off the walkway, and hope that we won't
really let her strangle.

And we don't.  But we do take her down, only to strap her to a chair
with a tray of coals beneath her pussy (ah, yes, coating her labia
with barbecue sauce may have been a bit much, as was adding so
much hot pepper ?) and her bare feet locked on blocks of ice, and 
sit there, now totally helpless to avert or reduce either the pain
of the fire or that of the ice, while we sit across from her
cuddling and groping and enjoying her desperate hopeless squirming, 
the inarticulate moans coming from behind her gag, and laughing at 
the tears streaming down her face.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Dance


More a vision, perhaps, than what I generally mean by an "Image".

I'm seeing two women. They're friends.  They're in heels and hose, 
elbows cinched and wrists cuffed behind them and their wrists 
attached to overhead chains so that they have to bend forward.  
Each woman's ankles are bound together, with ropes that are snug
against her stockings but which allow a few inches between her 
ankles, so she can take small steps.

They are facing each other. Each woman is in a head harness and
the head harnesses are linked together by very straps which make
them keep their heads up and look at each other, each woman's
face a foot away from the other's.

At first they are ball gagged, and left to stand looking at each
other as their arms and legs and feet and jaws begin to tire and
ache.  After a time nipple clamps are hung from each woman's
nipples, and after some more time weights are added to the clamps.
They are paddled in turn, not all that severely, but enough to
redden their asses and make the weights from their nipples sway
nicely.

Then the straps between their head harnesses are detached, and
the ball gags pulled from their mouths. Then they are shown 
a very thick, long two headed dildo.  The dildo is pushed deep
inside one woman's mouth and down onto her throat, before she is
moved forward so the other end is deep inside the other woman's
mouth, but not in her throat, and the straps to the head harnesses
are attached again.  The dildo is wide enough not to allow either 
woman to breath through her mouth.  It's long enough that, as the
women are fastened together, it will be inside one woman's throat
always.  While it's there, that woman can't breath, and the other
woman can breath through her nose so long as she doesn't panic
or cry.

In order for both of them to survive, the woman who can breath
needs to hold still and make her mouth and throat as loose as
she can while the other woman grips the dildo in her mouth as
tightly as she can and makes several small steps forwards,
pushing the dildo down her counterpart's throat until it is
out of her throat and she can then wobble a few steps backwards
(with her mouth loosened and the other woman holding) until she
take some breaths.  Then they have to repeat the process in 
reverse.  Bound as they are they can't move quickly, so neither
woman can take more than a few breaths, and they most keep
moving constantly, which trying to hold back their fear and
deal with their fatigue and the pain in their feet and legs
and backs and arms (their arms having extra stress applied 
when they move) and their ever shorter breathe.  And each
must deal with her own desires to push push the dildo down 
her friend's throat and then hold it there, allowing her to
breathe and condemning her friend to death - and with the fear
that her friend is fighting the same impulse.

Each change of steps in this dance the bent, bound women
are doing requires not only exertion and pain and trying to
hold it together and stay in control despite the fear and
fatigue and pain, but a huge act of trust, as neither woman,
aceepting the dildo down her throat, knows if she's drawn
her last breathe.  She has to trust her friend will take 
the dildo back in a few seconds and give up the joy of 
breathing so that her friend can breath.  But she also knows
how much she hates to take it back each time, how horrible
it is when the dildo blocks her throat, however short the
time, how much her lungs are burning - and that her friend
is suffering the same way.  What she doesn't know is how
long her friend can hold back the horror; she does know 
that when her friend cracks and betrays her, there will be
nothing she can do to save herself (as there would be nothing
her friend could do; they might struggle some, but the one 
who could breath when the struggle began would be sure to
win).

So each woman keeps up her precarious dance, wobbling 
forward and back in tiny steps, watching her friend's
face when the sweat in her eyes allows it, and trying to
see if her friend's eyes will show her intent and dreading
that her own eyes might show her wretched desired while
each woman wonders how long she can last and how long her
friend can last and when, and if, their captors will
spare them this agony and terror, and the horrible choice.


*****

In the versions in which they are spared the choice,
their ankles are untied and spread (stretching and straining
their arms even further) and locked in spreader bars, and
while their aching legs and hips scream from having to stand
so spread in high highs) people stand behind them and push
them closer together until both women's throats are blocked,
and then the people begin to fuck them from behind, while 
the captive women do all they can to move their cunts as
sensually as they can upon the intruding dicks, whether
flesh or fake, hoping desperately that their intruding
captors will come quickly, and praying that if their captors
come, then they will allow their captives the chance to breathe 
again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Fireplay Image



I'm getting an image of you keeping two fires going, with a naked man 
tied spreadeagle on the ground between the fires, as you fondle and
scratch and pinch him and periodically pull sticks (some sharpened) 
from (or place them in) the fire, and prod him in various places, 
with the sharpened sticks, or beat him with them, or pull hot sticks
(sometime trailing hot ashes, sometimes with the top bits aflame; 
sometime when the ends of the sticks catch fire you pass the flame back
and forth along his sides and his inner thighs and near the soles of 
his feet and much closer to his testicles than he is able to bear with
stoicism or equanimity) or use very warm wood to manipulate his hot 
woody (perhaps sometimes using metal tongs to twist and squeeze his 
cock and balls, and sometimes dropping a set of tongs in one of the 
fires (as you move from one fire to another, you are frequently crawling
or rolling over his prone body) while, carefully concealed, there's 
another set of tongs chilling in ice, and when he see you put on the 
"hot objects glove" and retrieve the hot tongs from the fire and 
playfully wave them around his balls so he can feel the heat, and 
then sit on his belly, your back to him, as you fondle his balls and 
then pinch one testicle out and hold it steady as you pick up the hot
tongs and brandish them where he can see them then slowly move your 
hand towards the target testicle while teasing and taunting him, and 
then dropping the hot tongs and picking up the icy cold set and squeezing
that ball.



{with proper credit to John Warren for the "substitute cold for
hot" idea}
----------------------------------------------------------



 The soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm FAQ is available from the WWW at: 
     http://www.unrealities.com/adult/ssbb/faq.htm
 The soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm charter is available at:
     http://www.mindspring.com/~frites/charter.htm
 Both can be found on the SSB Webpage, the URL of which is:
     http://www.phszx81.demon.co.uk/ssb/ 
 The "Welcome to ASB !", almost all of which applies to SSB,
   can be found at:
     http://www.mindspring.com/~frites/wel.htm


-- 
Steven S. Davis  * sd@magenta.com * ssdavis@netaxs.com * ssdavis@ot.com
Homepage, kinky  : http://www.magenta.com/~sd/sd.html
Homepage, vanilla: http://www.magenta.com/~sd
Stories archive  : ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/sd
