Friday Femdom Fiction: Neighbour Playdate

BaAdults wanted everyone to enjoy a free Friday Femdom Fiction story, so they provided the support to encourage me to knock something out for your enjoyment- as part of my policy to make sure any sort of pay for stuffs gives you something you would want to read. Wow it’s been a while since I properly wrote one of these, isn’t it? They had a story to share too called “Meeting with a Sexy Femdom“, and as far as link work goes I was perfectly happy to oblige.

Definitely interesting to see how my style has evolved, particularly with freelance femdom writing in my docket. I am somewhat amused by the nature of the online economy, but frankly patronage is a great excuse to bang something out even if lately I have been way too slow about everything.

Her body had a softness in the filtered light from the curtain that defied the firmness of her grip on his throat. Naked, she looked down at him with her face quirked in comfortable speculation. He was kneeling on the tile in the kitchen, the wrench he’d brought next to him.

“We have thirty more minutes until they drop Joshua off from swim practice,” she warned. “Then you have to clear out.”

He didn’t have to think, and just nodded as best her grip allowed. “I want to make you happy.”

“Do your best.” Her face was quirked in a certain speculative contentment, as if standing nude in front of a helpful neighbour who came by to help her dismantle the sink drain was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand went from his neck to her hips.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Looking up at her, he enjoyed the way her smile broke through when he spoke. She was beautiful because she wore her skin well, no shyness at the pillowy swell of her thighs, the mother’s-marks on her belly or the sun speckle freckles on her arms and shoulders.

Her cunt was a dark thatch, a place that he longed to press his face. Instead, despite the time constraint, he took his time, kissing her feet where they joined her ankle and working his way up her calf. At her knee, he stole a glance up to see her expression.

She still had her hands on her hips, but she was smiling. Emboldened, he moved higher.

She took in a full breath as he let his tongue dart out, just the tip tracing along the sensitive inside. Her skin was surprisingly cool for the summer weather, but no less inviting. Teeth followed tongue, scraping, not biting.

All summer long, starting from hello when she’d just moved in, they’d escalated. First it was friendly cross fence talk, then helping her carry in shopping, and from there an invitation in for coffee. She was an old fashioned kind of woman, introducing herself to the neighbourhood with a stack of homemade muffins to share. When she’d gotten his phone number what had started as watching for a package delivery turned into texting back and forth, cute but a hard edge he was shocked and delighted to encourage.

He still wasn’t sure how it had escalated and flirting had turned into photos and commands. At her instruction, he hadn’t come in three weeks and even the buzz-alert of an incoming text on his phone had become a siren song. Not being able to touch himself made him all the more focused on her.

Where his mouth had first explored, his hands followed, caressing, palms gliding up until they rested on her butt. Her fingers went to his hair, nails to his scalp, still looking down upon him.

“Do a good job.” She’d ended up backed to the counter, leaning on it, hips tilted slightly forwards, offering. “I won’t give you another chance for a week.”

His tongue tasted tang and the trace of soap as he licked light, vertical strokes. she’d already told him how, detailed, exactly how she wanted it. First the lightest of contact, then as she parted her legs further, more, but never more than feathery flicks.

At her instruction, he slid first one, then a second finger inside of her. That seemed to take the strength out of her legs, and they ended up sprawled on the kitchen floor, with her fingers pulling his hair more intensely. Nonetheless, he knew his work and kept with the slow build until at last he found just the right J shaped flick to carry her up and beyond.

He yelped as she all but took a handful of hair our with her tightened grip, but persisted. To his immense gratification her voice came out as increasingly incoherent cries, no words, just a raise in pitch and a tightening in her throat as her whole body convulsed.

Eventually she spoke, looking to where he had returned to a kneel. “Hmm, no time to take care of you. I need to get dressed before Joshua arrives, you can show yourself out.”

“Same time next week, Ma’am? There’s a leaky facet in your bathroom that needs a new washer.”

“Be here earlier. Thirty minutes, I think.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

 

Trans-Mortem

The whole process of my breakup is not done. We are still in awkward close quarters, negotiating the logistics of the seperation as we each move into our own household. Lots of crying. He took a week off work to grieve and has been pretty much high half the time. I have tried to get out of the house more and took up archery.

I have developed a sort of insomnia as well, a rarity, and stay up late writing this. What have I learned?

This isn’t a post mortem, but a trans-mortem. Things are still going. Or rather, still falling apart.

What do you do when you love someone but they fundamentally want and need different things? Obviously breaking up with Wildcard was not a choice I made easily. This blog contains a detailed description of much of the ways I cared (in sticky intimate detail) and because of it, I know that we developed a reputation as the cute couple. Caring comes easy.

Literally everyone but my closest friends were shocked as hell to find out we had a problem. Mrs. Castle was probably the only one who called it, but Mrs. Castle probably has the broadest perspective into my life.

Functional issues stemed from being his rebound after a really horrible relationship. Hell, not rebound. Rescuer. For me, I was inclined to focus on helping and patience because I knew we had a problem, but I trusted his belief that it was a him problem I just had to help him through. I don’t think it is a problem anymore, just his personality and preferences.

I got what I deserved. I am the woman who barreled into his life and dragged him out of self imposed hell towards the life he wanted. Only the life he wants is not the one I do. It is a fuck ton more poly and switch focused than really is remotely compatible with me. Oops.

About a year ago I accepted it wasn’t going to get better. Then it was if I could live with it as the price of admission. I looked about for other outlets. It… Did not help. It made the dissatisfaction worse. The enthusiastically waggled penises of dozens of men looking for something other than service topping provided a stark contrast.

I don’t think he was ever into me sexually like I wanted. That stings.

A part of me feels like I just blew up a great thing out of being too picky, because Wildcard is loving, kind and generous.

Maybe in a smaller, less people’d world we would have been ok and I would have sucked it up and dealt. But also I was starting to wonder if resenting the missing stuff and the stuff I hated was healthy. I try to have perspective that 100 years ago, I would have 8 kids and polio, but it doesn’t help.

So I told him I wasn’t getting what I needed. And… Cue the sadness vortex.

My life is now apartment hunting and furniture logistics. Everything upended. Everything examined now “do I really need this?” From clothing to volunteer work, it is one non-stop rip down.

I don’t know what the hell I am doing. I am scared and unhappy about the chaos. But…

I would rather end up a bitter old maid than end up resenting him for something that isn’t really a flaw. And actually some of the change is not so bad.

The Tower and the Chariot

The news of my estranged mother’s breast cancer adds one more variable in the tornado of shrapnel that is my life. Good news on my insurance paperwork is the trade off. Probably getting paid for my month of sick. Can pay Wildcard back for last month’s rent.

Got to figure out the rest of my life. Barring calamity, I have half a century left to work out. And I am listening to my medical professionals. Stop things that are making me sick.

So migrained last night I missed the munch I technically run. I am… Done. Ok with it, actually, shedding it like a wool sweater in the desert. A wool sweater I hand knit, but maybe I deserve to be happy?

I haven’t been happy about some things for a long time, and it shows in my writing. My blog on hiatus, my life waiting “until X happens” and taking care of the latest explosion. So much crisis management.

My body shut me down, hard, because I tested its limits for other people until I literally collapsed.

Kinda done with that.

I deserve to be happy.

Tribal Solutions To Old Problems

Once upon a time I was assaulted. Three times, the last time I fought back and punched him in the head. I learned like all niafs in the BDSM scene that not everyone respects you. I grew up. I first made a space without him, got braver and called him out.

In the mean time he raped someone. Allegedly. Anecdotes piled up. Nothing really came of my honesty. Then he popped up in my other life, as a nerd.

Most of the people who deal with this turn to flight reactions, but something about this, and him, turns to fight. I check the people going to my nerdy event and he’s listed himself as interested. I know he is still out there bit I was not expecting this.

Everything gets super sharp. I tell Wildcard. I thumb open my contacts and explicitly tell the club admin who this person is and what they do to women.

My heart beat is heavy, and I make myself eat dinner. Salmon sashami, I need the calories. I message my brother and tell him I may need his help.

He’s six feet tall, with a deep voice. I’m 5’5″ in my stocking feet. Sometimes it goes tribal, old ways. I know how far people trust tiny, squeak voiced girls. I know if nobody believes me we are going to make a scene.

I don’t do this just for me, I fight because other women were hurt.

The admin hears me out, but wants more proof. I give names, but he needs in the club for reasons I understand but don’t agree with. I take a break from the conversation. I am reassured that I am believed, but this will go much easier if I have… Tribe? That is what it boils down to. I am not a reliable witness on my own. I know that.

I know that enough people believe me we will stand him down. But he is only “interested”. We don’t know if the war party is needed. I wonder who in mt extended circle knows him and invited him.

The admin gets back to me. A witness, in the club, speaks to corroborate my story. And elder member who walks in both worlds.

I rant for a few minutes about the unfairness. Wildcard listens, disagrees that it is my gender that required the second witness.

The person who assaulted me is quietly dealt with.

 

LARP Boys & Sexuality

I am awash in LARP boys.

I am seriously concerned if I show up for one of the conventions, it’s going to be spontanious bukkake with the amount of attention. Which brings up the same thing I have talked about before, one’s relationship to the voracious desires others have for you.

Wildcard remains with a steady rotation of “kitties” some of them closer to him than others, all hands off to the point he likes, harvested from the local kink scene. Occasionally he bats them away from his penis, like small children being kept away from the breakables. He wants their upturned asses to beat, and maybe to jam a hitachi against them until they come. They are invariably at least a smigen younger (or like a full decade), cute, usually dark brunette- assigned female at birth but respected for their pronouns. To get off with them spoils his control.

He keeps a steady stream of IMs with the favourites, always a little gunshy about me knowing, like he isn’t entirely sure he has my explicit encouragement. This is his sexuality, what he needs to be happy. He’s making them happy too, so where is the harm?

At first I was a bit jealous as the transition to pursuit of kitties came with a natural drift from his obsession with me, but I have seen it is basically water seeking its own level. This is who he is, living geniunely, to have me as a part of his sexuality but not the entirety. That is kind of important and fits what I told him as one of my rules, which is that he should choose what makes him happy.

But me: LARP boys are just as kinky as BDSM scene boys, but more inclined to lead with their vulnerability, not their dicks and kinks. While my fetlife inbox is a trickle of “can you get me off to that complicated itch I need scratched, just so?”, with LARP boys, there’s a sensitive sweetness, a big eyed emotional hopefulness superceding the evident rampent erections.

Wildcard was a LARP boy once. I met him when my character boldly wandered into his troupe. As soon as the whole world I unlocked became evident to him, a wild wonderland of sexual freedom, he jumped and I don’t think he looked back. We still play games together, but to be honest I don’t think he likes mixing sexuality into story the way I do. His characters are asexual or delibrately distanced.

I bring sexuality with me, and flirt and charm and try to be as honest as possible. The attention I get is mostly a challenge for the contextual social situation outside the game. First off, I want story. I need story, and I have learned the hard way that boys prefer me to fantasy. Characters get abandoned when they realize there is a mind behind the mask. I don’t mind them getting to know the real me, but it kind of feels disappointing if it comes at the cost of my creations. Strong did that to me, trading out an interesting story for lurid sexual fantasies and then burning out all together. It kind of hurt.

Secondly, there is the whole slut-ego thing. I am not supposed to acknowledge my participation in attracting people. It is supposed to be an externally applied objectification people feel sorry for. Oh how sad, Pearl gets boys going! Mention “I get a lot of attention” and people treat it like street harassment or cruel manipulation. Victim or femme fatale. Take your pick.

Attention you can control and escape is not the same thing as attention jammed down your throat. I might be the sort of person who responded yesterday to a guy whistling at me and going (literally) “hubba hubba!” with “Seriously?!” (because it was in front of a Tim Hortins at 2PM. I mean jesus fuck, oggle at what I offer to the world but have some fucking decorum), but I also am the sort of person who acknowledges that there is more than  demeaning objectification in the scope of casual interest. But you aren’t supposed to. The princess is always pretty, but she always needs to wait for the hero to tell her how special she is. Tits sell everything from computer software to perfume, but God forbid you add your own to the conversation on your terms.

That is how a lot of the other LARP girls do. They have their turgid bleed-romances like everyone else, but discreetly, carefully, and hidden. We have girl talk and they are guarded about the sexuality in our hobby, scared of the men and pushing the envelope. And they have a point, some of them are rapists, more of them are coup counters who gossip who fucked you, as if your exposure to sex diminishes you a bit at a time. Lord save me from virgin chasers. I cast off mine as soon as possible, and I won’t be bound by guys whose goal is to be the cock with no point of comparison.

And the other trick, outside the coup counters, is that LARP boys, as a rule, don’t like acknowledging that they are not the only guy seriously strategizing getting you into a hotel room at a gaming convention and making the maid service hate them forever for the mess that would result. It’s either itchy fists directed at the other guys, or hurt feelings at you. If you notice the other men, how can they be special? 

Thing is, the 20th time he’s “never met a girl like you before” maybe you aren’t being full of yourself to see a pattern? My brother is furious that people keep messaging him to tell him his sister is hot. Wildcard gets peppered with squeeing “omg Pearl!!!” from the kitties who see us as a package deal. And I notice back. I like men. This isn’t a one sided thing where guys are sexless and icky.

I guess that is the other taboo. I like men. Really. They are fun, with their jaws and their swingy shoulders and their careful socially forced repression and power fantasies. And I think I am missing I guess the uh… misandry? Fear? That is supposed to blot out my ability to acknowledge them as just as much objects of desire.

But, these days when I get praised, I answer with “I know”. I put Wildcard’s presence and my ego into the conversation early, to lay out where I stand, almost like a challenge. Want me? Acknowledge me as I am. Then we can talk.

Being a slut, in that awkward kind of way where I don’t actually get fucked all that much, but I play with desire, is hard. The attention turns me on. The sweetness turns me on too- I like watching them worry if their voice is goofy or react to me discovering something special to them.

I like making them feel good, with sincere compliments. I might have a predatory streak (worship me! worship me!) that goes straight to the core of my dominance, but I actually like LARP boys. These are my people. Fun.

But there isn’t really a space to say that you get turned on by the attention. It doesn’t make me feel like a piece of meat when a LARP boy carefully unpacks himself in front of you. It’s a strip tease.

And I won’t pretend it is not a delight to tease right back.

 

Rambles and Stream of Consciousness

I feel neither coherent nor productive, so you’re getting a stream of consciousness while I continue my sick leave from gainful employment. What did you do today? I corrected my insurer who flipped my name “Is this Leslie Pearl?” No.

I don’t feel particularly good. The stomach ache is abating into nausea instead of immobilizing pangs. I still don’t particularly want to eat anything and carry my mood about like a heavy object. I think dealing with the absolute bullshit I had piled up (double anti-sexual assault shit in two volunteering groups, an absolute imbecile outing me on fetlife, my abusive grandmother popping clogs, a family member having a meltdown on my doorstep and work sucking awfully) explains my worn out state but I need to figure out how to get from hiding on the couch in a blanket burrito watching Hannibal to going back to my job and careering for cash monies.

I realized I wasn’t writing anymore which kinda bugged me, so you get this. Ramblings.

I’m told I’m beautiful, a lot. Wildcard also easily draws in the attraction of women, and wears it with a constant sort of “are you having me on?!” background disbelief, like he’s not entirely sure why. His good looks are easy to explain- he has gigantic eyes, heavy lidded with long lashes, a perfect nose and the spacing of his teeth make his mouth push his lips into a sensual pout. When he’s not thinking about anything but an exciting idea his eyes get sparkly and intense, dark and compelling. He’s not just handsome, he’s pretty.

He wears his beard and his hair knowing what suit him. The beard’s always short cropped, straight lines following the hollow under his cheeks, the hair’s something stylish and classic- he’s willing to pay more at a salon and listen to good advice from an expert. His clothes are picked to suit him, with a sort of Captain America Vintage Prep vibe.

Myself I don’t know why I am perceived as beautiful. Many, many women get told that by men, but I draw in more than my female peers seem to report. It’s not a subject you’re supposed to embrace- and I don’t have the slenderness to assume a professional, non-sexual modeling career in in my future. But I look like the girls in all the porn, a white brunette, thinner than the average, nice but not particularly large breasts, small waist, massive hips and buttocks. Women deny the number of my hips when I do sizing “NO! Your hips are not 38″ around!” (Or 40″ if I’m running fatter.) I seem to unintentionally gain and lose the same 15 pounds based on my health. Right now I’m sick and my breasts are smaller.

My hair is, under the 4C dye I refresh every few weeks, salt and pepper. I’m thirty-one, and the first greys came at 16 or so. I don’t particularly like it, and turn it back to a brown that’s almost black, to match my eyebrows.

When Wildcard and I have sex, he seldom penetrates my vagina. Usually he achieves orgasm in some combination of hand-and-mouth. He does not go down on me, and I dislike oral sex. When he does penetrate me, it’s hard for me to fit him inside. My clit bangs out orgasms in minutes of the right kind of touching, but my vagina is a tense creature that coils itself up, especially without regular insertions. He finds it so stimulating he has to stay still inside me and half pulled out, and that hurts. He’s just too physically large to rest with the head of his penis in the antechamber of my vagina and not to the wider point of full insertions.

I’ve never found a solution that the speed I like being done at is the speed by which guys come. It’s not a failure in the guy, it’s just the sort of stroke that gets them off gets me off. I don’t like sex where the guy just goes and goes and goes forever though.

I noticed that everything that’s idealized about female orgasms is discouraged in men. If you are a woman people want you to come constantly, ideally basically at will. If you’re a guy everything is piled on not coming and there’s nothing treated more sad than being able to come from imagination. It gets called “premature ejaculation”.

When I was a child I learned about kegels, and can do them easily to this day. They make no difference other than entertaining partners, apparently providing novelty. Squinch. Squinch.

I know I like anal stimulation, and I would probably enjoy anal sex, but the prep and getting me relaxed enough is so fundamentally un-sexy. So the subject comes up and then passes along.

I tie him up sometimes, with velcro cuffs, or make him a rope harness, cinched tight. He likes it when it’s tightly squeezing around the base of his cock and balls. These harnesses serve virtually no restraining purpose. Lingerie. When a friend started a panties for people who have packages company I bought him a pair. They don’t feel feminine on him and he likes being stroked through the black mesh. I don’t like thongs on men.

I like fucking fully clothed or without taking off the sexy lingerie I like wearing. I have stocking fetish.

I like bad language in bed, I like aggression and wrestling. I want a sort of dirtiness that I don’t intrinsically believe in. I read a lot of erotica on the darker end of the spectrum where the genders don’t matter but the victim experiences a fundamental loss of control that’s often permanently damaging. I don’t like castration stories though. My fantasy victims are used by multiple partner but aroused by it- I separate arousal from consent and fantasize about non-con.

I had a lot of cybersex in my life, which translates into writing porn well. People prefer sentimental emotional erotica over mechanical erotica. Feelings matter.

I have not been inspired to write erotica in a while. I made a few stabs at it, but the tension is missing and I want to tease out what is going on there.

 

Sickness and Idleness


It’s been two weeks since I went into the emergency room, my stomach so pained that I was crying with it. Two months of hurting, escalating from a week of bad things pushed on me.

They scoped me out, found nothing in my guts by MRI, and a non-threatening cyst on my left ovary. I had the worst time in the hospital- the IV caused a vasovagal reaction and dry heaving, then the fluids used to make my guts show up of course make you even more ill. It’s not sexy, but it is my body.

The doctor called it stress. Stress so intense my appetite’s shuttered and I wake up in pain every morning. I’m thirty-one. I lost 15 pounds in 2 months. I don’t even feel hungry anymore.

I’m on sick leave. Temporary disability (paperwork ahoy!) paid for out of premiums I was just signed on for at tge job I am tired of.

I miss wanting to eat, I miss having stamina. It’s Canada so all of this is free.

Wildcard, who lives to feed me cooking that would make a professional jealous, watches with wary, sad eyes. He doesn’t know how to help me. He wants to help.

I spend about an hour every day in the shower. It relieves the cramps and turns my brain off under the thousand drop prickle massage of the water. I do laundry because I hate being useless.

I will get better, I think? I’m mending slowly.

I Can’t Endorse You, And The Fact That This Bothers You Is A Warning

So Montreal is very blessed with a large BDSM scene. Although clubs and dungeons come and go, based on trends and the notoriously tight wallets of the average kinky citizen, you have your pick of places to hang out.

One (well, a couple) of them keeps allowing HerrK to come to their events, a dude with a number of nasty outstanding allegations. It’s pretty well documented, from his vague apology/confession, to the 11 alleged victims that came forward that shit is fucked up. Net consequence, people, including my partner, warn their friends that he goes to stuff. And we tell organizers because it is helping them to know what’s going on. Even if you are a for profit company with the morals of a Saturday morning cartoon villain, it’s really stupid business practices because it’s a giant liability and PR stink.

As of Thursday, talking about a party being held at the club, Unity to which HerrK is going, Wildcard posts a status on fetlife, (kind of like on facebook) to note this so his friends can make up their own minds on the subject and asks he organizer for a statement via PM- warning him that HerrK is attending.

Now Wildcard and I compare notes, but generally work independently on our own moral direction on things- the organizer suggested talking to him, but knowing no fruit came with working with me (eg HerrK was still going to stuff) Wildcard declined the opportunity. The organizer had his warning already. We can’t keep telling him about stuff he was linked to and he can make up his own mind. If his 25+ years of kinky party planning tells him that this is the right call to make, so be it. He’s a free citizen.

Then the organizer puts himself as going to my 18-35 munch. I generally try to enforce the age limits, with a little wiggle room at the 36-37 side of things as people transition into wider things in the scene, so I give him a note this is not the right space for him. He insists that he, despite being a well preserved 50+, has the right to go to a public venue, etc, etc…

I repeat that it would be a shame to have to formally eject one of his tenure and status (because I mean seriously, this guy is the closest to a grandfather the scene has) and I’d rather not humiliate the veteran organizer over what might be a miscommunication when people are tired and emotional. The conversation is probably permanently severed, but I don’t know what more to tell him.

The organizer probably doesn’t like this, but the fact remains, that if you welcome people with the dreaded Allegations hanging over their head, people will be warned by their friends about the quality of the company found at your events. I am nowhere near as evangelical as Wildcard about this particular strategy (I tend to get a lot more “but it never happened to meeeee!”), but it really is very frustrating.

And I know this organizer really, really wants me to endorse the multitude of projects they work hard on. They try to involve the entire community in huge, big tent projects. That I respect except I can’t endorse an event that doesn’t meet the standards of my judgement. I’m not a complicated woman, but there are some things I can’t compromise on. I am just not that flexible.

And I’m a little nobody, toodling around with my single monthly event for the last 5 years. All I can do is tell people I personally don’t endorse this.

Post Mortem 2016

This is "Zozobra" a spirit of pain and despair ritually burned at the change of the year.2016 was not a sexy year. It was a year where I had a very complicated relationship with the Montreal BDSM Community (which is a nice way to say I shouted about sexual assault allegations) and also a year when my libido decided to take a nap, helped along by a cushioning layer of medications for various health problems.

Outside of the context of kink, I took on a vanilla project where I kicked butt, but it ate every scrap of my spare energy.

Other stuff happened in large volume. Some of it was simply a bunch of changes that manifested themselves at the very end of 2015 (moved, got promoted), some of it was background family things (my brother got very sick).

On the safety front, I accomplished a lot, and I accomplished sweet fuck all.

I got enlightened to the HerrK mess and reacted to it. A person I was previously close to decided to get excessively handsy with other people to everyone’s detriment. I yelled at a person who has other assault allegations including my own against him.

People mostly listened, but unfortunately this isn’t a movie. My former friend is on the edges of my social group as many people decided not to cut ties.  HK dramatically quit, and then slunk back into the background of the Montreal BDSM community, moving to separate Urban Dungeon from Opal and carry on as if nothing ever happened. Yelling at the guy who fondled me was about as effective as yelling at the sea, but… at least there is little room to pretend that people don’t know about that shit.

Various event organizers in Montreal were made aware and took approaches ranging from outright denial to taking it as the safety tip, although the vast majority decided that unless there was an iron clad court case with arrest records it was a dramatic mystery. I even got lectured about how poorly I handled this, as if anyone was bothering to touch this shit elsewise.

Eh, it really soured me on a lot of the general Montreal community, because I held the opinion that most people were just unaware of the severity of this and I discovered that given intelligence about a risk most people doubled down hard on the personal responsibility front.

Otherwise…

I did some writing, but not a lot relevant to here. I gained a lot of twitter followers, which meant deepening my connections to online people, and gave my website a much needed face lift.

Wildcard and I ticked through another year in a shared home, this one picked out as a mutual thing at the end of last year. It’s got a lot of floor space and is still located in Canada. We hosted parties of the kinky kind, which I generally failed to document except as stubs of drafts.

Eh, feeling better and not being quite as medicated, I can tell that I was not engaged with my sexuality at all. I think I was averaging an orgasm a month at best, and being pretty rabbit like in my usual habits,  this was quite shocking.

I mean I have pretty impeccable control when I want to, and have been known to match hapless orgasm denial suffering subs so that when they whine I can point out how tough I am. (Old trick from my ex military aunt, never assign a punishment you can’t handle, up to being ready to do push ups right next to them).

Photo source – npr.org

 

 

I’m Number 42!

Top 100 Sex Bloggers 2016

So it’s the end of the year, and there’s the usual little puff of awards to waft us out. I deliberately skipped the kinkly awards this year (not even the winners were exactly happy with them) but got picked for something I actually hold in a lot of esteem- Molly’s Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2016.

Oh yeah, and in other amazing news Domme Chronicles won this year. Ferns is not just the pre-eminent lifestyle femdom blogger, but she’s a pillar of multiple online communities and forums. She would probably appreciate a congratulations- she earned it.

As for why I care about this award- this is one of those things were all the other people on the list are properly hand picked and curated on sensible factors ranging from proper art attribution to frequency of updates. There’s a diverse crew (could use more guys, but men are in the minority in sex blogging and they are better represented than in some lists) of sex toy reviewer, share all vanillas, kinksters and other sex positive people.

Molly also included everyone’s twitter handle, so if you’ve got a lonely feed, you’ve got a hundred chatty people talking about cool things to check out- I’m certainly expanding my list based on who I’m sharing a spot with.