Why Kinkshaming Ruins Christmas

Snowy gif used to illustrate conversation on kinkshamingOk, ok that was shameless clickbait. I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. What I am talking about is actually the conversation around “Baby It’s Cold Outside“. There are two camps around this popular carol, one that observes that it is a festive version of Blurred Lines only worse, and a counter point  that it is totally not an ACTUAL date rape in progress, just an old timey courtship that looks like a date rape by modern standards.

The latter is going the rounds of my Vanilla-ish facebook, which I think misses the point completely of the first camp not enjoying hearing a woman playfully plead about not wanting to be there. It argues that “Mouse” (the woman) and “Wolf” the (the man) in the duet are consenting but playing out the script of the era, so to relax. Other versions mention it is a husband and wife team that wrote and originally performed it as if this was relevant.

I have things I can say on facebook- I can say it is problematic because it’s about the expectations of predation, a celebration of an era before enthusiastic consent, the mere fact that the duet parts are named after specific animals tells you the expected power dynamic and so on. I can rebut the fact that trying to defend it because she softens her no to blame other people is bullshit that doesn’t understand how women diffuse rejection to protect themselves.

And sharing it uncritically as old timey fun is how we end up with this rather gag worthy video where Bublé uses child actors to show how cute it is to push past a woman showing she’s not interested. This is probably a more accurate version from Funny or Die.

But… then I also write horrifying kink porn for fun and profit.

The thing that frustrates me is that there is no space to step in and tell people it’s ok to fetishize sexual violence, but you have to acknowledge it as sexual violence. Romance and erotica have always had a scope of displaying everything from full consent to outright rape, and the ability to label things dub-con (dubious or questionable) or non-con (sexual assault) in contemporary porn is part of developing a healthier conversation around it.

It is ok to be titillated or warm and fuzzy about a holiday song of  light M/f.  It’s ok to want someone to ‘force’ you into spending the night with them while pretending innocence, provided you also have the framework of free consent protecting you. The point it becomes dangerous is when you romantasize that being just how normal sexuality works or worked.

And it’s not like this was the distant past- people who fucked in the fifties according to these standards of conduct are still out having sex. Harrison Ford’s Deckard was assaulting Rachel Replicant in 1982 and having it be told as a straight if stormy love story (and his Indiana Jones was paired with someone he first boinked when she was 15 to his character’s 27 to which he blames on her). 80s era romances are notoriously rape-y, hence the perpetuation of the idea of the bodice ripper. The recent spate of sexual assault scandals are all built on the same idea that the enthusiasm of one of the partners doesn’t need to be present either at first or at all.

You, the reader, probably knows that real reluctance or real resistance is a flat out hard stop. If you permit either you have a global dynamic that means that “real” still gives your partners and out.

A safer world means one where we can explicitly say that Baby It’s Cold Outside is about as icky as He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss).  It also means one where we look to why we feel the need to use historicals to tell stories about sexual assault or statutory rape (in the two 80s movies I cited, one is in faux 40s  future noire and the other is set in the 30s, continuing the trend of).

But…

I am turned on by fucked up shit. I also have dealt with harassment and violence, and I don’t ever want to do or experience that shit for real again, and harp on consent so much to stop this from being an issue.  But as far as the complete picture, people like me are left out of the conversation because we can’t be honest about the reason why we are clinging to excuses to share and enjoy unhealthy relationships.

As the various people share that defensive tumblr post on facebook I can’t point out that what they want is a rape fantasy. The fact that talking about getting turned on by consent violations is taboo leads to a really unfortunate, lopsided conversation. The middle path here that lets people enjoy the idea of people ignoring their No while still having it respected for real is missing. Kinkshaming ruins everything and is forcing people who like a lil violence in theirf fantasy life into uncomfortable company with the people who like a lil violence in their real life. Since the latter should catch fire and fall into the sea, this sucks.

If we had a healthier conversation about the role that stealth kink plays in people’s idea of the romantic, we’d all have a happier Christmas.


The art is taken from here.

Fucking Myself on a Solitary Evening

Sundown, night fall, rain on the glass of the window and the road. Four orgasms, frisked out from my cunt, an evening  alone.

The first two are standard, sheer black lace panties yanked off and pitched into the hamper across the room. I find my small clit after stroking the slick of wetness up through the tucks and pleats of my labia. I like the way they remind me of rose petals or warm folds of saturated satin.

When I come it is short, intense bursts, radiating from my clit. It takes the level of arousal I am carrying down to a level I can ignore it for a bit.

I take a break and message him. He makes vague cozy noises at me. He’s not so talkative lately, having a lot on hit plate before a grand move. I stay away from poking and fussing, I have my own shit to get together.

I recognize that the urge to poke and fuss is not supportive. There are some things he hinted he wants to hand over, in that soft way that people don’t really think of power dynamics in their relationship as kinky do.

I think about his cock, and wish, wistful. Until he’s settled I don’t know when next we’ll fuck.

With Brick away, when want something in me it means a toy. I tend to default to the Tantus Silk, “Large”. It’s too big for my poor tight cunt, but I’ve never respected my own limits. The next step down, the Medium, is too small.  Dildo shopping is hard, like a Goldilocks that’ll never be happy because every toy I can find isn’t as perfect as the real thing.

Sex with Brick reminded me that if I don’t fuck myself when he isn’t around, that tightness gets worse.

Getting it in…

I can press it against the opening and play with my clit and gradually with gentle pressure, it’ll yield and slip in. I’m too tight to thrust at first. 1 1/2″ width at the head is apparently my upper limit.

Some girls take monster dicks or whole hands and I read and watch in fascination. Hell I had my hand in multiple people. Somewhere extant is a picture of me fisting my female friend and looking totally nonchalant.

Mine grips. Mine is small. My whole equipment is the same scale, wee little clit so cozied up in the hood it never gets touched directly. Regular labia, nothing exceptionally prominent.

I never got the point of kegel balls. You put them in and there they stay, right? Even the heaviest? How do porn stars do it? Hopping onto a cock like it is nothing.

The Silk is lodged in my cunt, until I tease my clit more. Then I can feel the pull inside as it shifts. I sit up and the wide base rests on the bed, a few inches out of me. My fingers find the hood around my clit and I almost come and then the sensation of my fingers and the toy gang up together.

And then even the least pull on the toy and I am coming from that. I cry out, unconcerned if my open window carries the noises to the street below, pushing it in and out.

Coming.

It feels different, deeper, inside. It’s not a full body orgasm like I have sometimes but it’s pleasure in a place that I don’t usually feel that kind of expansive and warm flutter and burst.

There’s no proper metaphor. For me it’s like a squirt of ink suffusing in water, first the release and then the bloom. Or the sensation of watching a flower open in timelapse, if it briefly turned your brain off. Like brain zap, but good feeling. Sometimes there are lights, I think phosphenes from the flutters of the muscles of my eyes.

When a guy comes for me there’s that build, contract and spurt. Women, more subtle.

The lust subsides by the fourth a bit. I want more, want to be fucked as I fuck myself.

But I like learning that I can get more out of penetration, because I can make a man get me off.

It’s a novelty- a possibility that my partner can offer more than hot fantasies to get me in the mood to finish myself, but also something incredibly scary.

It’s probably my thirties making my cunt decide that everything was going to work better. I never understood barely legal and virgin fantasies. Everything we know about sex observes that it’s about three decades of having a vagina before they start cooperating with all the features.

I sort of see why Freud tried to classify vaginal orgasms as more “mature” if they are the purview of older women. But there is a curious kind of vulnerability…

When you are used to not being disappointed by inadequacy, the realization that your partners could be better is a kind of lightbulb. I don’t think when I was 25 any amount of fucking was going to let a man make me come from his efforts alone but now, I know in the post afterglow, gingerly dislodging the thick bulbous head of the simplified look fake cock from inside myself, I am thinking about the next time I get fucked.


There is an affiliate link in this post. I didn’t write about my sex toy to sell you one, but I did buy it from this supplier and I am not going to be sneaky-sneaky about it.

 

Corporations Hate Kinky Sex

Credit card providers don't want you to have kinky sex.At the time of writing, Patreon and Twitter are both going through a phase of removing adult content. Patreon changed their ToU, while Twitter has been merrily shadowbanning accounts it deems sensitive, trimming them from the general popular discourse.

Twitter managed to hit historical expert @Whoresofyore during her book promo, while Ferns of Domme Chronicles and a number of other prominent sex bloggers have discovered they have been secretly muzzled. That’s what makes Twitter’s handling of things particularly frustrating- nobody knows how your posts and content pass the threshold of unacceptable. And nobody notifies you. You just need to figure out if you have been silo’d.

This was in the heels of, and overlapping with the Patreon change. Those who make porn remain ever vigilant that the guidelines of a corporation will crush them. It’s old, tired and familiar by now, part of an ongoing trend.

I had been thinking of making the switch to Patreon support, so I could put more effort into content and less into other sources of revenue, both linkbuilding for SEO (which I am iffy about) and the unreliability of getting scraps of freelance story requests. I don’t think that is as likely to be a viable option and that frustrates me. And that’s the challenge here, with trying to make adult oriented, and to be explicit, sexual art. Everyone wants the fucking stuff, but nobody wants to pay for it and admit they want it or give it space in the mainstream.

And when we do try to make stuff easier to pay for, we get yanked around by the credit card providers and financial brokers that underpin the transactions that make this possible. Because they are private corporations, unlike writing to my MP, it is considered to be a privilege to me that a few companies have a monopoly on most of the use of money that I do I and everyone else has no recourse.

The truth is, credit card providers don’t want you to have kinky or unregulated sex, and sites like Patreon are hostage to that. Meanwhile Twitter’s logic seems to be tied with the same efforts to try to scrub out trollish harassing nazis- only they remain more interested in punishing outspoken women than the people who bother them.  And at it’s core it’s a problem with our heavy dependency on for profit business to maintain platforms of public discourse but also the fuzzy moral madness around sex in society at large.

This is part of an ongoing war, both government side, and through the whims of the monopolistic control of private corporations, to decide what kind of sex you are allowed to have and talk about.


Read the full post »

My Take on Cuckolding Fantasies

Cuckolding fantasies are more than just cuck focused“So multiple people offered to throw in cash to get me to go to this event at $nerdhobby, I am so popular.” I’m not bragging, I’m surprised at my popularity and slightly bemused by the absurdity.

His reaction is to miss a beat, face going suspicious, “Oh really? Who?”

“The very gay $nerdhobbyguy, for one.” I know the implication, but I live with it and measure it accordingly. Boys offering you things is kind of par for the course as an extra level of social complexity to navigate. It sucks as an artist of any kind, because patronage is also how we wend our way, and nobody likes trying to suss out if you are trying to fuck me or support my writing. And I never apologize that men want me.

He’s not quite calm about it, not mad at me or displaying any sort of impolite or threatening anger, but outlined to me what it had always meant when he had offered to sponsor a girl, and then realizing that I might take offense either via implying I condoned really low wage sex work or was naive to the ways of the world, falls into repeatedly reassuring me that he trusts me.

Brick, you see, is a jealous man but not a controlling one. He’s liable to characterize it as “protective”, from the perspective that I need to be saved from all attention, pursuit and appreciation. On the other hand there’s a definite thread that we share a similar mean little desire to reject and trammel all over a guy. You’re never going to catch him as the forced bi bull shoving his cock down a would be rival’s throat, but there is a desire to emotionally and socially dominate other men (and in fantasy land probably beat the shit out of them) that pretty much occupies the same space a cuckolding fantasies do in the continuum of things men are socialized to have feelings about.

But, I like watching you fight them for me, even if I want you to win.

I am not one of those people who thinks that jealousy, or any feeling, in the abstract, is bad. I don’t think one’s feelings entitle you to automatically make the other party responsible for them, but I like the honesty and vulnerability in him getting possessive, the itchy fists and raised hackles. It’s hot. It makes me feel in control and turns me on. I enjoyed that Brick’s reaction was not compersion, that mainstay of the poly community, but murder.

I’m careful here, because this is a raw dynamic, which means that it’s his Real Feelings (TM) and could actually hurt him, so I’m not going to do anything to actually harm him or manipulate him. But I like that the script is there. I like the idea of using him as a tool of my sadism and dominance. I think he would get worn out and stressed if he thought that other men were constantly testing the boundaries of his relationship in a way that imperiled him, but I’m still going to enjoy it when it accidentally falls in my lap. And I have more thoughts on that… Read the full post »

And Some Things Still Suck

A good part of my life remains not about the sex, and with my decreased involvement in the BDSM community proper is leaves me flailing about a bit for where I stand on stuff. With Brick it’s something incredibly new, and hilariously, driven by my libido being several magnitudes over his (honeymoon phase he says. Ha. Nooooo this is who I am and that’s with a mild dose of SSRIs and their dampening effect.) But not all is sexy.

So, the family shit.

I am wrestling with my brother having landed in Montreal, sans means of support and in full psychiatric crisis mode.  It’s not easy. Without my guidance he basically flops out unable to even get basic social services, with very little drive to look after himself. By setting hard boundaries I’ve avoided falling into enabling him to just keep up the non-functional life of hiding in a corner on the internet, but in cramped quarters. I’m worried about him being homeless but he is not keeping his agreements with other people regarding couch surfing, so the instant I let him stay with me he will never, ever leave.

The problem is that getting help is a full time job, and he is either too sick or too unwilling to put the effort in to do that, so being destitute is too difficult for him. I can help him with little nibbles, but I can’t really take on supporting a full time adult, particularly one who isn’t going to respond well to me just taking charge. I keep watching other people try to help him via teaching him how to adult and it is very frustrating to try to explain that the fundamental issue here is not that he doesn’t know how cooking works, it’s that he doesn’t have any motivation to do anything.

Brick, very sweet, keeps trying to explain dysthymia to me. He knows what he is talking about (although I do too) but he comforts via giving grounding blocks of information. But it’s a bit more than just blob-mode.

Last night I had to tell my brother that I can’t just keep giving him spontaneous grocery money, that the next level of help I had was a bus back to the Maritimes. With our awful family. But then he wouldn’t be homeless or starving.  Because there really isn’t much in the way of stopgap measures and he keeps telling the social workers he is doing better than he actually is. And even when he is honest there really isn’t much in the way of support for basically anything short of vegetable or dementia case.

I’m trying to be an upright, functional adult myself and it is soul rippingly painful to admit I can’t help my brother. I keep going back to the idea that maybe if I give up everything remotely luxurious we can make a life of it on ramen, with him on a futon on my office floor and it is a really bad idea. He already tried to move in and perma live on my couch back when I was with Wildcard.

Christ, I cannot get away from people expecting me to take charge of them while giving me no cooperation.

I pulled out of the BDSM community because it was watching my partner chase everything but me, or policing people who had, on the balance, no interest in anything but minimal efforts to stop sexual assault and harassment.  My nerdy community is doing the exact same shit and I am very much getting impatient with the local people being non-stop sources of ridiculous interpersonal sillies.

There’s a kind of twisted mirror here about femdom. I have a friend, lets call her Miss Ruffles, a sub. I know her through nerdy stuff, but the overlap between kink and nerd means that the Venn diagram s almost a perfect circle. She’s one of the few people I have met who intuitively knows how to hook into being supportive to someone else in a way that affirms someone’s leadership, without having to think about it.

But for most people, that knack doesn’t come naturally, just like most people hate and feel stressed out by managing. Most power exchange is bedroom only partially because it’s really, really hard to sustain any sort of non-sexual power.

I generally try to keep a distinction between my sexual/emotional kinks and my leadership, but I can see some parallels to a lot of the frustrations doms of any gender have in trying to sustain dynamics with any other leadership role I have had.

So yeah, things are not easy right now.

I think, although I am largely happy, what I need is to be pissed off at people who keep poking me to parent them and absolutely heart broken about my brother.

Honestly, I Need To Get Fucked

Fuck me.I need you to fuck me in a way that makes me want to shred your skin and bruise you. I want to see you vulnerable and helpless and there’s the ache and the little niggling tinge of fear for me because to want something is to let yourself be open to the possibility of not having it.

I want to be able to just take you. And to make you perform for me. I want to lure you in, to learn where all your buttons are, so that I can push them at will. It’s a potent, heady feeling when I zip up my leather boots and you get that look. Your tongue touches your lip and your eyes go unfocused and very focused all at once. If I could bottle that feeling, of knowing I’ve hypnotized you, I would. I could get drunk off it.

You know how it felt, putting your belt over your neck?  Looking at that band of black, bisecting your throat, book-ended by my curled fists holding it to the mattress? Lust. But the confidence you have to marshal up to put yourself out there, that takes being brave on my part. Not much of a come down from no. So much shyness on my side as well as I made you try the new sensation. What if you hated it?

It makes me wet to think about you helpless, but I need your consent. No, fuck that. I need your enthusiastic consent.

Every boy wants a dominant woman, you learn that pretty early. The belief that she knows what she wants, that hint of aggression and violence is catnip even to guys who think they are vanilla. But there’s a trade off, boys get pretty fucking lazy about your sexuality. They’re used to porn and pros, where she’s only so dangerous , always offering a menu he can pick and chose from or a program, neatly planned.

It’s either all in on his perfect fantasy, whether that is locked cocks forever or serving as someone’s stud stallion; or reviewing a pro-dom’s website and ticking off the boxes: smother me with your ass, slap me about but hold the cross dressing. It’s not fake, per say, in that any pro-dom who can stay in business knows how to get in a man’s head. And I can’t fault porn for doing its job well.

You’re not like that. You want to make me happy. Sure you like it when I zip into leather and I’ve learned a few of your other buttons. I’m good at turning people on- a part of this blog is the knack I have. But, I’m the one with the weird fetishes. Who’s pretty much started to believe that most men want to want a dominant way more than they want to have her.

A million blog posts and are extant on sweet talking a missus into a mistress, and here I am, trying to figure out how to fit you into my sexuality with the same sort of gung ho enthusiasm I have trying to cram the entirety of your cock down my throat.  You’re too big to swallow but I want it and I get what I want. I’m going to work up to it.

We trade what we can over video and pictures. I tease you with a little pleather dress that cost me $22 at Forever21 (They’re having a grunge/goth revival, all the stuff that was in when I was in highschool). You send me snapshots of your hand wet with your cum, I debate prying a little into that- I’m almost disappointed when you finish yourself,  unseen and un-commented on because I want to tease you more. That moment just before you come is when I feel the most power.

I’ve gone claw the drapes crazy over you, but it doesn’t make me submissive. Doesn’t even box me back into vanilla, not that I’ve ever been there. So yeah, you said you want me. I told you the whole of the deal, how I want to hurt you and own you. I’m both complicated and easy going enough that it isn’t automatic slave contracts and collars, though sometimes I wonder if this would be easier if I just had an uncompromising menu instead of this crawl-into-your-head-and-control it thing the sexuality fairies gave me.

Oh god. I need your desire.  It’s the best thing, the drug I’m hooked on, filling you up with want, and draining it from you. I want you utterly helpless.

You know that moment when you are most attractive to me is moments before you come and you’re opened up and really feel it when I call you my slut? Sure the sex is good, feeling your body slam into mine, sure I scream because it feels amazing. When I come with you it’s this odd vulnerable makes me feel all small and sometimes you saw I cried a bit.

Because it’s hard to want something this much.  Not just your cock, although that’s plenty nice, but to have you.  And have you want the entirety of me, not as things you have to make concessions to, but are excited about.

It’s really scary. Also I really, really need to get fucked.

Fall Changes, Forward Motion and Endings

Fall leaves with quote: "My life is changing as the leaves outside my window shift their shade."Lately it’s been a life lived in a general state of desire I’ve missed. I’m happy to have my lust back, happy to crave and want and not feel completely undesired although I have once again screwed myself (and not in the good way) via setting my wants on someone out of easy reach for their regular use.

I’ve endeavored to sublimate that desire into productivity. My not so stable office gig finally tipped over, commanding I look elsewhere. There have been  a few auspicious leads, but just starting the process. So career shift joins the other life changes that this year brought.

You already know I ended things with Wildcard. I also basically closed the door on my monthly munch, being more than a little burned out on the Montreal BDSM scene.

I need to focus more on me, although life doesn’t want me to do that based on the demands it keeps dropping at my doorstep. So I have been cutting away a lot of things that are not cooperative with that goal, because I will be sick and chronically unhappy all the time if I don’t.

I love autumn as much for the changes it signifies as the other aspects of the season.

Fall is my favourite season, my new year, as a student, with crisp clean new supplies and excitement about my classes, then as an adult for the fact that the parts of the year I like start. It’s my romantic time, when I get dreamy and cozy, and historically tend to fall into the dreamiest states of love. The light is prettier, the temperature finally less obnoxious so I can do things.

So with the extra energy, both from my kicked up lust, the season change and my commitment to myself, I’ve been doing more.

This has largely been a net positive. I’ve been writing a bunch, even some exclusive stuff for Dreams Made Flesh, who is carrying the mission that I started this blog for, that Bitchy Jones inspired me to take up in the first place, one step further. Actually it’s one of the hotter things (to me) I’ve ever written.

Sure I am stressed as heck about money (now would be a good time to offer me a writing commission! ) and not entirely sure what I am doing, but the last couple of months have been more productive than the year combined. Documents I have needed have been applied for. Legal processes started.

I was past due for this.

I may not stay in Montreal for very long, depending what happens with my employment.  Or it might be a year more if a really good job pops up, but I feel like I’m done with this city now and ready to see what else is out there.

Fall is a dying season but also time to harvest what I planted, and I’m going out there with my basket.

Femdom Review “The Butters” Oil Based Lube

An oil based lube shown next to my favourite. I like this, but not for sex.

From time to time, as a blogger, I’m privileged to get random free samples shucked my way, for the publicity my talking about it gives, and also beta testing. In the case of The Butters, an oil based lube, it is one of the nicest moisturizers I have ever tried, but… I don’t want to put it on my vulva, or give someone a hand job with it, or slick up a toy with it. I will happily rub it into my legs and face, but it is not a good sex product for me.

And this brand does EVERYTHING right, so don’t think this is one of my little rants, like my disapproval of those cheap sex toys from overseas manufactures that swear they are 100% silicone and smell like a tire fire.  This is a a homemade oil based mix of different thick, edible fats with about the texture of a creamy body butter. You can’t use it with latex condoms, but it makes sure you know what it is right away, and it’s skin safe and scentless. I really like the politics of this producer and the fact that the branding is gender neutral while still taking into account its testers varied anatomy.

I even find the brown and yellow colour scheme visually attractive! Gosh, I wish I could tell you about how this was my go to lubricant, and how it totally rocked my socks. But it just doesn’t do the job it’s marketed to do.

That being said, the manufacturer is super responsive and gave me more tips on how to get the most value out of it (use a lot) as well as took my feedback regarding the sample bottles (yours would come in a jar, not a squeezy, I had trouble getting the product out). I was so sad I couldn’t make the sex part work that I put off my review for over a year. Procrastination isn’t the most mature solution, but I hate having to give a thumbs down, even a gentle, entirely it’s-not-you-it’s-me one.

I think I just need a thinner lube to experience the right mimic of what I naturally have. It feels unpleasantly chunky after getting used to oil for my massage and sex needs, and absorbs almost instantly in quantities I feel comfortable slathering on. That’s great stroked into freshly shaved legs or patted into my oft sensitive complexion. I imagine with a whole palmful it might be lovely for butt stuff.

I’m not the only reviewer to notice that it’s very other purpose friendly, not something I can say for water based KY (or KY knock offs) or silicone lube (no silicone lube for me, the bathroom floor was slippy for days after). It even lacks the excessively medicinal feel, and never goes tacky like the water based lubes due after a while.

But at the end of the day this is a fantastic natural, small batch moisturizer from a great independently owned business. I might even buy more to replace out my standard go to body butter, but I can’t make it work for sex, even if I actually like an oil based lube like coconut or sweet almond oil.

Note: The ingredient list has shifted a bit. Mine had arrow root powder but the formula on their website is as follows: “aloe vera gel, raw shea butter*, pure coconut oil, pure extra virgin olive oil, pure grapeseed oil, pure palm kernel oil*, pure soy lipid emulsion*, apple cider vinegar & guar bean powder.”

New York & Brick

I went to New York last weekend.

Three days, two sleeps, flying down to Laguardia, waiting anxiously at the airport for him to arrive and the meet up, full of bounce as weeks of anticipation culminated in the hard impact of bodies next to the baggage carousel. The heat off us and the mist of lust kept us cocooned as my hands stroked his chest, my lips met his and my body insistently pressed. He was already hardening just from my touch, there, gooey but not pushing the bounds of good taste in public too far.

We took a taxi to Manhattan, where our hotel sat just off Wall Street. I was in New York, one of my favourite cities and I didn’t care. The wedding we were supposed to was a fig leaf for this moment, getting him up into the room and the door closed so I could get my mouth on his cock.

I needed to be fucked. My body needs it, subverting all else, all thought but the moment when he is inside me. Even back in Canada, writing this, I put aside all thoughts, impractically, but how to repeat the experience.  I want him.

My lover:

He’s as pale as me, skin translucent, blooming red where the bite of my nails touch his back. He’s fragile and soft to touch, so much so that there is a certain sort of decadence in it- touching him is like stroking silk laid on butter; long boned limbs, shadowed eyes rimmed in red and the brightest blue I’ve ever seen on a person.

Metaphors fail me there: like stained glass in sun, like the ocean in the right hour of the afternoon when it catches a clear sky. He’s self conscious about the ruddy-blood bloom in his pale skin- some celtic ancestor’s gift, but I like the translucence that underlies it. I am known for my snow skin, part of the underpinning of the moniker for my nom-de-kink, but his a match for mine, on the face and inside of the wrists, where the sun hasn’t left him sleeved with freckles.

Six foot something, tall enough to exactly rest his chin on the top of my head, and I’m as wide as his chest at the shoulder. I’m tiny, and yet it’s more often his head folded into my chest to rest, myself curled onto his back to sleep. He speaks fast, many words, not one for silences, with a southern accent. His homeland is a strange, foreign place to me, full of firearms and personal responsibility to the point of fatality. He tolerates more than me, born of consequence of exposure but perhaps more patience than I have.

He comes when my hand’s on his neck and my voice is in his ear, telling him who he belongs to, reminding him that he’s my slut. Independent, leader, giving, brave… and yet under me his eyes get soft and gentle and vulnerable. I learn him, inside his head and outside, where my tongue can touch his nipples and make him whimper and how to meet his gaze with my mouth on his balls, so the combination of the visual and psychological overcomes him.

He delights in my “gleep face”, hands over my eyes like I am playing peek-a-boo as sudden waves of shyness hit. The dewy, cozy mind melt of love has hit us both, leaving us addicted and adorably besotted.

New York:

The heat of this false summer followed me down, but the buildings gave shade. Warm, perfect nights, out with two people getting married, her pregnancy pushing at her belly under her sari, vows exchanged, him praising her ambition and drive, her promising to care for him properly and listen to his perspectives even when she is sure she is right.

We’re among nerds, and I natter happily with them, making friends oh so effortlessly. The couple whose nupitals we hijacked to give us a convenient excuse to try to merge as one are so accommodating when we push myself past when I should have eaten on day one and I fold up all sleepy.

I meet his ex-girlfriend, small in stature, big in personality and we hit it off. His friends at the wedding feel out who the new girl is and gently tease him about him being a bachelor. We eat diner breakfasts in the morning, and lavish meals at night, pasta with extra sides compliments of the chef (note to self: add capers to my baked cauliflower next time!) , wedding fare that’s tasty and well picked,  and around the social time and the fucking we barely have time to see much else. We visit the 9/11 memorial and look over the depths of the reflecting pools. I take two fallen acorns and forget them in my pocket.

I dress for my comfort, on vacation, which is how I am touring about in black leather knee high boots and a glossy pleather mini. He enjoys watching men check me out. We’re some sort of exhibitionist- with a combined vanity- getting ready for the wedding proper  we take about as long to assemble. I slither into a stretch purple cocktail dress, himself a suit, very square in the style I have been taught is American, but no less flattering.

Fucking Brick:

I have waited until now to see his cock. He shyly offered, before our meeting, to share it after I teased him that over dozens of pictures exchanged and shared orgasms over the phone, I’d still seen no more of him than his chest. But I wanted the surprise.

Oh god, he is big. Not monstrous, but later my friend will ask if my jaw dropped when I saw it, and I will fire back the bon mot- “Only when my mouth was already full”. I can’t swallow all of him yet, although that’ll come with practice- I can get my nose to his pubic bone but only with a naked good inch out from angling my head. Some of this is shyness, as deep throating takes build up and our fucking is so new, as is this connection- this isn’t porn where I am entirely comfortable with all the noises and adjusting to the risks and vulnerabilities… yet. I want a few good hours without the pace of many things to do to practice.

My cunt, so long unstuffed, at first is clamp tight. One of the times I mount him, sopping wet mess I am, he sees my face and cautions “give it a moment”.

The comedy inherent in this makes me smile.

I tell his more vulgar prying friends he is “hung like an artillery shell.”  He himself notes the way my cunt acts like it’s going to take complete possession of him by pure grip. I expect it to hurt more. It does not, and I find myself resilient. It doesn’t sting, just a swollen warm feeling.

I leave my boots on for him to fuck me from behind and feel completely and utterly full. That is at the limits of my comfort, but masochist me would rather have that sexual power as I find his favourite position and add it to my tool kit. I like seducing. I want to know all his buttons. I want him. Mine.

I provoke him, constantly, testing him. I am a dominant. I need that poke of control and power. He finds even though he’s by far the stronger, I am full of tricks, using the blanket to trap him. In one return to the hotel I undress him, taking off his black belt and laying it over his throat, hands on either side holding him down, and I can see his mind struggle with a new sensation of being this kind of vulnerable.  He’s shy about this, alien territory.

He worries if I hurt him his instinct will not be to curl up whimpering and vulnerable, but fight.  I want realness.  I likewise show him how I can tell between his well meaning efforts to act submissive versus those moments where I have made him weak, for real. There will be no by the book rote service. I would rather have him raw and rebellious, to seduce him to heel, than polished and empty perfection.

It’s a question mark, can he satisfy my dominance?

He wants to get it right, desperately. If you asked him my pleasures and particulars he’d repeat it back by instinctual memorization. He is a giving partner.

On our last day, I say I want him to try giving me head, again. Long term readers know I dislike it- my tiny clitoris doesn’t benefit from direct contact, and the wrong touch of tongue is just unpleasant. But, I have opened myself just as I seek to engulf him, to accept all things and allow myself to be pleased.

Dominance, is after all, the supreme vulnerability of allowing another person to make you happy by force of your ego applied over theirs.

He hooks the black cotton of my panties to the side and I lie back on the hotel bed. His tongue and lips touch. I could say feather lightness, but that would imply tickling. It doesn’t, no nerve-raw-burn sensation, no excessive wet, just warmth. It starts to build. I feel one of his long fingers slide into me, anchoring everything. He keeps going.

I come. Not big fireworks, like the orgasms I give myself, but at no effort to myself, there he as given me a pleasure no longer alien to me.

This is going to be interesting, won’t it?

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.”