Je te rievens / I come back to you

Whoops, this sat in drafts as the remainder of August and the first half of September into real life obligations and migraines. Here’s the yearning horny, albeit a bit belated!

My body wakes me up at 3AM for its own reasons and I seek his warmth and scent. I find him gone, and I am in my own bed, feeling his absence as a sense-ghost in my memory.

I think about the history he told me, discovering his submission online. Of his eager acceptance of what I say when I assert this or that in my tinkering with the comforts of life. I think about one, then two fingers sliding into his ass, my tugging, pinching and hurting him, and the interplay of our desires through his pain. Of the texture of his hard cock in my mouth, just slight slicked with the oil from the flavourless silicone we use.

I think about how odd it feels to spend two weeks where my sadism can uncoil itself without ceremony, whenever, however. Limits of reason are not something I care to exceed, so I am truly free to do as I wish. It really feels like a visceral thing in my chest, stuffed away behind my breasts. Tonight, at 3 AM in the dark, these ache. 

With him, cruelty happens as easily as a fresh cup of tea, his skin blooming in whatever the latest thing I do. The marks flare bright and usually fade in less than an hour.

I consider you, I consider you… 

The lyrics bounce about in my head, Anges Obel’s Beast. I have run my mile like the stanzas suggest, appreciating this wholeness with him. For the first time in a long time I felt fully unfolded, imagination painting me as something monstrous that usually keeps itself shrunk down. Something with long claws, like hooks, and a flexible body.

He is so small in my arms when I wrap around him. He who is three inches taller, and who I strain to reach when we kneel together to fuck him from behind.

I slap, strike, spank. He fast colours and fast fades, my hands marking for an hour, excepting a few bruises. I bend my mind around his circumstantial masochism, understanding the pain that is good pain, and the bad pain that is very wanted. It took me a few goes to understand that gentleness with fucking his ass was not needed, unlearming the chiding “ouch” from past partners and best practices, to trade for vigorous violation.

After we play particularly hard, perhaps an hour later, when my need to know overturns my commitment to the quieter moment, I watch his eyes and almost hear a click, as he tries to make the experience of me on him into words. It doesn’t come easy, but he knows I need him to articulate the nuances. I am oddly particular about his motives, for all that I glory in my sadism’s freedom.

My mind is a strange time traveller

All the time I visited him, I struggled with a blog post that put to words the sensation of having my mind focus on what’s next, beyond my visit. Now that it is past, I find myself, instead returning to the time before. Of all things, the memory of his smell leaves the strongest means to travel back.

It’s ironic because he is not particularly pungent. He has switched, recently, to some spice and old leather soaps, but it’s not those, as nice as they are, that places him so intensely he is a taste in my tongue and sinuses. 

When we fuck, the ghosts of us bloom beyond our bodies. If my sadism is something in my chest, our sex scents, older than the species, are a warmth of considerable comfort that emerge from us both to soothe. I wondered out loud at that, if others might sense him on me and react, if, in the way of humans it would turn men away or drive them more intrigued.

Perhaps nobody could tell, but where we fucked and laid together, we became overlapped, and myself wearing his scent like his arms about me.

The morning when I left, I didn’t shower, nor the night before, jealously keeping him on my body. But, by the afternoon, settling back into Vancouver, hot water and an engulfing robe gave me comfort. And still it is like I remember the scent now and that becomes enough.

Grey morning,  

It’s now morning as I write this, and the city is ghost calm, the only noise the compressor of the fridge and the hum of the furnace. His bedroom is quite noisy. You wouldn’t think thus, for he would swear to you he prefers suburban calm, but the condos of the area have pushed the density considerably. Things whine and woosh on the road, mumbles travel up from below and yells make their way from outside.

I want to hear his voice: the rumble hinting the bottom depths of it, the slight lisp when he is tired or the plastic braces that keep his teeth straight while he sleeps are snapped in place. The way he finally became less self conscious and let himself sing along a bit to music. The working from home professional voice, listened to while I poke at my laptop and appropriate the sex wedge as a back rest.

Just before I left, I asked a bit about his past, the before me. He was precisely honest in a way that brought out details from memory, but also sparse in some things. I am not the first woman he has submitted to, taking on the mutual self discovery with a long term online friend.

He is careful, understandably, as any man would be when their partner says “tell me about your ex”, but for me it is more a comforting sequence of knowing not precisely the erotic details, but how he made his way into understanding what we do. I am fishing, not for comparison, but to find what part might be submerged, mapping out a depth.

I think that I am largely open about myself. Too open, by most standards: sex blogger, sharer of feelings and criticisms, quick to say what I think. I want to be recorded, understood, and, I guess, accepted. I know the latter two are unlikely, but I am shockingly good at getting myself heard. Silver? I watch him manage to make small talk that is warm, friendly and doesn’t even reveal an opinion on a sports team, much less politics, even casual hobbies. He’s as hard to grasp as a breeze.

Strangers on the internet know I still suck my thumb in my sleep sometimes, and that I repeatedly miss shaving a few of the hairs on my ankles until I start to resemble a clydesdale. Silver, meanwhile, is the first person I met to whom “still waters run deep” is actually true. I used to think a core part of loving someone completely was knowing them with the same thoroughness, now I come to discover it’s more like a compulsive need to explore until I do.

I could dig for a long time before I’ve mapped (mined?) all of Silver.

This is also the first relationship I have been in that I put myself utterly first. This sounds luxurious, but actually it’s painful and often very bruising to my ego. You see that means a lot of addressing my self protective crazy. It makes my critical of past loves, as something I am unsure about is at what point did perfectionism in muffling my distress become dishonesty and at what point was it a boundary?

There now, reader, I have contradicted myself. An open book who somehow always shocked her exes with the depth of her dissatisfaction with tthem. An honest speaker of her thoughts who uses the needs of others to not think too hard about what she wants.

With Silver, from day one, I placed my standards higher. I extended my desires, and treated my wants like needs. He meets them. Oh my goodness does he meet them.

I am all aflutter with terror because I want him so very badly. This in turn makes an insecurity that the needy anchor seeker in me will terrorize him into trying to protect me by pulling back. I am trusting he won’t, thus far he isn’t.

I am cared for.

He drives me back to Vancouver, so I can walk the park length left to the border and cross back. On the way, he thoughtfully pulls into the little lighthouse Starbucks of a small town just before things shade from the poverty sprawl of Northern Washington to the wealth of south eastern suburban Greater Vancouver. 

Although most of what we just drove through was industrial boxes, here it’s a picturesque core of a small town. Autumn is hinting, a stroke of orange or a bloom of the first hint of red in some of the leaves, and a grey, chilly mist whispering that maybe the angry scourge of summer heat is done. Autumn is a weakness that turns me into romantic mush.

Masts from a marina peeping below the parking lot. I don’t want to leave him. I imagine a half dozen perfect maybe somedays as I steal what kisses I can. We reach the parking lot of the peace arch and he walks me to the border, where I will cross.

He likes a long, lips pressed kiss best. His kisses fascinate me, like nobody else. His cock settles in my body more easily than any other. He has the darkest blue eyes I have ever seen.

I am full to bursting with “what’s next, now!?”

What’s next? Here I am in Canada, first day back, I am considering my balcony garden and what parts survived my absence. Inexplicably the tender first zucchini that died in the heat wave came back robust, maybe there will be a crop. I regret only the goth cherry tomatoes, tenderly nurtured into bushy green from scant seeds from etsy. 

Life will continue. Delta will do its thing, in theory at some point in September he will make an expensive trip to see me. But, we will be apart, for now and wait to see what will come next.

Excuse Our Dust (From Seattle)

A visit to Silver in Seattle

Oh whoopsies, broke a few things on the site there, didn’t I? Hopefully the new template tweaks are working nice and smooth in your browser. Feel free to leave a comment if they are not! Otherwise, it’s been busy these last few weeks, but up until last week, maybe not so exciting.

What have I been up to this summer?

No sooner did I get into doing live streams, but an amazingly awful blanket of heat waves hit my province, turning my possible filming space into a sauna. I do not like it when my gloomy, damp home turns into a place where the weather is literally “firestorm”. Still, all wasn’t bleak, despite having to resort to covering my windows in tinfoil like I was a conspiracy theorist doing interior design. During the truly medically terrifying heat wave, Silver gifted me with a few nights in hotel, coming to the rescue with his very typical eagerness. He is good to me that way. This was also a pretty major milestone for me to trust someone enough to let them give me something at that cost.

Read More

No, Kinky Kidneys Are Not And Endangered Species

The most precious part of the body in BDSM is the humble kidney

Everyone means well. BDSM basic safety advice is taught and repeated from a place of resilience against censorship. As online communities and access to written materials alike are squeezed by law and bad faith attacks by anti-sex moralists, we can always count on the hours and hours of free volunteer education to hold the line. Unfortunately, although unstinting in their commitment to keeping information about kink out there, there’s no quality control on what is shared. Thus while some advice might save a life, or at least an embarrassing trip to the ER, BDSM, as a subculture, loves its better safe than sorry story, frequently at the space of its own utility and dignity

This is best demonstrated by the Guardians of the Kidney, the safety squad that preaches the shibboleth of great power. Amongst the great perils of unflared butt plug bases, and the scourge of unsupervised bondage, so also is repeated wisdom “and don’t hit them on the kidneys.”  Elder and neophyte alike, after safewords and reminders of consent

Meet a new kinkster? They reassure you Kidneys are protected. Post a post scene pic?  These noble scouts watch for any wrapping whip strike or above the buttcrack bruise with a scrutiny that would  do a lifeguard proud. And surely as the kidney is the most guarded place on the body, most people who preach that proverb also cannot locate said organs.

I cannot take credit for this discovery, that cynical observation goes to Cybill Troy. But it remains a great test of if said person knows what they are talking about to ask them where they are or just how much force that damage takes approximately. Or how often it happens.

(Kidney are just above where your ribs stop, and while you can hurt them with an impact, it takes things like a bad fall, punch or kick, or the sort of blunt force trauma of a car accident.)

But, given the frequency of the average repetition of the advice, a kidney is Achilles Heel meets Baldars Holly in one. It’s easy to believe. They are, after all, an essential organ, nestled in a matched set in the torso. And a bruised kidney or even ruptured one is an actual injury humans can obtain!

But, you know, not as a day to day worry, or one even likely to ever come up from a scene gone wrong. Certainly not the way a few hundred lost objects will be pried out of anuses every day, around the world. Or that ligature or smothering for erotic reasons (and positional asphyxiation) will claim lives. Yes, the low/midback is not a space to flail away at. But there’s a number of other things more pressing to concern yourself there. 

Kidneys have a decent protective cage hanging down- the ribs being where they are. But, the waist is pretty spare on most humans, and low backs are already the failure zone of health problems. If you bonk that area it isn’t going to feel good, not even the good kind of bad.

But so also goes for the knee pits and elbows. Wrists are bad smack zones too, unless you are limiting yourself to a short ruler on the top side. Indeed there’s some general rules of thumb to work out where you should and shouldn’t hit. And equally importantly, what you may or may not want to use. And that’s going to help more.

Instead of just avoiding the kidneys, a little broad theory matters.

A technically useful lecture on impact play would cover concepts like warm ups, or the padding protection of muscle and fat. Force of possible impact correlates with how much meat there is to thump. Additionally the places you body has a joint or bone close to the surface is also a no no.

And, if you are not sure, don’t hit it, and less is more. You can always hit a second time harder if the first was too light, but you can’t un-hit people.

However, something about human nature means that rather than the most broadly actionable advice: Kidneys! Exploding! 

Don’t feel too bad if you were happily chirping this advice at other kinky folk by way of making conversation. It sounds bad enough that even if you’ve never actually heard of someone who got kidney damage from impact play, it favours better safe than sorry repeating!

But, let it be a lesson:

When someone repeats safety advice, it never hurts to ask for more specifics, before you pass it to someone else.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Cucked by the Zeitgeist

“Oh, I was going to fuck you, but then #forcedbirth legislation swept the US. Now I am going to cuck you with this big, thick silicone cock. But, because I am being fair and I love you, you can watch and masturbate. However, no draining those naughty unsnipped breeder balls until I say you can!”

The length of silicone balanced on its flanged base, standing erect in anticipation of the service it would be put to. His own equipment made a similar performance with less lucky expectations, but while the fake cock was marble swirls and muted shine, his was the warm mottled matte tones of skin.

He could smell the back of the nose lift of her arousal, hindbrain triggering, impossible to pretend. She grinned. “Of course you turn me on. That’s why I want this. It was so hard to find just the fit that matched your shape. But you understand, right?”

“C-can’t we just use condoms?” he asked weakly. The cock cage was lying next to them, key still in the lock, a tight squeeze to cram himself into with the sexts she’d been sending him all week. Now, here in here presence, she said she wanted a good, safe fuck, and nothing else.

He gave her a pleading look, hoping for a reprieve. Being inside her was wonderfully intimate. Her eyes would lock with his and she would straddle his lap, riding while he stayed in careful control, helping her come without letting himself ruin her pleasure by coming. Not this time.

“Oh no baby,” she was practically purring, a decided arch in her back that thrust her breasts out, clearly turned on by his suffering. Her fingers stroked down her own thigh. “If I am going to ride a piece of rubber, we are going to do it right, and we both know accidents happen. A condom could fail.”

He watched her spread herself, fingers seeking, pushing. He pressed his own mouth closed to push back a whimper. “Please? I want to be inside you.”

“I know, it must be driving you crazy. I am so very wet, and it feels so warm and tight. Don’t think I am going to let you get a vasectomy either. You are much too pretty not to make babies with you… when I am ready.”

He filled his palm with a squirt of clear, sleek lube, but a reach to the root of his cock got a hand tap. “No! Not until I have hilted, darling!”

Hesitating like a dog balancing a treat on its nose, he watched her nudge the rubber up against her pussy, one hand playing with a nipple. She had perfect breasts, halfway between heavy and full, responsive and soft. She wasn’t even letting him touch her.

The toy slid slowly into her. For a moment the affectionate but sadistic patter she teased him with stopped and her saw the unmistakable look of pleasure wash through her. Her lips made a pout, eyes going out of focus. Sliding down the toy, his rival, she let herself enjoy every inch.

He eagerly slicked up his own cock from the root to tip, beginning to stroke.

“Slower baby, in time with my pleasure. This is about me, and what your cock can’t do.”

Obedience made it better, and he matched his pace to her drag of her hips, up and down, squats pushing herself to the base of the toy and mid way up. “Don’t you wish that was your cock inside me?”

“Yes!”

“It feels so good. You are so perfect.” She was smiling, though it was crooked with the exertion and the distraction of what she was doing. “Isn’t it great you can still serve me this way?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She gave a huff, jiggle in her breasts and thigh with each fresh stroke. In his groin her sped pace was posing a danger. Building. Slick, tight.

“You don’t get to be inside me. You don’t get to come. You’re going to get locked back up after I do, and…”

“Nnnh…” He had to stop pumping his hand.

“Almost?” Her grin was wider, seeing his desperation. “You don’t need to cum. Not until I decide to breed you. You’re property. And I sumply cannot afford an accident, so this big, thick toy is going to take your place.”

“Mistress!”

“Hand off your cock.”

He gasped a thank you.

“Oh really? You know your place as a denied breeding slut?” She shifted to sitting, legs sprawled open, working the dildo out at the speed she liked before she came. “Say thank you to my rubber cock too. Thank it for doing what you can’t.”

“…Thank you to Mistress’s rubber cock.” Leaning forward, he made himself commit to the clumsiness of his phrasing. “Mistress deserves pleasure. Mistress deserves to come. I don’t matter. I’m only for breeding. I don’t get to come. I…”

The yell was a sharp exhalation, built tension pushing air from her lungs with quick burst of coming. Her eyes snapped shut, one last thrust jamming into just the spot that tipped her over. “Yes!”

kink belongs at pride BDSM belongs at pride we belong at pride

BDSM Belongs At Pride

It’s smug kind of “I told you so” that this year the conversation has turned from an almost kink critical “they can’t consent to that” to a reminder that we very much belong. When I bashed out the ideas that formed the skeleton a few months ago, suggesting kink in public was actually ok was enough to get me blocked by people.

Don’t take my word for it, check out the ever insightful Kat Blaque or Watts the Safeword. They don’t necessarily agree with me on all points, but before you read me, it’s a good idea to arm yourself with some other perspectives to understand that in writing this I accept my take is probably the most radical, it’s coming from a larger nudge to the Overton Window from everyone. You don’t have to agree with everything I am going to say. You can take some of my arguments and discard others. I just ask that you assume I am arguing from a good faith place.

I believe BDSM belongs at Pride, and the arguments not include it are fundamentally against the spirit of the event.

But first, a caveat: If you don’t think kink belongs at Pride, or you disagree with me, you probably aren’t a bad person.

Sometimes these arguments against kink are trying to be protective, either of people at large or minors. The problem is that they rest on claiming any awareness of kink anyone could have is a comparative level of lewdness to reenactment of a Public Disgrace shoot. Another is to suggest that it’s a derail, that being kinkyed has nothing to do with any of the different identities we choose to address. Sometimes this attitude is because a ham handed kinkster tried to make a one-to-one comparison at some point in the past about how their marginalization was equivalent to a group with worse troubles. Sometimes the person perceives kink as a peculiar hobby that could also traumatize people, putting it in the same camp as the “no cops at pride” conversation.

Kink isn’t actually as lewd/filthy as people make it out to be in its totality. BDSM, as a subculture evolved so concurrently with the queer communities it weaves in and out of the fabric of the latter’s identities that separation of impossible. Additionally, the wholesale rejection of kink is explicitly ace-excluding, insisting on a very narrow definition of sexual and non-sexual.

My radical take: I think the whole enchilada should be there

Yes, the Leather folk. The people on leashes. The pup masks. They not only should be there, but not quarantined off in a special “after dark” space. And I push more progressively, that there’s even significant context in which a “scene” in public is also not a violation equivalent to vanilla genital fucking either.

This isn’t going to win me many friends to be the weird lady who actually thinks that say, the cherry tree shibari shoot that happened a few years ago in Toronto (not at Pride but in a public park) is fine. It’s not because I think I should be dragging everyone into being actors in my own personal fantasy re-enactment. I do feel that even just flying the leather pride flag and allowing a few sashes and corsets, or just carrying the paraphernalia of kink is still conceding unfair ground. And I do not personally put myself in the business of having elaborate public bondage scenes (etc…) in public not because I think they are morally wrong. I do so for the same reason I cover my breasts even though it is legal in my country. I decline to do certain things because of my own self protection against coercive harassment.

But Miss Pearl, you say, how can you force your sexuality onto people?

I dunno, I have a hard time taking that sort of pearl clutching (snerk) about kink when people wander around wearing special monogamy rings and inviting their whole family to watch them celebrate their monogamous commitment in a monogamy dress, with a monogamy cake, and two very sex themed optional monogamy imminent parties, in a monogamy ritual where they often make a big deal about exposing and tossing special underwear and showing how pair bonded they are in public.

Or walking past lingerie ads, or ads for dating services, or lovers lanes of steamy making out. The monogamous, ostensibly vanilla pair bond is seen as so wholesome that naval boats raffle the first kiss with your spouse at port as a ritual, and force everyone else to watch. At a certain point, the decision of what is and isn’t allowed is going to be pretty arbitrary to the culture it exists in. The concept of “private” grapples with the problem that relationships that are vanilla are interwoven with the culture and desires of others. People can be sincerely offended if they aren’t invited to a wedding of someone they care about. People WANT to gather to wear penis veils, or chained to a blow up doll, and run about the street collecting pre-wedding forfeits. 

Ok, you might argue, but BDSM is sex, that stuff is less sexy. It’s romantic.

So, if you mean to tell me a collar is a constant tool of overt arousal and ALL public play is the most vile of exhibitionism, prepare to be severely disappointed. Not only does the tokens we wear have a lot more on par with stealing your lover’s hoodie (or in Silver’s case me thiefing his white cotton t shirts), but usually they signify more of the romantic/belonging aspect of a BDSM relationship than the sexual one.

Not only that, but the bizarre pageantry of kink, precisely because things like leather are off the mainstream, aren’t particularly obviously sexual unless you have a subtext decoder.

Sure that guy might get aroused by being called “pup” as well as get emotional fuzzies, but the leather pup mask he is wearing is so much a fetish that it’s not even sexual unless you share his kink. And we allow plenty of sexy things as empowering- the wearing of revealing clothes and lingerie, padding, etc…

Ok, fine, you may argue, but non-consensual exhibitionism is bad. The world is not your free audience. Why did you need people to know about your private business?!

Sometimes I shouldn’t need to hide. Part of Pride challenges and pushes back on the norms that decide, say, my tits need to be in a top, but the same chest on a man can flop and wobble in the sun. This might be a feminism thing, but its an argument that pokes at what gender even means. Banning kink is part of collectively enforcing that the rituals of relationships and families that people take for granted have to be that way.

In the case of kink in Pride, it isn’t about flashing people, for the most part it is about freedom. I know that a fuck ton of frightened arguing pops out about how they totes saw triple fisting pony butt plug tails, but while I won’t bother telling you it NEVER happened ever in the history of humans being dumb, I can say it’s a fixation that indicates a complete lack of education about what kink and fetishes look like.

While people fret about the overt stuff they easily note, most fetishes pass. It’s sometimes the Pleasers on the Drag Queen. The day collars. The body parts and clothes that the average person would never never think you could find arousing (like wool knit!)

But what if it *IS* obviously sexual damn it!???

Yeah, you might see a vagina costume or a packer. But the lady on the float in the strapon probably isn’t particularly wet right now, she is enjoying feeling so safe about herself she can be open. She, or the big pink labial mascot, or any other permutation of this nature also may be making a transgressive point about gender. We live on a planet where multiple human cultures still explicitly display dicks on stuff, including things like the incredibly wholesome Japanese penis festival or Michelangeo’s David. 

Inversely, we tolerate loads of vanilla stuff that is in the borderline if you have plausible deniability. This is the unfairness to kinky folk- what we do doesn’t get this space. Have a wedding in a park and people may even cheer, hold a collaring ceremony and it’s uncomfortable stares.

And sometimes the sexual is important because it means more. The strapon scene in Sense8? Where you see a wet rainbow dildo bounce on the floor? That’s the sexual turned to convey a profound amount of meaning, of acceptance of one of the character’s core identities. 

Love is love is all very well and good, but we live in a world where the public regulates the private. Sex is also sex. Sex toy bans, porn censorship and even regulations around sodomy all make the intensely personal NOT have the right to that privacy. You cannot say that a dildo is a secret thing and then demand that you can only buy one for “novelty or educational” purposes in certain US states.

Nor would it be ok to tell queer folk they could love who they liked, just to abstain from sex all their lives. Again, all love is the same love until your “It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” is actually in effect outside of the most superficial or sanitized expressions of what love might look like.

But, what about kids at pride? Pride is a family event now! And gay kids benefit from attending, if there’s anything sexy they might not go.

I am glad you have thought about the children. As minors with less rights they need protection… however!

We already went through a great deal of time insisting that people being gay or trans in public were requiring conversations kids just weren’t ready for. People tried to argue two guys together meant having to explain the mechanics of anal. And various other permutations of being ok, grudgingly, with kids figuring out a bit of hetero but being in Grave Danger if they had any inkling anything but Barbie and Ken dream wedding was afoot. This is nonsense, you can age appropriately scale the conversation to protect a minor- the same way you can simplify or go into detail as appropriate on subjects like pregnancy or why Aunt Jo uses they pronouns.

I get this is a fraught topic. Again, everyone is still iffy about things like (O.W.L.) Our Whole Lives and fighting over abstinence only education and how and when kids get to know things.

But, if you mean to tell me “some adults like dressing up, feeling different sensations or playing with who is in charge” is too hard for you to say, oh dear

And if you think there’s really anything at Pride that isn’t popping about in kids cartoons, as comedy or dramatic peril, you haven’t been doing a good enough job screening your kids media. If you are freaking out about pup masks while letting your kid grow up on paw patrol, yikes. Don’t like Bondage? Take Disney off the net blocker white list, and toss out superheros. If you think your kids aren’t integrating these “innocent” scenes into their fantasies as their sexuality develops, I have news for you.

Further, our habit of waiting until anyone is 18 before thinking they can acknowledge kink exists is not really a solution. There’s precious little sex ed, outside of Scarleteen that even acknowledges kink is a thing, outside of closed communties and the intentionally lewd. This is doing harm.

I will never advocate minor/adult kink relationships, but I wouldn’t advocate them as a vanilla thing, either. However! I explicitly believe you can have age appropriate awareness, the way we teach condoms, biology and consent as part of a healthy sex ed. I further feel that when someone who has sexuality but must be protected to discover it can only find one version, it will cause as much shame as abstinence only sex ed does. 

By shutting kink out of a public festival of Pride, you are projecting a simplified perception that this is exclusively a weird extra sexy sex thing that can’t be scaled up or down. You are not allowing minors to receive holistic sex ed in a context where they aren’t directly engaging with adults. Ultimately this goes back to my point that sometimes it’s just thematic resonance or romance, and if you don’t know that, it’s not fair to fail to let kink folks show otherwise.

Ok, but what if BDSM *is* sexual? You write a porn blog, god damn it!

Sex (in that larger sense) in public also already is a conversation that varies by culture. Who gets declared more or less lewd and what it means where you do things is variable not just by place of origin, body proportions and what we think about that role.

Thus we can have the most wildly erotic dancing in no kissing Bollywood films, or have cultures that consider someone more sexy in more coverage, not less. Generally most humans like full say in whose engorged and moistened genitalia they are exposed to, but even so, the codpiece, the merkin and the penis gourd exist. And none of these are anything other than ok, normal clothing, albeit generally formal.

Further, there is validity to exploring that edge of presumed acceptance, as well. As an intersectional thing, you are under extra scrutiny for being “sexual”. If you are fat, femme, or even just gifted with prodigious breasts or buttocks, for example, you are more policed than you are slim, masculine and so on. Just being seen by other people as being more lewd can, in fact, be a form of discrimination. This effects everyone Pride is meant for, and accusations of predation and more desire are a historical part of the violence such groups experience. It’s a very real double standard.

While flashing people for your jollies is not ok, being able to make people acknowledge that you have sexuality and it should be celebrated is extremely Pride, and so is declaring your sexuality is no less shameful than another person’s.

What was that about BDSM being Queer?

BDSM is, among many things, a loose collection of subcultural norms. Today and for all of its history, its place as part of alternative culture has made it not so much an ally as an active part of Queer cultural history.

Aspects like “Leather” are more Queer than not, with the adoption by straight people following after their popularization in gay communities. While today people may be more familiar with things that are profoundly heteronormative, like the popularization of 50shades, in practice, while BDSM communities may have explicitly Gay, Lesbian, etc… off shoots, and some pockets that are homophobic hot messes, for the most part it is a space built on norms that are some of the most accepting of being queer.

Further, BDSM’s parallel evolution interweaves with the same counter cultural pioneering that created space to be increasingly openly gay, trans, etc… TES, possibly the world’s oldest continuous BDSM group, was participating in Pride when it was still branded as Gay Liberation. The early community building of kink explicitly modeled itself after the same going on in feminism and gay rights.

Sanitizing this from display is selectively determining that some parts of being Queer and Queer history are not ok, and Queerness is ok as long as it’s only a gender swapped version of some sort of 1950s dream.

Right, great, we will let the queer kinksters in, leather daddies and dykes on bikes are go! But you F/ms and M/fs who aren’t containing one or more trans people can simmer down.

(Here is the point that the people tend to lose patience and get unfollowed. You can be mad if you like, but I ask only you bear with me, to my next point…)

For a significant part of the kinked population, the answer of what your sexuality is, is to say BDSM and/or fetish. Sure they might have a gendered preference for who they do that with, but something we don’t talk about is how common it is to be kink dependent for attraction to function. And this is where people get frustrated and tell me BDSM is not an orientation like gay or straight. True!

It is actually under the A for Asexual.

Although not everyone *needs* kink for a sexual or romantic response to work, if you do require BDSM to have functional sexuality, you meet precisely the criteria laid out for demisexuality or other parts of the spectrum of asexuality, aka Grey Ace or Aspec. A lot of kinksters, themselves, have their minds blown when they realize this is them. But yeah, you, reader, if kink is the only thing that makes your sexuality function, could identify as Asexual.

What is Demisexuality/ Grey Ace? 

A less understood part about being Asexual is that it is an umbrella term. It can include the obvious complete absence of a sexuality, but it also includes being Aromantic (where you can be sexual but simply not experience romantic love); and the so called grey or demisexuals, whose.sexual experience is pending a limiting factor. 

A common experience for demis is romantic love being the gateway to experiencing attraction. This means that until that bond is there, nothing can happen. People generally get this, and the modern branding of Pride, “Love is Love” make this incredibly accommodating. Another way one might be on the asexual spectrum is for it to be sporadic, say a libido that is very low or unpredicable.

But for an asexual person, another condition one might have to experience sexuality or attraction is having a paraphilia or fetish. 

In my case, if you tried to have me have a sexual and romantic relationship without kink, the answer is, I couldn’t. I mean, I could fake it and be utterly miserable, but my kinks are my kinks. And for me, love and kink are two factors that regulate my sexuality. Unfortunately this part of sexual knowledge is so removed from the conversation it took a lifetime to learn this was a hard truth.

As a result, I had years of painful, bad sex that was in no way coerced by my partners, with everyone telling me it was just a matter of time and practice. I can’t blame them, although one party was outright abusive, the rest were largely good, giving humans who tried to find the clitoris, etc…

The most giving, foreplay granting hot vanilla human will waste their time with me, and I them. In my case, I can experience some easier physical attraction if I fall in love (almost universally facilitated by a text based medium and kink) and my bits have the right nerve endings to use them conventionally, but subtract my fetishes and that relationship will die on the vine.

Further, my porn consumption follows that pattern- screw gender, I am just looking for a certain intensity and activity set. Gay, straight, agender… although the consumptive scope means I write what I like, I also consume a lot of romance and fast flip through perfectly well done sex scenes. This is my life.

I wanted to be “normal”. It would have made my life, including my dreams of sex work, much more feasible. But my body and heart needs something very specific. If I get that, fireworks. If not, it has all the erotic thrill and romance of looking through a 1960s wallpaper catalogue.

But what about Pride? You don’t mean to tell me all kinky folk are Ace do you?

Sure, for some people kink is a value add not the main event, but that’s not on you to decide from a distance. I wouldn’t say my experience is a one to one comparison with every other kinked person, and I definitely personally don’t go blundering into Pride declaring it needs to be all about me now. But! You cannot celebrate people being Ace with the same commitment to equality if you won’t actually acknowledge what Ace can and does look like.

I can understand when you are getting murdered for holding hands in public, this is not comparable to me lying on my back wondering why this is the bad kind of pain while a very considerate vanilla partner tries their best. I have amazing passing privilege, just like people tend to not notice my bisexuality or my gender fluidity.

I also acknowledge my fully radical position on kink inclusion is not going to win me any friends. But I do ask that you consider how much ground we give up by conceding to even a very sterile kink, and how arbitrary even our definition of scene/ not scene is. I do not think it’s fair to let people who are not even kinky have such a strong voice in defining what is both sexual and not actually means. And I have some concerns that our caution that we violate consent to even let people know we exist is a form of internalized shame.

Kinky folk are not a monolith, but neither are we benefiting from closeting and ignoring that a good part of what we built is actually a culture, not just a sex thing. In conclusion, BDSM belongs at Pride.

(There is a whole other argument that kink is morally reprehensible in it’s own right, which, well, I can’t help you there. Sure just because it turns someone on doesn’t make it ok. However  after a point, once we hammer out whatever SSC, RACK or PRICK system works best for me and my partners, what I do with consenting adults eventually falls into “fuck off, this is my thing, die mad about it”)

celebrate 10 years of femdom blogging

Why I Femdom Blog – A 10 Year Retrospective

Ten years ago, today, I registered a domain name and created a space to host my erotica. It wasn’t my first time blogging, but a femdom blog, itself, was a new focus for me. I had started on Fetlife, but I preferred more control, and in hindsight self hosting was the right call. Other sex blogs have come and gone, to permanent hiatus and censorship as their hosts, wordpress.com, tumblr, and blogger, slashed their archives from the web. This place has endured, quietly, not the best or most popular, but constant.

I became a creator because there was a lack of other spaces for me, and most pressingly, no porn for me. It’s always been in my makeup to write, my best skill. If I were a better visual artist I would do that instead. But, instead, it’s a million upon a million words to make myself a place where I and what I love might be found.

For me, this was a journey that started with someone’s metafilter question asking for porn for femdoms, https://ask.metafilter.com/96448/Porno-for-Femme-Domme, and bounced to a now long hiatus’d blog, https://bitchyjones.wordpress.com/. Until that point I knew I was kinky, but imagined my masochism and the point of least resistance of my gender presentation was the best way to seek what I needed. Most commercial femdom porn doesn’t do it for me, so until I found there were others like myself I was unaware I was dominant. This caused a sort of gradual realization that whatever was going on, my prior conclusion I wasn’t a dominant was an issue of lack of things that might appeal to me.

As well as Fetlife, and then, looking for an audience, tried Literotica, only to be rebuffed by the strong non-con lean in my work, and a significant dose of sexism. I may have mentioned it before, but the M/f bias in how we depict heterosexuality, and our tendency to rate acts of leadership and assertiveness by women as more violent, cruel and selfish mean that when you are already fetishizing these aspects you can find a medical modification scene labled “snuff” and a mixed bag of feedback that emphasizes the evil of your character far more than if the dynamic were flipped.

This, plus a post college job doing general online marketing, gave me the encouragement to try setting up a blog and practicing what I learned regarding SEO and other promotions. If I was going to do it for my employer’s clients, I reasoned, I might as well work on making myself be good at getting really heard too.

(My domain name was a compromise, when the handle I use was taken by a still running site someone made dedicated to their Pekinese. Oh well!)

In some ways I predicted this was going to be a long haul, in other ways, not so much. And I do not think if you asked me to map out where this went, I would predict it, even I think pay

This is going to get long, so settle in for a deep read and before you hop the “more” tag, here’s a heads up that I am going to talk about sexual assault, abuse, missing stairs and super personal stuff.

Read More

A Latex Moment with Silver

latex moment

You know, when you write a blog post and then the chaos of life hits? This is actually from last year, a latex moment nestled in the unpublished archives, written in a bit of summer, while we made the best of the distance.

4:00 pm after my carefully spaced burlesque class, I have haul my body home, cloth mask stuck on the sweat of my exertion and the humidity spiking my maybe Covid survivor caused, maybe pre-existing asthma. I think about the completely unhelpful “if you don’t feel well stay home” posters on everything.

Have any of us truly felt well, since March?

I text him my updates of where I am. When I hit the train station near where I live he already had the first plug in his ass. He’s not particularly loose by default, and I intend to fill him up, so warm up is important.

He is so tight. His ass is muscular, and looks like it has the grip it does.. Around two fingers he can clench hard enough to be a little uncomfortable. Silver knows the end goal for today is an egg shaped, ribbed number that inflates and vibrates. With its many settings and remote control, it’s ridiculous, decadent  and very human. Our commitment to our pleasure extends to hundreds of dollars spent on very carefully engineered tools to make him feel full and helpless. 

Fucking is already a bio hack, pleasure and a sense of mutual merging substituted over top of reproduction.  Kinky sex has a reputation for being a symptom of the extremes of “civilisation”, and today, preparing for a webcam worship session I am reminded that I live like royalty.

The rubber, in a sense, is dressing like it, too.

This fragile material was cut and hand glued, imported from Europe. It’s more expensive than anything else I own. Stored in layers of rustling white tissue paper, it is hand wash only, decadent and wildly impractical.

I shower before I slither into the costume I’ve chosen for tonight, a one piece latex catsuit and a hood. The process of dressing is particular. This catsuit has feet, and I begin by gathering each leg like stockings. Then I gently coat my foot and ankle in silicone lube. There is popping, snapping noises like elastic bands as I maneuver the limb into place. The rubber makes a satisfying noise and feels right when the divot of the heel wraps around mine.

I use white cotton gloves to protect the rubber, as I continue, lubing my legs, sliding and tugging it up over my hips. As I thread my arms into the sleeves the zipper at the back of the catsuit gapes, a little askew until I work out enough wrinkles for the next part.

I grasp the halves together with my right hand and pull firmly. My ass might be the widest part of my body, but I have the strength and leverage to get it up past that. It’s when it reaches the small of my back I need trickery.

I previously threaded a boot lace through the eye of the zipper, one end’s aglet snipped off. Now I use the lace to slowly draw it closed, pinching the zipper together as I go. Once I hit the small of my back, the trick makes dressing easy. In short order I am sealed from toe to the top of my neck. 

Now, more.

I pause and throw on a bit of eyeliner, and gather my still damp hair into bunches. The mask gets a little lube on the inside and I struggle to pull it on, chin first. Then, face roughly wedged so my features match it’s openings, I pull half my hair through each port at the top and zip it closed at the back.

A little fiddling takes me from pinched looking, to the still fashionable lip injection pout of the rubber compressing my face a little. Ringed by black, it makes my eyes pop, with only a little more mascara to look finished. My gathered hair becomes two buns on the top of my head, which while not so sophisticated, resemble nothing so much as a pair of ears.

The whole suit is hugging me in a way that I find very arousing. I could take or leave the slightly alien superhero look, as it will never really feel like anything but fragile lingerie, but oh how it hugs my thighs, my breasts, my waist and my ribs. Even the pressure about my head feels good, at least after a bit.

I add a little more lube to the inside of the cat suit, just to deal with where my new sweat will make me stick and call him over the chat client. Our faces both stare at me from my phone screen, as if I were having a threesome with a twin.

Both of us are completely dressed in black rubber.

He has a suit and hood, similar to mine but different in key ways. If my hood gives me a reverse panda look, his is, to me, much more erotic. Silver’s features are hidden under a sleek mask that uses laser cut pin holes to seem like the face is eyeless, the mouth erased. 

He is primed with flirtatious sexts and more casual play that week about “drones”, one of those mind control fetish concepts that seems to overlap rubber fet and hypno. He hasn’t been allowed to come for some time. We are leaning heavily into his core fetish cluster.

Drone space is about obedience without deviation. It’s not actually as easy as it looks outside of the arousal capacity of the fantasy itself. It’s getting someone to basically do a guided meditation, only the focus is a memorized pattern.

There’s lots of set dressing, calling your partner an “it” and roleplaying. We joke about getting an Alexa and renaming it with some cyberpunk hive queen name, so it can announce it does things to him on behalf of Domina Prime. Porn scenarios, of imaginary hives and factories, have numbered hierarchies. I think about the way that the name of every roman girl was her father’s and a delineation of her birth order. Prima. Secunda. Straight to Octavia and beyond, if her father was fertile enough.

Fantasy is a space to explore darker concepts, of permanence and loss of autonomy. We both get off on that happening to him. In our worship, these Sundays, I often spin out a game of sorts that realizes the terrible in vivid narrative. In practice I remain amused at the duality that you the reader enjoying this will find. If you are a fellow domme and I talk about my awkwardness, the hard work and my careful planning you will see yourself reflected. If I talk about my indomitable strength in my will over his and you are a sub, you will be charmed.

It’s both. 

I take a few minutes to find my feet, but I’ve mastered snapping together his fetishes and building this up on a foundation of my own desire. If I want to, I can turn him into a whimpering mess in about five minutes.

The latex on my body is stimulating me. I first thought the pooling wetness was sweat and lube obeying gravity, but pulling the zipper at the bottom finds a viscosity in the swollen lips of my cunt that can only be my own body.

After a preliminary lead in, I put him through his paces, practicing the most mindless and repetitive edging and hypnosis. 8 strokes slow, 4 strokes fast. I picked the numbers at random, using their memorable nature to make it easy for him to focus on only the count.

He reveals one of his surprises, a latex sheath for his cock and balls to make the whole thing even more decadent. I appreciate his commitment to the aesthetic even if I make him focus on being an “it”.

I like that he’s used two rubber cockrings to keep it in place. The cruelty, the extra swell of his cock trapped and his balls neatly packaged, asking me to see how sensitive they are. Once I am sure that cock cannot possibly get any harder, I move to what I have been planning all week.

Plugged, Swollen.

I tell him to take the next step and he gets the toy I asked him to ready, out of its tidy box and lubed up. Then the inflatable plug goes in and I thrill at the mechanical noise of its activation, and his shiver as it stretches him. I like that he is tight. I also like to push that tightness to its limits. He’s very careful about that, although later I will get him to find a set of graduated plugs, purely to assert my control that I know he is capable of more.

All men are different in how they lay down their plumbing. Silver’s system is close to the surface, easy to tease his ass just by pressing or vibing just behind his balls. I know the women he served before me initiated him that way. They did a good job, anal sex takes both a certain fastitiousness to make it inviting, but also a degree of self forgiveness if the biological inevitably is as eventual as I promise it will be. You can enema all you want, but someday you will find a mess.

I know that the body adapts and rebounds. I will use him as I like, and he will both suffer and enjoy it by turns. It’s a factor of trust, him that I won’t actually ask the impossible and me that I will ask him to do something for my sake and not his pleasure and see obedience without reservation.

Still, I have space to train him, or rather I make him train to allow me to occupy space inside him.

I stretch his ability to focus too, making him count the pulses in his ass and the pumps of his cock. In the hood, it’s harder to read how blanked out I make him, but it’s enough for me.

I was about to reward him by taking the hood he is wearing off, so he can see me without the blurring over his eyes, when he disobeys. He realizes that for about half his performance he accidentally set the bottle of KY just so, such that the white shape masks the bottom half of his body.

I had noticed it, but I didn’t care. He does, and breaks mood, to move it, a tendril of flustered creeping in even if I can’t see his face.

I will not have that. Probably the biggest “training” thing I work on with Silver is that he has a hard time putting obedience before perfection. Let a setting on a toy be fiddly, or me take a few moments to hunt for an errant object and his brain will focus on immediately fixing it. 

I force him otherwise, slowly, against his nature. This time when he tries to fix the camera view I issue a rare punishment, more edging. This will never come easily to him, becoming mindlessly obedient in the face of his own perfectionist desire to please thoughtfully.

But hey, no matter which outcome, we both win.

More On Lifestyle Only Femdom Invisibility

the invisible lifestyle only femdom

You have definitely heard me talk about this before (CN: whorearchy talk), but one of the biggest issues with the contrasting experience and norms of professional femdom VS lifestyle only femdom is our invisibility. I add “only” deliberately, as it’s rare to find a professional who will cop to it being just a job.

And I don’t think they are lying. Honestly, any immersion into the larger femdom community will show more similarities than points of difference. But, be that as it may, the perception of the non-existence of people like me is so strong that while nobody assumes a male dominant is say, a pro rigger, I am presumed to do this as at least a part time career.

The norm is to assume that lifestyle only femdom isn’t a thing, or if does exist, it’s the amateur or mirror version of a professional experience.

Read More

The 5,525 Mile Club

Conjugal Tents was not a phrase I expected to learn, much less use. The border remains sensibly sealed to the majority of traffic, though Silver is twice vaccinated, and I the Canadian once. At current suspicion that might be done at the end of the summer, with the start of the tentative discovery of metrics that will make it possible to lever our two countries open to each other.

I am late, this time, to the park. Usually I beat him by ten to thirty minutes and take up a book on a picnic bench in front of the US parking area. They do not want me there or inside the cars, though they tolerate me assisting carrying things about. But the park rangers have created a merciful compromise. No tents in the broad lawns or where the weddings happen at a steady clip as soon as the weather warms. But, in the more wooded far edge overlooking the road that splits the park from Canada proper, nylon mushrooms of various sizes sprout up.

It’s a proper field of desires.

Read More

Femdom Life Updates May 2021: Birthday, Book Launch & Femdom Month!

Happy Birthday to me, 35 as of this month, and sitting in an interesting place. In a few days Silver intends to serve me up another Peace Arch picnic, while I get my first vaccine next week. It’s also the anniversary of when I asked Silver if he wanted to be a “boyfriend” in addition to Property, formally marking the point in which I recognized our relationship had wandered into Very Serious To The Point He Might Tell His Family.

Next year he’s going to brave the border for a semi-permanent stay, perfectly legal with a little extra paperwork, and hopefully by then, no extensive quarantine. For the time being, he’s had all his shots, but as a Canadian it will be the start of October before I am likely to have had mine finished. I can’t say what point we will see a border opening properly, although infection rates are slowly grinding back down again. Summer vacation will help.

The pandemic means it was quiet, without getting too carried away with any celebrations. My vanilla friend bubble bought my ice cream. Readers sent me well wishes and two send recognition via Patreon. Silver has giften me a very fancy microphone, a book of erotic art by Eric Stanton, and something “small” he intends to give me at the picnic. Perhaps it is socks!

I also added the heading you might see, as I am slowly getting better at bashing my template into what I want. Progress!

I launched a book, Corporate Conditioning

Corporate conditioning femdom cyberpunk story

I released a Cyberpunk Femdom Novella on Amazon, both digital and death tree format. It didn’t sell quite as well as “The Pet Gentleman”, but I’m ok with that. 😀

In hindsight I didn’t need to list it in erotica precisely as this one is a fairly personal tour of my fetishes. And as such there’s very little a person who isn’t as perverted as me would call explicit sex.

Nonetheless, I also know there really aren’t a lot of other books like it out there. Femdom mind control office romances, that escape into non con fantasy (aka “dark romance” under the coded language of Amazon writers), but also stick with what you would expect in a story about falling in love, are thin on the ground. And the reviews have been extremely positive, so that’s nice!

I did a whole #FemdomMonth thing on twitter

I don’t pretend to be the ultimate authority in all things Femdom, but I freely admit the #FemdomMonth project has been an opportunity to practice both consistency (something I struggle with) and add some positivity to a doom scrolling world. Also I have been focusing a lot lately on the needs of submissive men, who are definitely important, but also, by paradox, tend to get the lion’s share of everyone’s content. Never fear, there’s serious talk of a #Subtember.

I also enjoy it as an excuse to do my awkward hyperbolic joy at people. I am one of those femmes, who gushes with hearts and sincere but clumsy compliments. Also check out r/femdomcommunity that did a Femdom Month of their own!