Belated Easter Beatings!

Covid19 happened over the course of a period that took out Silver’s Birthday and killed any possible chance of seeing him over the Easter long weekend. What was supposed to be a femdom Rome about his apartment became yearning over webcam.

I think he just realized where I hid the egg…

I had hoped to hide his orgasm in the form of an egg and bind him up in an adorable bunny costume, but that was not to be. And thus, an illustration.

I bought an anatomy book for my birthday, jeeze!

A Long Essay On The Lost Lifestyle Femdoms

The belief that the ratio between submissive men and dominant women wildly skews to have more of the latter is an incorrect hypothesis. Circumstances exist to hide the lifestyle femdoms, often in plain sight.

That’s a bold statement on my part, but I feel the perception of the ratio is largely a flaw in how we measure and look for sexual desire. Sure, studies of women describing their sexual fantasies show a paucity of dominant women. Studies also had a terrible time locating a bisexual man in a laboratory setting. The majority of the clitoris was only found in this century. We know both to be real.

Further, I think we are going about the pro versus lifestyle femdom question all wrong. The approach tends to be on if the “connection” of a professional and client is the same as a lifestyle couple. This is a problem in the limits of how we conceive of power and how it has been historically available by gender.

My argument is twofold: what a professional and client experience is no less “real” than what I do, and the frustrations with the system are the problem of one’s own relationship with power due to sexism. There is no real ratio imbalance on the basis of gender, just a really complicated mismatch between experiencing power for emotional and sexual gratification, and how women have access to power as a general thing.

Being dominant and enjoying having & using power are gender neutral activities.

Thus also is sadism, sexual teasing and exhibitionism, etc… I strongly suspect that paraphilia we more traditionally associate with men are also more evenly distributed. For example a man with 300 pairs of high heels is seen as a pervert, but the same collection owned and worn by a woman because it makes her feel sexy goes without notice.

I posit, all these kinks show up naturally in anyone, regardless of gender. In dominance, there is no reason to assume women are not suited to it. After all, women have demonstrated capacity and desire for real, non fetish leadership, both effective and despotic. Likewise, even within gender stereotypes, we cannot argue the potential for sexual cruelty is absent. Even if women were inherently kinder, the vast majority of people who experience sadism as a sexual kink can tell you that high levels of empathy are complimentary, rather than a barrier to it.

But, how we talk about women who lead, and women who lead conceive of themselves, occupies a different vocabulary set. The female dominants are here, they just don’t use the words we expect them to. And they probably avoid the leather bustier- although kink comes and goes in mainstream fashion, there is a paucity of cat suits in female heads of state, business owners, department heads, etc…

I think how we conceive of the roles naturally drives women away from identifying as dominant.

Discussing the protosexual (presexual?) evolution of desire, it is notable that, across the gender spectrum the fixation on who does what to whom doesn’t seem to show reliable correlation to where the person ends up. An overview of what we consume, as pornography, shows example such as cis-women enjoying m/m (including such targeting men), while the norm of kink development includes a plethora of anecdotes of random power set ups that stuck with us in age appropriate fiction or childhood games, playing captive, princess, etc…

Nonetheless, it is disingenuous to pretend that the current presentation of femdom in pop-culture is anything other than a male centred fantasy, but that doesn’t mean that women are only helpless puppets playing out crypto-slave roles, and are not part of the conversation as well.

It means gender and power are fucking broken, and this is naturally going to flow into every pocket of the world where both exist.

We did BDSM as a subculture a disservice when we obsessed over old-guard-leather and ignored the large contribution that femdom-through-sex-work provided in sustaining a “scene” of sorts. This wasn’t just pro-dominatrices, but all those nameless women who were the models for the fetish art, etc…

When de Sade penned his edgelord fantasy wankery, he was doing so in a world where S&M was already known to be a commercially available, a common part of sex work. He gets to name Sadism. Sacher Masoch, likewise, didn’t independently arrive on what he stuffed Venus in Furs with.

Sure, sex work in generally determined in service availability by he who pays the piper, but so also were the lives of wives. And nonetheless, women have, despite it all, actively and enthusiastically fucked. If women could manage vanilla sex of their own volition through periods when their ability to orgasm was itself in debate, why not dominance?

They say “Anonymous was a woman” to mean that a significant amount of things women say or do, when they get preserved, tend to lose their name in the copying process, like cropping the artist’s signature off the meme.

But we know women have always been there.

The problem is that over the last millennia, women have not been permitted to talk about sex openly, in a way that is celebrated and preserved, but we’ve definitely been having sex, talking dirty, inventing stuff, etc… And, as much as men have been recording sex from the narrations of their hand’s gratification on themselves, women have also been active partners, organizers, and so on.

Who really remembers “Anna” of the early 90s, organizer of the Boston Burger Munch? Or, in the Bay Area, just before that Vicki, Marcie? Laura Lee? STella? It’s recent history, but the Usenet BDSM communities that anchor our modern conversations of kink and make blogs like this possible. I digress because even today, there just isn’t the same emphasis on admitting that BDSM, as a community, functions under the labour and management of hundreds of women.

And the trick is a lot of these folks ID as subs, and there’s the loop back- there’s no connection with sexual dominance and social utility as a leader or mentor. Performing as a submissive woman, is the path of least resistance if you are a switch.

I can say, personally, that for all that people often imagine a dominatrix when they picture BDSM, the market, as a woman, caters to me as a submissive and is considerably more concerned with my gaze and common aesthetics there. Further, navigating the kink community, as a dominant you are fairly policed and limited by what you can do, and the most verbotten acts are typically the most typically associated with women.

Want my brains fucked out? Want to dress like a pretty pink pastel princess? Want to wander about in a cozy onsie or bunny slippers? Cry? Giggle? Love? Wait for the squinting in your general direction- all while some guy is still dictating what you can wear and do in your inbox.

Theatre preserved plays performed by Greek men, but not the active and lively mystery cults of women that ran in the same time. Likewise, we know about London spanking Madams of the Victorian period, but not the private bedrooms of the more ordinary married woman. And in our modern oral tradition, we remember gay male bikers in the late 40s, but have little love for newsgroup saavy women in the 90s.

That doesn’t make a good place to assert your sexuality, as a woman. Perhaps better than some, but if you have to play ball in a game you didn’t design, not only is it rendering you actively invisible by narrative, but it is punishing you for going out of bounds.

Economic Oppression Built This

A common conversation around the “fakeness” of pros is that they are just doing this “for the money”. The snap back of the past, on the allegedly shameful nature of taking money for sex work, is that the house wife does the same thing. That’s not an argument that ages well- the obligation for sex in marriage as a “duty” you assume for support is largely out of fashion, for all some world laws trail in archaic misery.

But the necessity of extracting money from the world to live means that women are still working on a system with underpinnings that assumed that you are an economic subsidiary of a male controlled household.

Bucking that system was a quick way to end up broke and even more powerless. The few women who clawed out independence still, more often than not, had to navigate the whims of a majority.

In the same manner that we don’t use leeches and antimony pills in medicine anymore, likewise, our ability to conceive of and grapple with consent has altered. Nonetheless, the whole financial and social system didn’t roll into a new format overnight. Regardless of if it isn’t actually a given now that women have a different financial situation than men, wages, etc… things just have not balanced across the board.

(Note: Get into a pay gap in a myth argument here and I will delete you.)

Therefore you have a paradox that your power is framed as a perception of your ability to extract money from men by performing traditionally female tasks AND that these tasks don’t need direct compensation and much recognition. You can hold a lot of soft power/social capital, but the hard power of being the origin part of the cash is generally just not given to women as much.

And our foundational archetypes often harken back to old role- in kink for women, rustling out the governess, nanny, mommy, goddess, nurse and so forth, of which frankly, I think a dominatrix, herself, is just part of that spectrum of power through roles.

As I said earlier, it’s not a closed loop of men- we women consume the same porn and inform our own identities based on what is available. The trick is that whatever fetish stuff that makes BDSM in us asks women to take on not just being dominant, but a dominatrix, by default.

A Dominatrix is to female power, what Drag is to being a woman.

It’s a caricature, one with an aesthetic that can, itself be fascinating, liberating or empowering, but a Drag Queen is not the same thing as being female (bio-queen or not). True, villains always have the best lines, and in practice the real professional dominatrix exists somewhere between highly useful sex therapist and immersive theatre, but nobody asks men to take on a whole vocation to get kinky.

Right, you might ask – you have argued why kink is hostile to women expressing overt sexual power at length, but how does this translate to the claim that femdoms are loose in the wild vanilla?

Maybe they don’t imprint onto BDSM that way due to lack of role models?

Look at what women do, not what they lable. Look at our attraction to men in distress in fiction, and our fixation on things like princesses in girlhood. Look at the perfectly evenly distributed desires in vanilla women to be sexually compelling and get what they want.

Consider how easily they accept the gender neutral parts of dominance, and how easily traditional masculinity can be framed as service. Make a partner feel incredibly horny and decide on who gets gratified, how? Get your way without a ridiculous fight?

Once you stop slamming women into leather bustiers and thrusting a client book into their hands, or coming at them like the french philosopher Rousseau did, so crazed to publicly expose himself to strange women in the hopes of getting a smack.

I think, as we get more social power, it may get better. I have already noticed the youngest cohort of female dominants embark on it with considerably more agency, carving themselves more feminine friendly, but gender not constricting identities.

I close this with the suggestion that if we are currently largely “lost” what we must do to be found remains a place for ourselves, and our own desires. And I continue to write under the stubborn awareness that just as art and writing that treated me as normal and worth catering to gave words to my own desires, so also will others find their way.

Femdom Book Review: At His Lady’s Command by Nicola Davidson

This is a cream puff. It’s a sugary, gooey confection you bite into and there is flakey bits all over your blouse and custard oozing out, but you aren’t sorry you did it. Our protagonists, Lady Portia and her faithful bodyguard Denham start out as unrequited, and within a chapter, rush from lust to bed at speed- we aren’t making any pretence this isn’t porn.

With that in mind, if you are looking for exact historical accuracy, this might not be for you. Rich heiress runs a sexual dream society attended by pairings and a triad from other books, and does good works. The past-ish background serves largely as a fig leaf to add propriety to rebel against and peril to intrude. As such, the premises of the plot can fall apart if you stare too long at them.

This is gentle femdom. Don’t expect bondage or sadomaschism more intense than scratches, but do enjoy that our 38 year old heroine and 44 year old hero are plausibly into each other and her control, while also keeping them as firmly defined equals outside the context of their kinks.

Honestly my biggest criticism is the speed the story was rushed interfered with the possability of larger tension and made the peril of the story a bit less fleshed in favour of Denham or Portia yearning for each other. But!

Holy hell is it a breath of fresh air to get a protagonist that is not a professional. Not that being a pro is bad, but the vast majority of femdom romances targeted for the female gaze approach the subject as a story of an idealized dominatrix, usually a service top. The characters like eachother and compliment eachother. They have plausible chemistry.

Davidson looks like she knows what she is talking about, when it comes to femdom, and although her larger suite of offerings covers pretty much the gamut of relationships (looks like M/f, a mmf triad, lesbian and gay make up the other books in her Surrey Sexual Freedom Society series, for example) this is not a tick box sampler or someone writing outside their depth.

This may be pure romance-land in the larger framing, but expect a good fusion of modern tastes and historical vulgarity- nobody does a cockstand or has a mossy grot, but there are no throbbing members. I would have a hard time placing the exactness of period, but they do manage birth control that is both plausible and historically accurate.

In all, I wish Davidson had the time to let this develop properly with more length, but having tasted her wears, even if I might have a stray crumb or two to brush away, I will be back to this particular bakery again.

Want a copy? At His Lady’s Command is a kindle exclusive. I bought it myself on a whim and have received no sponsorship to review.

My Property Fills and Sucks At My Command

He’s bent over the table, the largely featureless black dildo well engulfed into his mouth, base steadied with one hand while the other edges himself at my command. Around his waist, straps further anchor an inflatable plug, sitting with a ring set such around the root of his cock and behind his balls that both are delivered up invitingly.

Silver is American and lives somewhere in awkward, but plausible visit distance from my own base in Vancouver. This was perfectly ok for a weekend long visit, until Covid19 happened.

The border has sealed itself to non-essential travel and it is thus months before we can expect to satisfy our mutual yearnings. A global pandemic doesn’t care for young love, much less the kind that stubbornly won’t call him my boyfriend but uses the L word, and professes to own him.

Pretty much from the word go, or honestly beforehand hand, based on his behaviour, he handed control of his orgasms to me. For Silver this has a distinct psychological effect, taking him from a dry sort of delivery of witticisms and reserved fiestiness to a more open and needy state. Both versions blush easy, but Priapus doesn’t have anything on the eager, thick erections a week or two of nothing but edging gives him.

Covid19 nailed both of us at about the same time, despite being apart long enough to have gotten it from separate sources, and what had supposed to be a little interlude ending in an orgasm at the end of March hit a hiccup where lust wasn’t really something either of us was inclined to feel. Now it has passed through and so a game I had started in mid-March got an extension.

He has dutifully banged out over 10k words in the last short span, the price to be set for consideration for an orgasm. I am happy with him.

I told him that regardless of completion of the goal, on Sunday he would be filled up at both ends and edging – I prefer tasks like this, that help improve my property but also aren’t a chance to fail as much as a chance to succeed. In the meantime, after we cleared our respective cases of Covid19 he has been locked in a cycle of getting turned on by me and edging himself silly.

I test him with sadistic talk, asking what if I didn’t let him come until quarantine was lifted? We don’t know when that is, and the border prevents even the least contact until then, so we are already luridly imagining that intense moment. Until then I am using technology to social distance, amused by my governments explicit suggestions that you can still be together, even apart through video chat.

My remote control ravaging of his body is the patriotic thing to do.

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Silver, Before I Kissed Him

Before the aesthetic of New Years Eve demanded a kiss, we had a first play date.

My first time in your apartment, I have teased you with a simple key necklace through the morning and previous night. I wonder now about my choice to play with you, as you whisk me away after social brunch in your car, but I have always had the ability to make adventures out of even mishaps. If it goes wrong I will laugh later.

It does not go wrong.

The purpose of this is couched light and easy, a bit of beating for me to blow off steam, nice and casual.

Getting to know you this way, you want ritual and you bring out bits of fantasy I didn’t ask for, but do not mind: submissive posing and acting just so. You kneel beside the couch, not on it until I pull you up, like you were a pet someone else house broke to have such good manners. When you do that I briefly imagine what other hands you were under where you learned that, like a third time shelter rescue with an inexplicable fear of orange shirts.

This is not the first time a partner came so pre-set, but I don’t find it as off putting as it had been with him.

I told you to wear a belt I could beat you with. You want to have tea for me, waiting on any little desire that you can please me with. You are more desperate for me to give you my needs than you are for an orgasm.

Meticulous control. You need to perform with a constance, like a shark always swimming forward. I hold a brief bit of intimidation in my head- two perfectionists squaring off, wondering if my skill will be disappointing, and I find the core of control in me, and with it confidence. Men seldom scare me.

I ask you if I should just follow my instincts or take things one step at a time, and you pick the first option. Good.

That’s probably the moment that undoes you, later, when you literally and metaphorically fell for me.

Down, your back on the carpet and I straddle you. I don’t think you have ever been touched that much by a woman. Pressing, seeking, exploring. Your hands are freezing and I put one to my neck and one to the dip of my waist.

I massage you and your back pops like firecrackers on a string. Your nose hovers inches from mine, but I won’t kiss you this time. Your body is mine now, and you have never been an object of this kind of desire before.

You stand in the trance of your own amazement, and although I do beat you, there is a moment that surprises us both where in our place on the floor the caress of my body against yours nestles the shaft of my tall, sleek black boot against your groin.

You press and are lost, rubbing, begging to come. I am a little flabbergasted at how early you move for this and tell you- ok but if you come, there goes your submissive feelings and I am not done beating you up. Was that what you wanted?

The possibility changes your intent, so you prove yourself a liar instead. He who said he was “not really a masochist” is back, bent over his cool granite counter and starting to shiver as my hits take your down yet further. You love this and the pain. You pass a test you didn’t know I set for you. I need you to want it.

I prefer masochists who get hard from my torture. I have never been attracted to the ones who endure just out of service.

And, a surprise: You bought a crop for me to use on you and almost sheepishly suggest it is available. I am perplexed of what to make of this. You are like a cork pushing back up against the water, a buoyant thrust back into my hand.

Normally I toss anyone who tries to back lead out with the brats. But… this is a lot more anticipation of what is incredibly useful, with the reassurance of an optimism you say you don’t understand. I don’t understand it, I am pessimistic and holding my needs and full self with guarded care.

I have a tiny little orgasm grinding and straddling you. So be it, this desire. I want you.

I offer you an orgasm, opening my sheer blouse. My breasts are, I wonder, an allure or just a way to show you another intimacy? There is a language here. 

I see your cock for the first time and you are notably pleased at my declaration of enjoyment, “oh my!”

We have not still kissed and I am sprawling on your carpet while you kneel. I touch myself, mostly those freed breasts. I wonder to your thoughts.

Later you will tell me you shocked yourself, at the electric moment when, earlier, you ground yourself against me, then met my eyes, saw not just my consent but enthusiasm, and from thence you were lost.

This is something incredibly new to you.

Aftercare has a stiffness to it. If we had opened with an elegance where you had knelt and cleaned my boots with all the polish and charm in the world… Here, when you are unsettled and I am still holding you, I find more I approve of, and more of what I need.

We have a simple dinner you buy me. I let you do what I usually won’t let, paying. You want to give and give. When we discussed this when I propositioned you, because of the ridiculous world we live in, although you didn’t ask, past experiences told me to tell you up front I wasn’t a pro dom.

My transportation home is delayed by the wet weather so you take me the three hours drive home, then back. I almost say no, but catch that before it lets me say otherwise. Three hours of pelting rain discussing old sci fi and fantasy. This is probably more open than you have been with anyone in a long time.

I think I like you as a person, at least the parts I have met, or easily sussed out, for all you hide them behind a seamless sheet of smooth granite. But I am still playing wait and see at this time and later months will take things further.

Valentine’s Roses From My Property

The rose stems bite into my palm as I hold and snap them off short enough to fit into the large water glass I have retrieved for that purpose.

Silver fumbles with plastic packages of sausages, cheese, olives and crackers, not because he is inherently clumsy, but because he’s distracted by the fact that I am here and keep teasing him. At one point he’s on all fours, and I hear a noise of head clearing whoozy breath, as he tries to focus on the task at hand. His cock is desperately and intensely thick with his arousal.

He leaks a pretty steady clear, clean trickle of precum when I get him worked up enough, curiously without much taste. At one point I note he’s dripping, he apologises and I laugh. I like it. Why shouldn’t I?

Me, I’m wet, easy and constant. How can I not be, looking at his lithe body, feeling him held easy under my hands, hearing is words, again and again, “I belong to Miss.”?

Over the two days I will drain him four times to see if I can. This is time four for us to “play” in person. Multiple times, seeing him hard, I consider mounting him then and there and depriving him of his formal virginity, but I continue to wait. It is not the right time.

I want him to tell me when he is ready.

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Femdom Movie Review: Dogs Don’t Wear Pants

TL;DR Verdict:

Oneric *deeply* dark romantic comedy. Expect fucked up visuals and a view into kink as filthy. Protagonist is super unhealthy, but this is in the camp as “Secretary” more so than “The Piano Teacher”.

Now for a more detailed review…

Boy meets girl, boy obsessed over unhealthy behaviours, girl is attracted to his pain and feels connection through sadism, boy has midlife crisis connected to inability to cope with death of wife, boy gets a fucking clue and sort of emerges from cocoon of self destruction.

Unlike cheerful romps like “Walk All Over Me” or “Preaching to the Perverted”, this one is trying to say something a bit deeper about humanity, at least in the artistic tradition of an upper middle class, middle aged man having a full on melt down while getting laid.

Juha is a slim, attractive but a bit goofy heart surgeon who loses his wife in the first act. It’s important here to take the scenes as his fractured psyche/fantasy assembling memory- as he imagines/experiences trying to save her from drowning and being pulled back from joining her by the demands of caring for his toddler daughter.

Thus we see him as comparing himself to a caught fish, choking in the bottom of a fisherman’s boat. Early scenes are important to establish Juha as having redeeming qualities- it uses a lot of show don’t tell to let you know what is going on and you are about to watch him completely fall apart for an hour.

I cannot review this without spoilers, so you are duly warned that I will probably deconstruct this enough to spoil some of the shock comedy gags.

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Don’t Date Your Therapist: A Response

Eris Martinet wrote a manifesto of sorts, and I have a disagreement.

It’s here: Psycho-Sexual Domination and Its Healing Potential

It’s one of the biggest ethical nonos for a professional mental health care provider,  and a pithy piece of good advice for everyone looking at setting boundaries in their relationship in the appropriate level of care to give a partner.

But there’s so little space to love on the perverts or give sex workers a space to speak that I feel like I need to start my disagreement response to Eris Martinet with a disclaimer- this is a “Yes, and…” not a “Fuck no”.

And if you use my participation in a conversation to turn this into a diatribe on realness or anti-sexworker, I will look on you with disdain so severe you can’t even get off on it.

Eris’s true, raw piece about her very valuable career, as something between performance artist and therapist, is a very good way to make a lifestyle femdom real miserable. This is speaking as someone with a pretty serious caretaker kink, who wanders around unzipping boy’s baggage sorting through it with a reflexive talent.

But the dichotomy of broken and healer, while it can make for some powerful chemistry, is one that can only be dipped into not immersed in if you are building a relationship without a pile of (professional or other) distance, and I think female dominants in particular should be aware that the giving urge is particularly tempting to us.

I can’t really know where Eris is coming from regarding the professional side push back particularly on findoms, although the evil puritan gremlins who control the credit system on which all modern finance rests do their busy work implying that hypnosis is a bridge too far. I am not a prodom and I can’t speak for the nuance of culture- I’ve spent the last decade of sexual activity and public writing chasing away men trying to hire me with various levels of politeness.

She is right that we rank against each other too much in a world that casts us all out, with equal scorn. But…

If you are a female dominant and simply trying to date and find lovers, as writers like Ava have noticed, there is one hell of a bad tendency to use you as an outlet. Beyond this, it’s very easy to mistake the relationship of nurturing control for the power that makes you zing. Sadism and empathy are not two opposing forces, it is my observation that if your thing is vulnerable or tormented men, this compliments intensely with loving them and helping them.

But there is the cosmic joke, the one poor old Sacher Masoch teased out in his porn philosophy, when he wasn’t leaving protein stains on his wife’s ermine coat, the situation is all too much not opposite but opposing sexes, and this polarity on a binary fucks a lot up. With the framing of things as weird power dynamics in the vanilla that don’t seem to help anyone but nonetheless exist, everything is messy.

While Eris is pouring hot gold into the fissures of men’s psyches, I am over here slamming the door on a life spent setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm.

Two easy things go wrong- his fractures are actually the roots of his submission, not his nature, and your glue seals your power away, as satisfied, thence goes your heart. Or you exhaust yourself on an endless quest to mend and soothe, addicted to his need to heal. I am inherently a caretaker, and that won’t change, but I am more careful now.

It’s a familiar habit in our blogs- the happy couples are there, but most of the words are still frustrated, still seeking and suffocating under piles and piles of performance and incompatible need.

We break our hearts, over and over again to the point I stopped writing for a while because the world didn’t need another frustrated femdom crying into her keyboard about how nobody actually loves her properly. That it was my lot in life to inherit men who somehow broke under the pressure of the supposedly mirror kinks to mine, that I had to become either an unshakable self promoting pedestal or a deep well of patience to the exploring interest of emotionally stunted survivors, while they got to sulk about having the choice and economic position to buy a skilled professional.

Now perhaps my tone is not entirely fair, because men’s pain in their circumstances are valid, and it is extremely self evident in examining the pile of trope that is femdom that the whole thing has all sorts of pockets of internalized pain pressed into pearls, particularly some of the worst injuries we do to guys in policing them.

But oh hell, boys! I didn’t make that snarl of masculinity you get yourself so tangled up in.  I just want to be loved without being a therapy tool, an outlet or an idol.

And if there is one thing I have learned since I started being sexually active over half my lifetime ago, it’s that it needs to be better.  That I have specifically watched too many dominant women mistake helpless and wounded for something else, as a lifestyle choice.

I guess the other part is it never feels like anyone cares about our pain. Our alienation, disempowerment, and so on. Eris says nobody blinks at a Daddy Dom, but the reality of boundaries on your power as a Mother is one girl children learn from a young age when the first adult decides you should babysit.

And there is a glory in the traditional tools of womanhood- I have come to respect that perhaps I do not think femdom must look like maledom (perhaps the latter should aspire more the other way sometimes). I will not cast away the metaphorical spindle as a shackle, nor douse the hearth/home my ancestors-in-sex tended.

But, though I will spin a rope to bind him before tending to his pain, I will snip those threads when they become a barrier to the whole person. And I think my life has too often mistaken prior damage for enthusiastic surrender.

And I do recognize that I don’t think this is going to be a popular position, since people are bigger on sentiment and big declarations that if you care about the broken are reassuring. We are all a little shattered, and sub guys are intimately aware something is askew.

But there Eris and I part company- for I love where there is the perception of good surrender, but where she has the distance to mend the shards herself, I know that it will cut us, very deeply if we let a pretty broken thing be held to us the wrong way.

So take in a man whose body or his psyche is a map of scars, for that is beautiful to me and that may be your passion as well. I know I love and have loved such. But, beware the imbalances of energy and space to be whole yourself, you, my sister in kink who may be reading, and guard for the easy way you can fall into the breaks in him at your expense.

Eating Ayn Rand

He is an eager puppy, and everything I do is wonderful. I am not particularly surprised; this has been the nature of my interaction with the opposite sex, at least since nerdy boys discovered nerdy girls. They become stunned and impressed that someone else simply exists as she does.

I cut my teeth on boys like that, and I could call them chew toys, but that doesn’t really get across their nuanced feeling, because it isn’t contempt. I perceive them as humans with inherent worth and dignity and yadda, yadda.

But sometimes that is the enthusiasm in the proper consent to abuse them in a way that you both want.

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