Friday Femdom Fiction His Sacrifice

No candles or altar, just the buff carpet under foot and the grey slab of the bed. That was soft, not the carved stone her imagination summoned, but there were strong straps to hold him fast, so that would serve. In her hand, she had a knife, but it was shielded in plastic and not meant for his skin, a tiny, wicked edge snap off sharp for slitting boxes.

He was dressed for her, magnificently, the buttons of his suit open so the lapels of his jacket lay splayed. His tie was only a little crooked, pulled that way by her hand, earlier. Her feet felt the tilt of her heels, toes adjusting in tall stockings. She had dressed for herself, though for what she was to do, perhaps instead she needed silk or flax or wool in white and unstitched, or maybe a robe, draping her with ominous authority. She was instead, in garters over panties, a longline bra, all a black mesh.

Looking at him, he was denied the opportunity to do the same to her, by an eyeless, red satin mask, stuffed full of little beads so its weight made a seal that blocked most light. She considered that he was also dressed for himself, the pride he had in his clothing. Suits tailored to fit, picked from floor models and matched with fabrics hung on racks in dark tones and the occasional grey or clean white. If she took his jacket off, she would find a half dozen little touches of quality, symptom of wealth.

Inside, she remembered, in those lapels, as well as a hidden pocket, little red hand finishing stitches. Running her fingers over those had been deeply intimate. What was it of masculinity, to put your colour only on the inside or in safe places, the glance of ankle, demure restraint of a pocket square or a scant slash of a tie? It was just another hint of the immense vulnerability she saw in the so-called opposite sex. She wanted sacrilege and a sacrifice. She wanted to tear all that away.

Her hand on his chest told her that there were more layers beneath the buttoned shirt. They had played these games long enough she had guesses at what: lace, straps, mesh. He loved that opportunity to peacock, no shame in what was most close to his skin. Soon it would be exposed.

While he was still blind, she kissed him, her hands moving to press on his pulled apart arms, poking at his helplessness. Thus, then, a clean kiss under his control and sliding off the blindfold, leaving it discarded next to his head. She had his full attention. How could she not, straddling his body, rubbing against him even as he pushed back towards her, against the limits the cuffs on his wrists and ankles permitted.

To play was not to take on a mask, but to take it off. It was a cold-water dive, exhilarating, her sadism popping out to satiate itself. She smiled and found her true desire. “Last chance to beg off.”

He couldn’t, she knew that. She watched him, hawk like, always, when they played, checking for those tells of the edge of where he could go. He didn’t mean to be dishonest to his capacity, muffled by the real desire to give her everything. Still, she trusted him, for the same cruel instinct obliterated much of the barriers between them. She could read fine from not fine perfectly well, overriding even this to hold to his limit.

He was troubled, but not unwilling. It wasn’t actually the last chance, but she was reassuring herself of her power, girding herself before her hands grasped at his collar and yanked hard.

Some buttons popped, some loosened at the sudden wrenching tugged and opened to the waist, his shirt. That was fixable, so far. White t-shirt gaped underneath, soft and flowing over hints of straps. She smiled at her own audacity. It was unclear if this was a transgression against him or her own frugality. Hurting his flesh was easier.

The shirt cost more than she made in an hour, the suit a quarterly bonus for him. The fly of his pants, wrapped around to a button on one side, was soon popped and pulled, the first hint of mesh. Despite the carnage, despite holding no place in his own fetishes, he was still faithfully hard for her.

She would never bruise his pretty face, but here she was doing something that felt just as forbidden. The knife in her hand was comfortable, enticing her towards the next step.

“Hold still,” she warned, thumbing out a blade barely the length of her thumbnail. Cutting was a two-hand job, one to hold the fabric taut, one to stroke it through the fibres.

Split fabric made a beautiful noise. With his body bound there was no way she could fully undress him any other way. But everything he was and owned was hers to use or discard as she wished. She loved good wool, loved to run her hands over the smoothness of his jackets hanging in their closet or feel the weight of it in her hands. And yet the hardest part of its mutilation was an act of will.

Further, it was not an orgy of slashing and stabbing. Every cut, still straddling the warmth of him, was careful, planned. “Measure twice, cut once.”

His face had fear at the blade. She kept her attention on that too, even as ribbons of what was once the work of hours by a tailor were casually tossed away. Revealed, bit by bit, a few threads still littering the bed beneath them, she admired.

Straps, crisscrossing, mesh framing his cock, giving other textures to contrast his naked velvet-and-butter. Beneath the suit he’d dressed as much to be admired, lingerie cut for his body. It was a piece she’d picked out for him, saved her own money to afford it.

Their eyes met and she caught that moment of mutual understanding, her power over him giving them that wonderful connection where she saw his pride in being considered, wanted and consumed. They kissed, again, and then she hooked her thumb into one of the black bands of the body suit, considering: should she cut this free too?


Yikes! Can you believe this story has been sitting unwritten, because I psyched myself out, for the last 8 months? At some point this year I convinced myself all my writing was terrible and crawled into a shame spiral hole. But, here you are, and hopefully you enjoy it as much as int inspired me. <3

I Am an Expert In Being In Love

To tell the story of Pearl, it’s a bit more than just saying I am a dominant sadomasochist.

At this point it’s probably clear that the whole femdom thing is indelibly stamped into the core function of my sexuality, enough that I have been talking about it a LOT lately, or at least my place on the asexual spectrum. But, part of who I am is influenced by something a bit adjacent to demisexuality, and that has been further effected by the fact that I fall in love easily. I don’t use the word “love” lightly, like I pop off crushes on lots of people. I mean the sort of heart soaring heavy nonsense. Getting there, for me, is incredibly easy.

After many years of having this part of my makeup, I also have determined not everyone falls that hard. Insights into the spectrum of human possible really does involve a lot of guessing, like discovering some people are ear rumblers or cilantro tasters. But, much like the latter case, if people don’t have the capacity themselves, they may suspect you are somehow exaggerating. Which, I suppose is just the part of the human condition that finds it comforting to suggest one is making things up, or that the severity will reduce with the right mindset, like comforting a child with a scraped knee.

For me, sex hormones and falling in love share an entwined history. In addition to my kinks, which grew from day 1, ever since puberty hit, so did the BigFeel capacity. The hardest part is there’s not a lot of support for it. Generally, if you talk about intense feelings of yearning for another human, everyone treats it like an obsessive thing you are choosing to do. Instead, as I experience it, it’s an involuntary WHOMP of an attachment. It’s the closest brush I can get to vanilla, in so much that there’s a tiny window my sexuality will be present without a mountain of kink between me and them.

It’s like those various brain integrated glands got the instructions to lay down the pre-framework, long before I dropped my first egg, and decided to say: “Hello, Miss Pearl (aged 12)! In addition to a single orgasm this year, and some now functionally vestigial parts that will ripen up over the next half decade, your already awkward ability to bond onto others will be amped up to 11. The only saving grace is that you will be completely frustrated in realizing these wants most of the time, thus safe from a lot of dumb follow up behaviour.

This nonsense was probably made worse by the fact that there’s a cultural assumption that pushes eros into any male/female relationship. When I was younger, I preferred the company of boys for reasons of shared nerdy interests. I liked the company of girls before that- I am lucky I never internalized the sexism of assuming girls were inherently no fun. However, I followed my interests, and the kinds of games that could be played, which meant little in the way of female companionship. As a result, at the best of times, when I was way too young for it, adults were already imposing dating expectations onto my male friendships. But, inversely, even in these erotypical scripts, I had no tools to help me navigate having an Olympic level firework display going on in the brain of a child and young adult. Indeed, most people generally denied it could be happening to me, and further romanticized it as an experience we would be lucky to have once in a lifetime.

(There’s an additional hypothesis one might have about my capacities: there is actually a deeper form of Eros I have yet to experience. If everything to this point was a “crush”, I will end up in a psyche ward when it happens, because this is already pretty all consuming.)

For the lack of support I grew up with, I blame abstinence only education, which depends very much on the idea of rare, monogamous and consistent attachments and no alternatives. It’s much easier to enforce a compulsory, marriage focused heterosexuality when you believe in abstract concepts like a single shot of “True Love” to save you purity for. And yet, when I dug further, past pop culture, much as most research on love is almost laughably primitive. Like sex, people have thought about it a bunch and made more art than a million humans could consume in one lifetime. And yet, the psychology is still in the classification stage. Limerance, the term for the intense attachment and search for connection, was a word only coined in 1979. University labs pair college students in research to see if sharing prolonged eye contact and facts about the self correlate to an increased chance of a relationship forming.

So, you have a paradox. Love, in the broad sense, is a big label. It’s been contemplated forever, and generally serious classifications start with mentioning it’s broken down into sub types to distinguish sexual passion (Eros) from friendship (Philia) or a bond with a family member (Storge), and so forth. Unfortunately, this also hints that a lot of the thinking about it hasn’t really advanced, like we were still using the Aristotelian concept of the atom to try to do physics.

Setting off to navigate the conversations around the asexual spectrum, by the way, is a further challenge of everyone having a different perception of love. All humans don’t have the same capacities or experience, but this is never discussed. So, the other half of the expectation around my experience is that it is on the one hand very rare, but on the other, universally possible. Much is said about “True Love” in art, but while you can find out the wavelength of the colour orange, try to measure dopamine and so forth in new parents, or calculate the age of the galaxy relative to its neighbours, love just seems to be. People expect it to happen, to the point that aromantic folk have to make it clear they are a distinct identity, including having to emphasize that it’s not the same as asexuality. (Though the whole Ace thing clearly has a bit of an umbrella label effect, due to the path of collective discovery).

I can’t know if you, the reader, experiences love like I do.

Moving away from the people who don’t love, or love as much, but further from the Greeks, trying to explain what is going on might be further clarified philosophical observation about love from the late 1820s, of something called Crystallization. That’s the process your entire brain gets melted and leaks out your ears, and in the process, elevates the object of your fixation. In my case, barring rare moments, I am about as attracted to the act of non-kinked sex with another human about as much as humans typically find upholstery, garden ponds, or fruit bowls erotic. If Love wanders in, then these parts actually work.

Moving through the timeline of people writing about love, in the second half of the last century you will find neologisms like limerence. The experience of the early stages, for me, is something I only semi facetiously call a “temporary manic episode”. The first burst of falling in love brings euphoria, dropped sleep needs, and a magnetic inspiration that slams whatever poor bastard I have bonded onto into a muse. It also has a regrettable history of encouraging me to be a pest, though at least my gender flipped pigtail pulling could be tempered by maturity.

But just as nature abhors a vacuum, I am not permitted to walk without attachment. A cozy monogamous(ish) relationship that meets my emotional and sexual needs is the only thing that turns it off. Elsewise, I don’t have it in me to be the bed hopping, casual sex loving slut I wished to be. I was born to burn for desire for one person at at time. More frustratingly, though this limerence allows a brief ability to have a more vanilla sex, trapped in a relationship without kink, my romantic attachment fizzles.

What dignity I have today, in love, is hard won.

I am not the hot mess I once was. I mean, I hope so, as I think I’m in the “middle aged” territory of womanhood now, pre-menopausal, but definitely not young. And yet, the insensity has never wavered. All that coudl happen is I got good at controlling my behaviour. That’s no thanks to pop culture, which excuses the theoretical actions of women in love only a little bit less than the carte blanche it gives a guy with the same thing. Fiction isn’t even really sure that dying for your passion is a bad thing, even if Romeo and Juliet has an aspect that’s a cautionary tale. Cathy might crash her immune system yearning in the moors in her nighty, but we are meant to see her passion for Heathcliff at least understandable and inevitable. Of course, luckily for me, love largely just gave me an opportunity to act like an embarrassing git. My teenage years are, lest you think otherwise, a cringe factory that I survive remembering only through accepting my own sincerity at the time.

Middle school (Junior High for Americans) passed in an unfortunate series of stupidities, to be met with an excess of eagerness in High School. While the adults assumed I was on drugs based on my general behaviour (lol, nope), and shook their heads at my sexual precocity, over 50% of the time such passions were unrequited. That is for the best, and it was only through this experience that a modicum of a clue and a shred of pattern recognition started to assert itself. I lived in an area where all the small town nonsense of the early 2000s was in full swing. It was the era of Purity Rings and second virginity, and I was a baby pervert who wanted to do BDSM. I had the internet, and bonded awkwardly on similarly aged folks there too.

I learned the triggers tended to be creating the fiction I craved together. Not every person, but outside of my first times, where mere positive attention seemed enough to turn me into a giddy idiot, it was a common denominator. I’m super lucky, by the way, that Silver’s sexuality is more primarily mapped on making “story” too. Unfortunately, I also learned a pattern that for most people I fell for, they would play out such creativity with me during a crush on me, and than put that away like some sort of courtship only thing.

Nonetheless, I eventually learned to handle it. It doesn’t force me to pursue a single goal, rather while I can’t temper the intensity, I can find appropriate outlets. It also doesn’t completely suspend my judgement. As an older teenager, I was already able to tell if something wasn’t going to work if we tried a relationship. Gradually I managed to shunt all that enthusiasm and energy away from the people and into writing projects and so forth.

Kink mismatches, and other hazards of love

This does give me a little perspective on the situation of the tale as old as time: the kinky person married (or as good as married for their socio-economic status) to someone mismatched in libido or what they want to do in their sex life.

I am generally on the side of telling people in monogamous, but kink free or dead bedroom relationships not to cheat. Divorce and seperations are economically and emotionally hard, but at least they are legally possible. However, I am a little more sympathetic in how a kinked person stumbles into a union with a vanilla person. Not only is their precious little information about kink, to help one make that self discovery, but circumstances like mine show how one might have a brief window where things could work without kink. Nonetheless, my self knowledge means I have to front load any courtship with what I am into.

Nonetheless, I have had variable luck. In the first place, one of the harder lessons in being kinky is that just because they technically have your fetish doesn’t mean you share it compatibility. Nowhere is this illustrated than among balloon fetishists, where popping/not popping is a deep schism. but even in BDSM and further sub divided into femdom, you can come from two wildly different places. It’s been the end of more than one relationship for me, and painful, at that.

I cannot, however, have much spite for the incompatibility. I did have one party claim to be more kinky than they were, but the delusion there seemed to be wishful thinking. Nonetheless, when things are kink-functioning, I am a very sexual person. That’s an irony for me, lacking all the typical attractions, but unable to sustain the head-load of romantic attachments if we aren’t regularly doing some sort of intercourse. I worry , these days, as menopause is about a decade or two at most away, if my libido will sputter out, changing the picture entirely. But, past evidence shows that even when brain meds tanked things, there was some sort of connection still there.

Silver linings

I think, however, there is one blessing. I have, more often than not, found adult me’s passions reciprocated. Even in my youth, I turned down one budding relationship because I knew were wouldn’t be kink compatible, but the poor person, at least, matched me for the gooey-glue of our wants. And I suspect I owe that to the fact that I love openly and well.

Silver, for example, says he likes the surety and openness of my feelings. I was many months ahead of him for the “I love you”. For him, it was a much more cautious conclusion. But I cannot help feeling that my quick heart probably helped me signal to solidify the relationship that makes me very happy. And, I also noticed, though my looks are often remarked on, I have never been courted because of them. My personality, my creativity and so forth have always been someone’s motive- even as I find my aesthetics are a bonus. That too, I think is related to my loving openess.

I think it is easier to fall for the “personality” of a person when they unspool themselves like I do. I might love immensely, deeply, but it does seem I have been loved deeply, a lot, as well.

The Trauma Of Telling The Truth

As you know, health issues have been a core part of the sporadic hiatus, and emotional well being is part of them. It’s something I am a bit sad and sheepish about. In my happiest D/s relationship, most uncomplicated or “yes, but” tainted, I am also at a point where I am not giving the content here that probably would have helped me equivalent back when I founded things 10 years ago. But, maybe I should talk about the pain of how trying to bring change hurt me, within the community, too?

Content Note: transphobia, social criticism, bullying, burn out, mental health, and sexual assault.

Recently, after seven years in the role, I quit moderating r/femdom. I’d been basically checked out for more than a few years. This was, not in the least part, because ultimately the act of trying to curate porn that gives 0 space for my actual sexuality (while purporting to be about me) is about as inherently rewarding as watching the bailiffs auction your heirlooms to help settle the unpaid mortgage on the family farm they are also seizing. I had started, amusingly, because I got banned and publicly spoke out about how the environment was hostile to dommes, particularly lifestyle dommes and tried to seed a little foothold- not removing the fap but suggesting it could be otherwise. The trigger for quitting is betwixt the therapy I am faithfully doing and yet another DM attempting, in good faith on their part, to point out I was not doing enough.

This isn’t, by the way, an attack on this person. She pointed out, being trans, she was banned for content with her bio-dick, which the group gives a pass to with a strapon. Systemic unfairness is rampant- users flag trans people just for being trans, at the best of times. Since everyone is very, very off the rules, even if you could argue her post broke the letter of the law or spirit, she wasn’t without a solid point. But I was looking at her relatively polite appeal to me, pointing out the gatekeeping of the group, and something just came untied. It was that while someone COULD take on her crusade, I was so burned out and, tbh, socially burned by trying to help that I was the wrong person to do it. If I did, I would probably piss everyone else off, putting her hopes on me and then dashing them. This would also be no win for me, as excessive past experience shows that friendly fire is a pretty standard experience in progressive spaces, as well as fragging.

I wouldn’t be able to get the other moderators to be able to make a useful change, all they would be is more burned out and pissed off. I was the most approachable for her issue, but holy hell was I holding on by a thread. I knew that the team I worked with, however well meaning, were similarly ground down. Bot campaigns, hate mail, trashing and bad faith social justice flavoured appeals had all done a lot of damage, leaving a team that was doing the bare minimum to keep the lights on. Fragility, in its various forms has been called out as a barrier to change, but being what people call a “Geriatric Millennial”, I am old enough to see that while conflict might not be abuse, it is labour. It’s labour to sit with the discomfort of your own faults. The work doesn’t go away, even if it is important, no spoons magically materialize extra to make people more resilient because the work is important.

You can definitely power that gap on anger, or fear, but that is a quick way to cPTSD.

Oh, poor Pearl, making excuses! Nah, this is honesty, not an emotional appeal to you. The direct truth, here, is that me in the moderator role wasn’t going to help her with her problem. BUT. Me in the moderator role was probably standing in the way of someone who could. Not because I was actively blocking someone- like most load bearing, endless in scope volunteer roles, being present was leaving people comfortable enough not to do the work to fix things or let them fail.

I wanted to tell her that I already thought r/femdom being essentially r/grumpypegging and low effort spam killed my joy. I wanted to say that the standards we tried to determine who was/wasn’t a dom were nonesense, that they reflected a mindset that was fundamentally anti-sexworker, while still consuming almost exclusively commercial content. Femdom is subculture that, due to collective marginalization of lifestyle only and pro dommes alike, needed us to be allies. But the conceptual way reddit’s larger user base handles porn still has the pre-revenge porn laws mindeset. It’s a harassing, greedy and piracy first attitude that bred The Fappening. And, ultimately, it wasn’t my subreddit to decide to blow things up to turn into a feminist sex utopia. Nobody died and made me in change, and, nobody gave me a private army to accomplish some sort of coup-by-doing-the-work. But I didn’t, cuz she didn’t message me out of the blue to support me.

How about saying “I just work here, ma’am”?

I knew that wasn’t a good enough reply, either. Ultimately while the rewards of helping were minimal, a reputational boost translating to such a miniscule amount of privilege compared to say, working the same hours at McDonalds and using the money to self promote via ads- I was still there. Why was I doing this? Because I thought, in some small way I could push things to be a bit better for everyone.

I volunteer to feel safe, and foster a sense of belonging. I’m autistic, which doesn’t mean all autistics experience things this way, but like all humans I have people needs. My people needs were nurtured in socially abusive environments, while my head is full of boundless creative energy and vision. I unavoidably stand in the foreground, becoming a lead weight on a rubber sheet, warping the gravity of an environment I am in. Maybe this tendency to check out when I am not actively engaged is an ADHD thing too, but nevertheless, it is a thing. And this trying to be in motion, positively, has a history of harming me.

Then Perish.

My therapist asked me something a few weeks back. Why do I mention taking on an “11 victim serial rapist”, a fair bit, as an anchor in my life narrative? He’s a good therapist, so we have the rapport where the pillars of my self can be poked without hurting me. It was a good question. Taking on a series of missing stairs, culminating with that last one, and trying to emphasize the shit I dealt with, with Dunter, to get people to listen, did me irreparable harm, and alienated me from the Montreal kink community. Oh, and my relationship with my partner at the time fell apart- it needed to evolve because of core incompatibilities, but holy fuck, the timing.

Losing your social group to ostracism sucks. It’s actually potentially spectacularly fatal. I wish it hadn’t taken Lindsey Ellis having a second breakdown due to extended social abuse by mob to trip over: “Hot Allostatic Load“, but it helped understand what was going on.

Trying to understand my mental health can be put through a few lenses. One perspective is that things have never been ok- I was an anxious child, to begin with, who experienced ongoing abuse trauma. Another is that my early twenties to thirties were cyclical disasters: boom and bust, functional to non. Or, a person with existing vulnerabilities moved from an abusive family; to an abusive relationship; to an abusive situation in her community… to another even more abusive community, outside of kink.

Being accurate, when I took on Kommandant and Dunter, both sought to destroy my reputation, the latter by implying that I was abusive as well to change the subject. Then, because I had a reputation as the only person with a spine, when I didn’t deliver the results that people wanted on yet one more of many issues, fairly unpleasant humans decided to dox me. They did so because in social justice, any damage for progress is and ends justifies the means. Nothing like deleting a post using your real name on fetlife, and then being told you were silencing them. Guess that’s tone policing now, isn’t it? >_>

I am not just bitter, I’m traumatized. Also bitter. But, mostly trauma.

At the same time, by the way, my online life was picking up stalkers. Pretty gnarly ones, the kind where yeah, there’s clearly some mental health issues going on, but also someone you have never met or interacted with is hell bent on personally punishing you for a relationship they imagined you had with them. Most crazy people don’t do that, this was more the celebrity dehumanization effect.

So I quit, running away into a LARP club, and into Vancouver. And on the way, the LARP club ripped my spine out through my ass. Because it turns out vampire LARP’s poisoned history makes the sexual abuses of the Montreal BDSM scene look like a walk in the park.

Bleeding out various metaphorical injuries got round 2 of disordered eating, followed by covid’s impact just kicking what little stamina I had left. I have been cooling my heels on about 1.5 years now of long term disability. What can I say about that?

I am getting better. I am anxious I will never be fully “ok” to function, of tackling permanent disability to work full time. I am filled with so much guilt and anxiety around the Patreon thing falling by the wayside, I can’t even bring myself to open the site, even though I probably would go back to it much sooner if I did. But a lot of where I got so far in my recovery is heralded by abrogation of responsibilities. Quitting things.

I first noticed that in the larp side. Like most creative hobbies, it’s notorious for volunteer labour making even “for profit” endeavors possible. The pocket I enjoyed is even more shoe string, nourishing a community where even minimal membership fees are a hardship. Leaving aside stumbling from sexual abuse in kink to sexual and other abuse in LARP, there’s very much an over reliance on “hero” volunteers, running unopposed for elected positions of implied sort of leadership, but largely admin. And the people in those roles are a smaller pool than the member base, doing it at the expense of personal life, reputation and health. It continues, because if they stopped the event would stop.

And at some point I sad down and did the math- if it wasn’t important enough to people to support it, then they didn’t deserve to have it. Would this event, this idea or project die but for one person or team? Then perish.

When I left Montreal, the munch I hosted vanished.

Inheritance, alone in an era of missing stairs and #MeToo, became a mess. Events that didn’t act to make themselves safer, ironically, faced less damage. Not because they were better off doing so, but because the 18-35 community didn’t have its shit together not to turn into a ridiculous mud sling if said can of worms were opened. They grew too dependent on Pearl spending $40 a month on a drink she wouldn’t otherwise consume, and a taxi home so she could host a gathering that was slightly safer and curated than others. The fight over the amorphous cluster of folks that became attached to this group overshadowed the labour of keeping things safe.

Cliff, of Pervocracy, talked about this as well. They have one of the most influential theories on moral and social behaviour of groups, but their Missing Stair essay came at a cost I became familiar with. I became, much as they described their own experience, the holding place for the trauma of others.

You don’t get to one and done, to pick up that sword becomes a lifelong commitment, in the eyes of others. Which sounds noble and ideal for everyone, because, like, shouldn’t we all be unstintingly fighting against abuse? Most of the space we call social media is that sort of participatory effort, a push in all directions, so you would think there would be more people doing the work that needs doing.

Only we clearly aren’t. Because the larger world is a hostile place, the burdens disproportionately fall on these load bearing actors. and then the price of failure or imperfection is “we trusted you, the status of being trusted should have been enough”.

Just purely hosting that Munch was, shocking to me, revolutionary to most folks. One evening a month, emailing a bar and making a fetlife event. It spawned two direct (welcomed) copycats that filled needs my event didn’t. And yet at the time it was a remarkable act of will and inclusion even before I started taking whisper network warnings and shouting them. Acting on them, banning people.

I sort of wondered about those legendary wise people and oracles, with people seeking out some poor bronze age bastard to judge their legal dispute or tell them how to plan their personal lives and granary systems. I think also about the shock people forever have when they discover someone popular isn’t rich, works a regular job.

To help others or to speak is to barter your participation in a group

A pithy bit of writing I stumbled over recently observed that in spiritualist societies, when you started having personal occult revelations, your existing group or church would typically exile you. They might have even be founded by another exile with a vision, but yours would become a bridge too far.

I feel a lot of kinship with Contrapoints, just a girl talking, who lucked into being better at talking and entertaining at the right time. Hers was a monkey paw, trying to protect her community and understand the human condition, which arguably made her inevitable transition a bit smoother, but I can’t help thinking that she was smart/positioned enough to make the same income in a short sleeve polo as a software engineer. Then she could still have spent, as she put it “luxury car money” on the medical side of alleviating some of her dysphoria. There sure are a lot of Tesla orbiting every FANG hub I have been around, and a lot of folks participating in the resulting countercultural communities that spring up in such cities.

Instead, the poor woman became a living goddess style avatar in the way we modern people do it. If you were fanciful and biblically raised you could say the Eden breaking nakedness Adam and Eve traded for was an awareness others could see them and care. Sort of like people suggest the god of foresight, Prometheus, isn’t being punished for stealing fire, but giving humans the anxiety of being able to live outside the now. The maker of the monkey with anxiety, if you will.

Other people have written on the toxicity of the traumatized trapped in a marginalized space, retraumatizing each other endlessly. But, with my double helping of the usual monkey anxiety and being a freak among the freaks, now what?

I guess I do what I always do: process my feelings messily and publicly in a long form essay. But I think I will also suggest that we need to do a way better job on foundational shit. Missing stairs exploit being more effort and social complexity to address than to leave as a shared hazard. Believe the victim was a nice start, but it’s not making a tangible structure of next steps or what to do when you “believe the victim” but all the doctors in the hospital are gunshot victims too.

I need there to be a community that supports me without eating me alive in the process. And I need there to be a community with diffused labour-of-justice that is not done from a place of constant high amp. I don’t know what that is, but right now I won’t be trying to found it, as I am a bit occupied with trying to smelt a few more spoons out of the pile of scraps, swords and old razor blades I have been given to work with.

Practical Rambling Life Updates Post Migraine

Oh dear. Lots of promises and then intermittent hiatuses. Bang out something- an article or some such, and then vanish again, after making hopeful plans for more. A therapist, a neurologist, an OT, a GP and the hapless bastard over in insurance land who had to navigate this further works on trying to get me functional. Now is the winter of my body’s health, made glorious by spring. Trying something new, the old way I used to write, churning out posts via stream of consciousness, not structure or schedules.

The femdom blog goes on

In December of last year, a friend helped me rescue the site from its state being hammered by all manner of bot based attacks. WordPress is old bones, as we have well crawled from this sort of site model. The cool kids are all off doing video in walled gardens. I maintain this outpost here that isn’t perpetually fearing being banned, blocked or deplatformed at the cost of relative obscurity. Blogging is a dead art, like speaking Latin it’s a cool trick that no longer sits at the center of the internet. These days if I tell people I am a blogger, the younger ones may ask what that is.

The day web bots learn to parse the audio of all the video content enough to make that viable for search, and I suspect the nail’s in the coffin for this artform too, sure as magazines. Nevermind, it was only being economically sustained on an advertising model that depended on a trick of how search bots worked in the first place.

I have three different SEO marketers asking me if I can do a “guest post”, fresh in my inbox. They want a link or two so a robot can be tricked to think a human would care to connect with their commercial endeavor: brothels in Australia, sex toys around the world. Periodically, a company in China still valiantly tries to offer me a load for “review” to coax the same links to appear. I should say yes to the former and toss prices at them. You, reader, would get some erotica out of it. That’s my strict policy, no glowing random announcements that you absolutely need whatever, just to segue the link into post.

I have a nice relationship with my submissive, and it’s serious

It’s 5:30 in the morning, and he’s still asleep. I crashed out early last night, going from flaunting in a latex cat suit to a migraine with enough intensity that I had to fall onto my talent for radical acceptance for the three or so hours until I could go unconscious. Such is the current situation of my life, with my poor flesh, intermittently functional and then dashed down by one thing or another. The seasonal allergies(?) are still there, though also a lingering fear that it’s a garden variety summer cold I am spreading. My breasts have decided to be huge and plump, the latest experience in pandemic weight gain shooting me to something in the flavour of a 32D. When I put my laptop against my solar plexus to type, their swell rest against my arms. It reminds me of trying to do things while holding a baby or a cat.

I am drinking tea out of a mug with a linocut style octopus, a gift from Silver, who saw me crooning over the display of different animals. He likes to do the little gifts like that, or surprise me with something pretty to wear. This week we poked about neighbourhoods and apartments, trying to square the circle around the problem of geography.

I am a Canadian citizen, and he, American. We can each spend half the year in each other’s realm, true, but the legal technicality that is a problem is that neither of us is supposed to work. Contrary to the people telling you to become “Digital Nomads”, even remote work, abroad, is illegal. Those people enjoying Thai beaches while doing some sort of web marketing or contract programming scheme enjoy the privilege of their citizenships that being an ex pat means local laws telling them to not be doing that are unlikely to be enforced. Immigration is a mess that way, everywhere. Specifically, the time to process a spouse visa means a good year in limbo, deliberately overstaying the visitor level. Were I to marry Silver, and all paperwork filed like good upper middle class people, I would be out of the work force entirely for a year, cooling my heels, legally allowed to own businesses but not work in them.

Needless to say, it’s a law everyone expects to be broken, and then uses to cudgel those who have other reasons to make good scapegoats. Were I wealthy, I would hop into some sort of education, while other visas processed. Easier to take some intensive classes on that kind of visa, or find one of those money-for-graduate-degree schemes to anchor one. (I mean, when you hit fuck you money levels, you don’t even need to do that, you can just anchor yourself based on being able to invest stupid levels of money into a country, because there is one law for man, and another for the gods…) All that digression into unsexy politics to say we are stymied by one thing that would be sensible- the ritual of living together BEFORE making it “permanent”.

I now laugh at my somewhat naïve suppose, when Wildcard and I parted ways in the romantic sense. Divorce decimates the finances of women more so than men, statistically. Both take a hit, one does not recover the same. Rebuying what you need for a second house over and over and over again adds up. I told myself mayhap that I wouldn’t cohabit again until I was sure enough to marry. The romantic notion of not living together until after a marriage appealed to my whimsy.

Reader, be careful what you daydream. Your 2017 fantasy of independence and sluttery to cool the sting of domestic failure may manifest four years later. Nonetheless, it’s not the worst problem to have. At least the somebody, Silver, is worth making squinty faces at immigration law and fussing about demo apartments in Washington satellite towns.

Femdom Writing?

Periodically people still ask me if I will pick up what is apparently my best literary achievement and finish the planned trilogy. The Pet Gentleman still sells a few copies- though my sales stats tell me that I never breached 500 editions in ebook or print. I always have that following me around like the alleged slaves who whispered in Emperor’s ears’ they were merely mortal. Truth is, I am not sure can write that well anymore.

Something scratched out desperately in a dying (abusive) relationship while I worked in a call center might be my best work, at least as far as artistic talent and uniqueness intersecting with something people crave. These days when I fiction, things go very rambly and plot heavy. My writing’s been infected with run on sentences and passive voice. I still write, but I notice that the erotic is a lot more padded these days, and the odds of a happy ending a lot more probable.

Maybe I am being self conscious. A decent editing can make my prose a lot less recursive and rambly. In my bleakest I worry various health issues fried my brain and reduced it to pudding. Maybe I will write something that “good” again, but I try not to feed my perfectionism. And… So it goes.

Water, Hay Fever, Cum, Bodies and Breath Play

Allergies boil my head, but his body is an aesthetic dream. My twitter feed’s a minutiae of trying to clear my head of goo, unerotic except to that one person with a histamine fetish (I mean there must be?).

Silver has the gift of most smaller men, proportion easy, then honed with dedication at a gym. He refused to admit he is muscular, calling it into question because his shoulders and arms don’t stay swollen like frozen hams when they are not flexed. He was also incredulous when I pointed out we should probably size up in condoms, because I had to fight to get the standard size down his dick at the last inch.

Even now, the Magnums, with their bold branding, actually the middle not the extreme, from the drug store’s offerings, create a sort of self conscious cringe. Neither he, nor I find much pleasure in harping on imaginary inadequacy. We never developed a taste for the male sub standard of claiming your partner doesn’t do it for you and attaches a certain self defeating aura to the dominant. No knock to your own kinks, but if I am going to own someone I want to think they aren’t a sexual imposition.

I began the weekend by offering him the chance to come, right then, or be denied on my terms as per usual. He picked the latter, of course, for fun in teasing. My god, he’s pretty and I’m horny. My botched IUD install and its correction is wearing off and I get wet easy. But, it’s not his tight little body I adore, by itself. Aesthetically, yes, it’s nice, but subtract my love and the possibility of control and certain tensions and I would have an immunity.

I skim the sex scenes in novels, not repulsed, but bored, often preferring “fade to black”. The intensity *to* bed can do it for me. And yet, now, with him, even writing this, the texture of his flesh when I squeeze it is an alluring sense memory.

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Big Resources Dump For the Dating Kinky Class I am Teaching Tonight

As is my habit, I disappeared into a pile of health issues, failing to update my Patreon or my blog. Vague shitposting occurred on twitter, as I shuttled through the multitude of appointments that go with disability recovery. I am ok though, don’t panic. It’s one of those things that saps my ability to function but isn’t known for being particularly fatal. HOWEVER!!!

Guess who is teaching a class tonight for Dating Kinky’s Women In Charge event?

Yes, yes, I didn’t effectively promote it, and I am finetuning my slides and throwing together a “Resources Post” to share in the chat while I give the talk right now. But the main thing is I am here and uh… if you clicked that link you were there too. And it is a REALLY important topic, that I did a pile of research for! so to share those resources, look below!

Online Stuff

Books

Femdom Life Updates- Caretaking, Free Book Promos, Seasonal Migraines

For the last few weeks I have been in the USA, taking care of Silver, who had ankle surgery to correct some issues from a broken ankle. He’s healed pretty fast, but it helped to have me around the place, and amused me as he really had a hard time relaxing and letting me cook or otherwise tidy up. He’s also largely insisting on paying for everything, which is sweet of him, and as usual I remain spoiled rotten as far as food goes.

I’ve put “Mistress Plays for Keeps” on a free book promotion until Friday, March 18th, 2022. It’s a short story I wrote back when I did commissions, in which the recipient completely stiffed me the amount he agreed to pay. As a result, I hired Yumine to make me a cover and stuck it up on Amazon. (if you aren’t in the US, go to your country’s amazon store front to download)

Unfortunately I have been in a state of significant no/low brain, which is unfortunate. It’s been quite the migraine, manageable as far as pain, but sapping my general ability to produce anything worthwhile in the text/writing front. I suspect it’s the temperature fluctuations as the Pacific Northwest settles into its version of spring. The last of the snow stopped in February, and unlike the rest of my homeland even Vancouver is green and vibrant.

Confessions of a Sadistic Femdom

sadistic femdom sex graph

All my pain games with my partners, my denial, teasing and so forth are pursuing a very particular outcome. Because it turns me on and makes me feel deeply connected to my so called victim. It is not a script- the means and confirmation of the goal is subjective; psychologically intimate; and physically impossible to clone beyond that creative moment, together. For me, my sadism is an intersection with my empathy with their suffering, and that sense of lost of will and control I perceive from them.

My biggest challenge in partners is that I need them to be aroused by what I am doing. I cannot do pain just as a power trip, no matter the consent offered. The desire can be after, or in a complex way, but broader experience has taught me that there is a scope of sensation and framing here I need to have echoed back.

As a submissive, Silver answers with joy to being called a “slutty little masochist”. I could not have it any other way, but if I thought about anything in sincere terms of being blessed, his welcome and obvious lust at my sadistic femdom cravings would go high up on that list. Torment him and I am riding a buzz. And, hilariously, we always end with being surprised to be getting a thank you from each other after. Each thinks the acts of the other are a gift.

Hurting Silver, last night

The rubber band snaps and he gives a yelp that is closer to a sob. Silver is in latex, transparent gloves and corseted leggings. We have explored with the potential of the tens unit I got him for his birthday last year, and of rope. A Lithuanian supplied, Soviet army surplus rubber gas mask gives him an oddly cute look, the old fashioned metal circles of the goggles amplifying the size of his pretty eyes. It was a a Christmas gift for him this year and I am very pleased with it.

When I want, I can put my hand over the air flow, instant easy breath play. The shape is snouted, adding an unexpected stubby cuteness. For fun I put him on all fours and reach forward to put my finger over the air intake while I slide his cock down my throat. It’s intense for me, and I feel him brush against my teeth, playing the game, no air for you, no air for me. When he is settled in place, it’s a rare moment where he doesn’t essentially freeze up in obedient attention, his cock begins to pump in and out in my throat. Yes. Fuck me. No concern for himself and being proper, mindless thrusting into that still unfamiliar wetness with the threatening edges of the possible sharp bites I could give.

I am in black latex, cat suit, neck to toes. The sweat pools at my hip level, mingling with the wetness of my arousal. I feel squeezed but not restrained, after a struggle to get it settled just so. I under lubricate my latex, I don’t like slime on my skin. And, even if it hurts a bit I like that rubber grip tugging where it touches.

The rubber bands for his cock and balls started for my hair to help it stick out the ports of my own latex hood. That garment is now discarded, and when the tens unit got its tour, after brief session wrenching his traps, I went after his cock. The pads weren’t interested in sticking- it didn’t like his skin very much in general, but I m a clumsy improviser, the drunken boxer of kinky sex. Elastics made the pads into proper contacts for the prickles of the electricity, to tease his erection.

Only a tease, though.

It was an interesting sensation, but even on high it didn’t hurt him significantly. I needed him to suffer, this wouldn’t do! When it forced the big muscles on his back to shudder and twitch that was, at least a delight as far as the look of disquiet and pressure on his face and the aesthetic forced flexing. So, this toy was put aside for other games.

And yet in my check a single black rubber band was left on the mid length of his cock. There are the thin kind, designed to be invisible in my dark hair, not thread or cloth wrapped. It looked like it was meant to be there, with all the latex.

I played at bondage, earlier, capping the tops of his opera length gloves in a way that let me pull his arms behind his back. I put him in a web, with that grey rope, to admire the warm swell of skin. Now he’s free of ties, except for that thin black line. I go to take it off, and then playfully pull and let it snap back.

It hurts. Its sharp, even against the mid length of him. SNAP. Again and again, alternating targets and sides. I move it about, finding misery in the thin band just below the head. And of course his balls. SNAP.

Those are even worse. Some cosmic jester decided, in protection of the species that cocks were made to take a beating, dumb things that they are, for all the hold nerve rich promise of an orgasm. But, break your balls, and all bets are off. SNAP.

I can’t do serious harm with a cheap elastic. After four or five pulls it is starting to permanently stretch out, losing bite. I smile, drawn in by his whimpers. He does not like this. Like virtually everyone I have played with, Silver prefers thud over sting. Masochists are descriptive connoisseurs, communicating their feelings in a million ways. I think that’s how they know they need to seduce us, if we can’t feel what they feel secondhand, what are we dominants to do?

I fetch two more elastics and make free with him. I am being intentionally nasty, putting on the bully voice. It’s a bit meta, acknowledging the ridiculousness of all this. If a cat could speak while it made a game of the mouse, this is how I imagine it would sound. Predatory violence, not reactive, joyful not terrified.

Its already a mind fuck to grapple that he can barely stand a rubber band or two popping him in the balls. Little pinpoint, plum bruises make stars where I have snapped. And I keep asking, “oh, what’s wrong, does it hurt?”

Edge play now.

I keep asking him if he thinks he wants to stop. Every so often he needs a break and then says he can continue. His erection hasn’t left us, maybe because of the beautiful trap of his latex fetish and my clear enjoyment. If he went soft I would stop. I wonder if he knows that. I know he can take more, its abrupt and awful, but not like being burned or similar past human sensibility ways to make a point.

Overthinking the thoughtless part

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February 2022 Femdom Projects And Updates

Flowers from my submissive
Flowers From Silver. They smell wonderful.

Oh my goodness, we are already one month into 2022, and it feels like time has started to fly again. Happy Year of the Tiger to all people who celebrate this particular holiday- and to me, because I am a Fire Tiger. Mow!

I already told you Silver and I were looking into the gradual merging of households process. Because of that pesky two nationalities problem this is a slightly more complex process, but ironically achieving that is stepping up my writing and content game. Thanks to being able to travel by car now, January had not one but two chances to see my submissive!

Covid willing, I will see Silver around Valentine’s day. I got to see him in person in January twice, so that’s nice. My Pisces is having a birthday, and I am trying to come up with the best gift for a man who has everything other than making him a carrot cake, which I am excited to do, but is just the start. No spoilers of what I got him for Valentine’s day, but I already had it arrive from Europe and wrapped it. You never can tell with shipping.

I am having a bad couple of migraine months, but seasonal transitions do that. Don’t worry, collectively that disability scenario I mentioned is sloooowly getting better.

Vote My Book For An Award For Taboo Erotica

CORPORATE CONDITIONING VOTING BANNER

I got nominated for a 2021 Golden Pigtail Award for CORPORATE CONDITIONING (over 10x!), and you should vote for it here in the semi-finals. This part of the competition is going to run until February 14th, 2022 and I really, really want to win entirely for ego reasons. Also because with all the real life US political hellscape business, taboo erotica like mind control are under siege. I had a literal dream I won, and I really appreciate Alexa Sommers giving me a reason to feel competitive and excited.

More Femdom Writing for Everyone

My Patrons have decided on the topic for the next Friday Femdom Fiction, and it’s going to be “Sacrifice“. I am excited, and in the mood to write something about psychological dominance. I would like to at least release two short stories for the general readers, so we’ll see where my brain is at for the other one.

Someone got me a copy of “Yes, Roya” via my Throne Wishlist, and it’s a love letter to midcentury fetish art. It’s next on my review docket, although I have a couple of other books like “Enough to Make You Blush” and “Femdom For Nice Girls” also on my shelf waiting for their own posts. If you think a work deserves to be put on there for review, feel free to suggest it.

I am WAY overdue to write something about all the Korean female gaze femdom comics. I will be focusing primarily on Tapas and Tappytoon. Titles like Sadistic Beauty, I Fell Into A Reverse Harem Game, Roxana, A Harem for My Empress, the King and the Paladin, etc… all provide a refreshing alternative source of contemporary things for dommes.

My fun writing project is 14504 words and counting of romantic femdom fantasy. It’s whimsical, very cottage core/dark academia and probably can be released as a straight romance because while the femdom is VERY present and smutty, the tale of a sorceress on her rabbit familiar is putting as much emphasis on the service as it is the sex. This pleases me.

(Other Places to Find Miss Pearl)

As you can probably tell by the sidebar if you are visiting this site by browser, I have been way more active on Femdom Instagram, so go ahead and give that a follow. I get asked this repeatedly, no I am not switching over into modelling or having an OnlyFans, etc… as the effort/risk to reward just isn’t there.

I do have a kink youtube and am hoping to go back to livestreaming soon. Check out back issued videos, and you know, like, comment and subscribe because if I am putting amateur hour full face vids out there this is my consolation. I do not have a Tiktok because I am old and don’t think I am a good comedic actress … intentionally.

I spend too much time on reddit and assist with moderating r/femdom and r/femdomcommunity.

Kink Twitter is probably open on my phone too much. That’s probably where you will see the most stream of consciousness rambling and arguing with other people. Do follow!

Sophia James of “Dominant Female Submissive Male” Is A Fraud

Dominant female submissive male by sophia james reviewer's copy photographed on a white cloth background

As an advice book, this 2014 manual is not good. While there are many ways a book might be bad, this one is a special kind of harmful. That’s the sort of guide where some of the advice isn’t the worst, so you go through a few pages giving them the benefit of the doubt, and then things hop off into its own ridiculous realm.  We have misogyny, sexism, weird pet peeves of the author, dangerous BDSM advice, and of course miles of fap. 

And whoops, it’s built on yet another bit of garden variety scamming. Whee!

The initial tells that something aren’t quite right is the odd perspective Sophia James brings to how she thinks all of this kink business works. I am loathe to call all suspicious femdom accounts “men”, but the misogyny in the way the manual talks about women; their frankly dangerous claims about other, unnamed professional dommes they claim insight on; and their enormous gaps in knowledge all point to significant odds this is dude fap. Fap charging other people money. Yuck.

Follow the author on twitter, and the nature of their fraud becomes immediately more telling- this person doesn’t exist. Not as in Sophia James being just a pen name for a real domme, but it’s clear that the persona exists to masturbate about femdom, while taking the money of naïve men who are just trying to educate themselves as a bonus. For Sophia James, It’s a very careful kind of lying: You find a feed full of stolen pictures of different but just similar enough to seem like the same person if you squint. They don’t explicitly say this is them, but it’s awfully weird how they feel they should do this. Otherwise they’re just peppering their timeline with ogling free porn of women and saying random fantasy for dudes type things, or telling various pro-dommes their ideas are hot. Now it’s *possible* that Sophia James just happens to be a largely lesbian who is incredibly tedious, but… come on.

Here’s their profile on twitter:

Sophia James on twitter, lush with stolen porn and hetero male fap
Sophia James’s Profile – Note the “Media” tab on the right

And, below is where they nicked their profile pic from:

The porn site sophia james nicked her profile picture from
Found via “Tin Eye” reverse image search.

The text of their twitter profile, other than ads for their books, is almost entirely stories they claim to be doing with other women, sometimes where their sub can watch. Otherwise its so, so many comments on random women and whether they are hot or not. We get it dude, you like willowy women with big boobs.

They also comment extensively on stuff other female dominants share, but only the sexy stuff. Unlike the actual social media profiles of professional dommes there is distinct lack of the usual familiarity or aesthetics.

Kink isn’t that big of a world, and even if you confine yourself to a niche, normally the profiles have some modicum of interaction, at least if they aren’t endless book spam or twitter “engagment” groups. Sophia James behaves like a poorly socialized horny man who figured out pretending to be a domme is the only way one will give him the time of day.

Ok, whatever. There’s a million fap accounts, why is this an issue?

If you believe the author, they “[…] sold over 400 copies of this book last year and many thanked me for changing their lives. ” and then claim they sold 10 thousand of this book total. That’s a LOT of people who have been cheated. It’s most likely they are lying here too, but even in best case and I am wrong that they are an actual femdom:

“Dominant Female Submissive Female” is still complete garbage as a guidebook.

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