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.

Letterkenny comes from a small town and has found a way to make his hobby successful professionally in the big city of Vancouver. He asks me to ramen, and I, generally trying to maintain this period of manic self reflection, allow it. He is delighted and my quick wit, even when it is cruel.

The date goes south when he tells anecdotes about kink in the funny-haha sense, but he’s so happy to be there and listen to me talk that it feeds the hunger a bit. The ramen, honestly, is too oily, and all I can taste is literal schmaltz.

I tell him flat out I’m a femdom, what I am into and what I like and want.

Of course he has no idea how to react to my candid frankness, particularly when I decide to test if there is anything . I don’t feel sparks but I do feel power

I make him blush repeatedly until Letterkenny is at risk of developing a permanent flush. He’s a Nice Boy and completely disarming, and I am old, and jaded and with a saw and spine covered tongue tongue. Measuring him, I decide that his potential is limited otherwise by my pointed questions.

He is not particularly kink experienced and occupying that zone of “Curious” I now dread a bit. Nobody wants to be someone’s experiment, where you bring your half, to find them show up with a couple of handfuls of pocket lint and an apologetic smile. Guarded, I push out a bit.

Letterkenny opens up a bit more than perhaps one might, but then again I lack anxiety on this kind of thing. Once you work out the rape, murder and stalking risks of allowing men any measure of familiarity, most other perils pale by comparison. And I have a knack for making boys open up- largely, in case you are wondering how, taking a sincere unfaked interest.

You know… I could beat you up tonight, if you wanted.

I watch him wheeze and stumble about. He desperately wanted this moment, hot, smart, interested, sexually forward. Here is his “shot”. He takes the offer and I watch the progress of the night from there, with a sort of detached bemusement.

Transit is a cross city, rain trip. I already made it clear it’s a work night and I have no interest in being out at all hours. The trip ate almost forty minutes or so, and I used this to run down limits and nail particulars as well as assure the terms of consent so he knew her could withdraw at any time. He had obviously not planned this and not cleaned his place, which he warned. This, itself wouldn’t have sent the evening on such a turn if not for one other little thing.

Waiting for him to freshen up a bit in the washroom, sitting among the other books in the book case, I found the fat spine of “The Fountainhead”.

Oh. Bother. He seemed pretty reasonable and concerned about boundaries to this point, but here I am. And he’s returned from the washroom and… fuck it.

“What’s this?” I’ve checked in, he’s ready to start.

He names the book I’m holding in front of him. I ask him what he thinks of it, he says the message of finding meaning in your work resonates with him, although he admits it can be a bit long winded.

I instruct him to open his mouth and hold the book there, gagging him. I tell him with explicit openness that it is revolting, that Libertarianism is like a cock cage for your personality. That women are disproportionately employed in the public sector because the nature of its hiring practices allow us the benefits of a meritocracy.

Through this, he looks a mixture of mortified and stunned. He ends up on his back, straddled, with a few more invectives and verbal jabs and I explore a little. Of all things I could pick at – his self deprecating about his penis, his openness about his little life struggles, a book snatched from his book case is the wedge I crack him open with.

It’s real and I am real with the contempt, but I move from there from the most mild picking and poking to see if he has any capacity from there. Letterkenny becomes truly terrified, pupils wide and a sort of fascinated paralyis on him. I pause, check in, “What are you so afraid off?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

There, the reactive problem, a lot of men hit this one, horrid creature prodding them and they go not to weak at the knees, but lash out, and they fear that lack of submission as a dangerous capacity. And so I sooth now, the nastiness tucked away as claws return to softest paw. Shhh, baby, it’s ok. Shh. I pull him out of the fear.

I discern that as I suspected, he’s a curious sexual tourist, attracted to the openness, but not particularly into it- just into me. And I will not go further there. I make my aftercare, tending to him, hold him for a bit. There will not be another time for him. Not right for me, not what I wanted, though I did him no harm and gave him his chance.

I leave him with the full imprint of his top and bottom teeth in the spine of the book, and the suggestion not to come until he cleans his place, with literally no confidence he has the capacity.

A post script, an acquaintance of mine though volunteering lays a pass on me when I get home. I decline for any number of reasons, but I think to myself as I consider my post ramen adventure- this fellow sees himself as an intellectual and a conservative- I somehow doubt whatever drew him to me has room to be made to eat, if not his words, the ones I disapprove of.

New Year, New Me, New Rules

My break up is not something I will particularly touch on, other than to say we wanted different things, and I wish Brick the best in future. Me, I have been processing it as a series of feelings, largely as an immense amount of vulnerability, a bit of cumulative damage to my self esteem, and a few conclusions.

Whether or not I actually make use of these lessons is an experiment in free will versus disaster planning, but whatever.

One of these is that I absa-posa-lutely should not do any more rushing in anything, regardless of whatever my heart decides for me. Several choices over the course of my life have been made on the hinge of the closing door of my last relationship. These choices seemed temporary and laced with hedonism, only to morph very quickly into responsibility. That is a kind of love, but one where you end up singing Joanie Mitchell songs about Clouds.

Here is the gut truth, over several relationships: I seem to like high strung men, and the nurturing is a part of my attachment. I do not think I can change my type there. It does, however, cause certain trends that repeat over the last decade.

I am going to make a slightly more selfish and self contained path in the next six months. No relationships, lots of exploration. That isn’t to say I table the idea of settling down forever, but I want to experience being single.

Even if my heart attaches itself, as it is wont to do, nothing worth it requires me to cast off all balance to claim it. Dates, dance classes, flirting, fun. Busy, but aware.

And more writing please. I miss doing that.

New Years Eve, A Sub & A (First) Kiss

Silver sits, stiffly, in a chair in a circle of the first comers to the party, and stands between the protection of a tall fan, and the edge of the television, his back to the wall. He is immersing himself in the gathering like a too hot bath, with the lure of my presence to bait him out and across the long drive over the border.

I promised him his first ever, real kiss, for New Years Eve. I wasn’t planning on moving that fast, still covered in Brick dust, still reeling from by what at turns was ripping off a bandaid and putting a kitten down, but when you find out that you have a perplexing puzzle box of a guy who is at once about the same level of perversity as you, has pursued it, and… has made it four decades without a kiss on the mouth, the Aesthetic demands sacrifice.

Read the full post »

How to Get a Woman to Dominate You: a Search Review.

I believe you can tell a lot about the quality of the information available to community by how searchable it is and right now that exact phrase “How to Get a Woman to Dominate You” turns up a disaster as far as results.

About 50% of humans seem to be at least vaguely kinky, with submissive fantasies being very common in all genders. Despite that, it’s an oft remarked comment of femdoms that the quality of the come ons we get and the education of our potential partners is more often than not, appalling. Guys who think we don’t exist. Guys who don’t know how to approach us. Guys who think we are weird fetish unicorns.

Why, with the sheer banality of the desire to be dominated, is this a thing?

A pretty common refrain is that men just don’t care to educate themselves, because sexism, but I don’t think that’s the entire picture. Although it’s easy to dwell on porn or poor social skills, the evidence is of a lot worse problem. The information just isn’t there to be found.

Lets say you are a an average straight-ish guy with a smart phone. You want to get femdom sexings, maybe with a partner,  or maybe you just want ot know how it works. Just as you check everything from the directions to your doctors appointment and how to make a pot roast to if you have cancer or where to find latex strapon videos, you probably google that shit.

So I did, and here’s the first 10 results. It wasn’t pretty.

  1. The first hit is Goodlookingloser, a A MRA/PUA site, telling you that women just don’t find being dominant inherently hot. their tip is to trick her, PUA style y offering your individual fetishes as things you want because you find them sexy, to which he inherent desire to be sexy will cause her to reciprocate. Direct quote “Girls are not naturally dominant.
  2. Then an Ask Men click -through article that is low on details and orphaned from anything BDSM community shaped.
  3. Then a guide to dominating women. >:(
  4. Then a guide *for* women on bustle, asking a man to dominate you.
  5. Then a Bad Girls Bible article for women telling them how to lead into a dominant role that is… actually not half bad.
  6. Back to dominating women. More text about how she will really want you if you do, a re-occurring theme.
  7. Then a Quora hit. It’s a specific scenario about trying to make femdom more appealing- not really a helpful answer but an honest one that not everyone’s going to be into your kinks, and a bit of explanation of “service topping”.
  8. Then we are back to another hit about dominating women from a wedding website.
  9. And another hit talking about dominating women and how it is what they really want.
  10. Finally, Stoya, over on the Verge, answers an agony aunt style sex question.  Unfortunately the net nanny “over 18” is broken and wouldn’t let me pass through.

According to everything Google tells us about the monopoly provided by their service, the first page of search is usually the only one people every visit, and most people usually only click the first link or maybe the first couple of links.  This means that Google thinks, algorithmically, the most useful search hit to a person looking for “How to Get a Woman to Dominate You” is in fact the following: “They don’t like to be because they no longer feel feminine and sexy.” and “Girls like to get fucked by a dominant, alpha male.

Can you imagine how much that is fucking with sub men to read that?

As a femdom, it’s infuriating, because obviously I exist and I am over here buffing my muffin to precisely the shit the author thinks won’t glaze a wick on its own merits. But if you were a sub guy… soul crushing. Follow that with dead ends and a litany of reminders how much women want to be dominated and no wonder I am getting a trickle of people who sound like they met a mermaid-unicorn or can’t fathom that I have my own needs or desires.

We need to do better than that. While we are getting utterly slaughtered by the side effects of FOSTA/SESTA and the #Pornapocalypse, we are largely erased from the narrative by lack of searchability. For all that articles like my 33 things every submissive man should know or femdom stuff to make him do while you figure stuff out have gamed SEO a bit to get actually useful information out there, I can’t find any of my blogger friends easily and that’s a problem.

So do me a favour and throw your favourite advice articles and blog posts in the comments and I’ll try to get them carried out a little further.

 

 

 

 

On Missing Stairs, Zak Smith, Libertines, Pimps, BDSM and Roleplaying

missing stair and bdsm and gamingLet’s talk about Zak Smith (aka Zak Sabbath, Zak S).

No, not the being terrible person thing, lots of people know about that already. Rather, lets talk about a particularly noxious kind of person who attaches themselves to libertine communities and pleasure parties: the pimp, and how he embodies a particular part of The Problem.

A Background: Who is this random guy and why should you, the reader of a porn blog, care?

Recently my various worlds collided. I’ve intimated before I do super nerdy stuff like roleplaying. That doesn’t make me shocking- venn diagram between kink and LARP is almost a perfect circle. Therefore I won’t delve too much into telling you what roleplaying is. I will warn that if you were here to get your rocks off, a better fit would still be my archive of femdom stories, as this way lies spicy feminism.

Still with me so far?

If you are involved in roleplaying enough to poke your head out into the larger online community, you’re probably aware of a new suite of allegations against a games writer, Zak Smith (sometimes called Zak Sabbath).

 

An artist and games creator, pornographer and promoter of adult arts in games media, Zak Smith has been the repeated subject of blown whistles. This time, when a number of his partners came forward and called him out, it seems to have stuck better than two years ago, when a games company, Whitewolf, decided to publically come out and say they didn’t find any truth to the allegation that he liked to harass people online.

Zak Smith likes to harass people online.

The page where Whitewolf defended him is mysteriously 404’d, but their parent company has since put them under greater restriction after a few other oopsies.

At almost a year to people loudly yelling at Whitewolf the games company for employing a known hazard, Zak Smith’s former romantic partners came out and said he abused the fuck out of them, and indeed used them to benefit his internet slap fight habit to help re-enforce his ability to harass people.

And as Zak Smith has publicly bragged about, the reason why this is germane to you, the reader, is that this famous dude also wears his kink membership hat with pride. We’ve given him a platform for us a bunch without telling him not to.

As is the way of online media, Zak Smith has, historically, been a bit of a lifestyle brand, wearing his wife and her adult entertainment work, as well as the bodies of other women attached to him as extensions of that identity. Although also famous for his work for Dungeons and Dragons, he’s particularly attached to the famous World of Darkness games franchise (it’s larp, tabletop, computer games, card games- you name it!)

(note bene: WoD is a ‘mature’ cousin to Dungeons and Dragons with lots of bdsm and fetishy stuff in the materials, both through a goth aesthetic and the subject matter largely focusing on their flagship franchise “Vampire”, a game about power dynamics)

 

Right, you say, I’ve burned my copy of Lamentations of the Flame Princess and vowed to never buy his tat again. But other than being same old same old, what makes this case stand out?

So here’s the accusation: the behaviour Zak Smith exhibited is textbook Objectification.

The best archetype I can use to describe Zak Smith is a pimp. Not in the oogie boogie woo woo sex traffickers gonna getcha horror stories, but in the sense that matters, a parasite that exploits the objectification of women while adding back nothing.

He didn’t even make his crap – “I hit is with my ax” and other creative endeavors showing adult film actresses gaming to their benefit, it was another chance to show it off to other straight white men that they could game with their fantasies. He was the Hooters of gaming podcasts, not because the women he worked with weren’t interesting, funny and had valid things to contribute, but because he cheapened all that shit to promote the person he actually cared about (himself) to raise his street cred with straight male nerds.

The problem with pimps, even in the classic sense, is not sexy art and sex for money, it’s that comparatively advantaged people attach themselves to marginalized communities, make it all about them and what they want, and use the fuck out of women, queerness, etc…

Much pixel-type is being laid about people’s feelings on the subject, largely affirming that it past due.  People are doing a good job of Believing the Victim, which is good- means that #metoo business gained a little traction. Normally all this would warrant from me is a few tweets agreeing that Mandy Morbid, Viv Vivid, etc… deserve respect and protection.

But I will add this:

You probably know a Zak Smith or two in your local kink community. Whether the self promoting creepy rope top who leers at anything female; the braying ass who uses being poly to collect humans for coup counting; or the starry eyed munch babbler who thinks that he is a more enlightened being by dint of where he goes to get a hard dick, all these people are particularly notable by the way they dress themselves up in the struggles of other while largely being straight white dudes.

This is not to say being a slutty man is not indeed, valid, wonderful and your right, or that men can’t be organizers or contributors. It’s that tendency in which others, usually women, become subverted into objects. Not artists or workers. Porn stars make art, sex workers work with their bodies. The distinction here is the people who cannot separate the person from the product.

For Zak Smith, BDSM and poly (unicorn poly, natch) provided a convenient smoke screen to own, abuse and modify women to his hearts content. And then turn around and cry sexism and prudery at anyone who disagreed with him. In the case of the Mandy Morbid (and other persons) anecdote we’re lucky enough that she decided to give us her testimony on the way out, he even flat out used her name and social media accounts to write, pretending to be her, because he could hide behind the very real shit she had to deal with because of her artwork.

While he, lets be honest, could slap hot naked goth chicks onto things all day long and merely make a few people who weren’t buying the product anyway harumph. That was a large part of it, and notable in his visual arts, that he depended on naked alt girls and blurred what he could claim (his technical skill) with deciding their voice for them.

Precisely because of his desire to smush together sex and gaming, as well as selling something people wanted, he’s long benefited from being able to call his critics prude or sex negative or even sexist. It’s a complexity that I think my readers are familiar with- the desire to have sexy art that is also ethical.

Zak Smith has not behaved ethically, indeed if you read Mandy’s account you will see him trying to wield her marginalized status like a sword to his, and not her advantage. Likewise he’s not LGBT ally, as her bisexuality was bragging rights and access to more women to him to use and control.  And there in is the stick that I want you, the reader, to note.

It’s a pointy stick, jutting out there, pretty obvious, in pretty much every community, but more notable in the arts and sex communities like kink where this has the most room to overlap. A kinky guy with access to porn stars and roleplayers, of which a fair percentage of them see the terrifying train wreck of abuse that was his life as living the dream? Wow, is he everything that’s wrong with sexy art.

Obviously I am not anti-sex, or even anti people who identify as male (although if this post gets any traction I can bet there are a few motherfuckers in duck and cover position screaming they are tired of being lectured for being men) but precisely because I make porn and get my literal and metaphorical tits out upon occasion, I like to try to be responsible and warn to beware of pimps.

Exploitation and identitySo how do we enjoy sex (and sexy art) and keep the pimps out?

It’s a challenge, the line between painting flesh vases for your dick flowers versus a celebration of humanity in every wrinkle and pothole of human experience. That is also the line in which the concept of ‘attractive’  vacillates between a restriction and a pleasing popular aesthetic. But if this longform blog post gives you any useful take aways, look to who is profiting from the sexy.

Zak Smith, a pretty garden variety creep in many respects, got particular power by not just fucking with the women in his life, but using them as a sales thing for his brand.

Breaking down the conventional sexy paradigm is not enough. No identity or role is so specific and obscure that there is not some man out there who believes he is doing a favour by being sexually attracted to it. Fat women, bi women, pale women, femdoms, women with physical disabilities- it’s not at all harmful someone gets off on that, but the point of harm is as per usual, when some asshole with his dick out wants a cookie in his non-wanking hand and screams like a small child when he isn’t show exactly what keeps the stimulation going.

If you want to keep objectification significantly reduced you need to turn a pretty heavy level of scrutiny on all that lovely porn and lovely porn adjacent sexiness and ask who it is meant for and who, ultimately benefits.

And if the answer is a troll of a man living a dream that pretty much all popular media uses as comedic shorthand for “lucky bastard” but he is wailing about oppression or claiming to be part of a secret society promising a liberal life  better for everyone, welp, poke it hard and weed for pimps.

 

[Signal Boosting: Weird & Wonderful has feelings about Zak Smith.  Ettin64 read Zak S’s rebuttal, poor thing.]

Friday Femdom Fiction: Personal Sex Doll

A yup, sponsored story posts help pay for the cost of hosting. This time it’s SexDolls.com helping pay for all the porn you folks love and enjoy.

I want a coin operated boy.“Don’t move except when I move you, don’t speak.” She held a finger to his lips, looked into his eyes.

They were sitting on the edge of her bed, double sized, blankets tucked and made, just enough room for two. She smiled, a little unsure at first of her idea, but with anticipation of getting what she wanted.

He didn’t nod, just immediately complied, putting away words and letting himself take a blank affect when she started to strip him. She admired his unresistant weight in her hands, twisting and pulling, shirt off, pants off with a bit of rolling and pulling, socks, boxers. He neither helped nor hindered, letting her decide where this was going.

When they were done, and she was clothed and he was naked, she fussed about a bit, deciding to tie a thick blue ribbon about his neck, reminiscenct of kittens and puppies, gentler than a collar and pleasant against the cream of his skin and the blond shine of his hair. Things to play with and cuddle, but helpless things, to be trained.

When she kissed him, he almost kissed back, but caught his own twitch of the lips. Instead her tongue darted out in a lick against his and her fingers stroked along his leg, keeping him seated while she explored along his jaw and nipped his ear. Still, he held fast.

She remembered her awakenings, slow, stories, the Steadfast Tin Soldier, dedicated to death to his Ballerina, the Ken dolls that found their way into the old budgie cage she was let to play with when she visited her grandmother. She imagined puppets and marionettes and porcelain mask faces.

And then she took both shoulders and pushed him onto his back, swinging her leg over. Her fingers dug in and her confidence in control grew, a lightness and a sense of connection deeper than she ever found in conversation. Hers. Hers. All hers.

The very subtle reaction to her weight straddling him, and the effort to keep his face composed, at her order. Nonetheless there were all the hall marks of arousal in the warming of his skin and the slight tautness in the line of his throat, surely and out of his control as a clockwork wind up. She grinned with full teeth and ground against him.

She knew that maneuver often drew protest from the pushing, but this time he was stoic and inscrutable, as she ground her crotch to him, ending up pressed to his thigh as her cunt told her that it had taken a hint from the images in her mind and the intimacy of the moment.

She put her hand on his cock, pulling and tugging what was half hard into the shape she wanted to use, getting her tights and panties off, but not bothering to get the rest of the way undressed. Her other hand cupped her own breast, thinking more of her pleasure than his. If he was finding something erotic from the view, she didn’t particularly care, finding her fantasy in seeing him purely as her fuck doll.

She nudged and eased him inside her, enjoying that he still obeyed, not moving, although she knew taking at her pace was maddening to him and all to often, in their coupling, he set the rhythms to satisfy the hunger of his cock. Now, engulfing him to the root, she tilted her hips just so and rode him like a dildo.

“Ah. Fuck!” the utterance wasn’t for his benefit, the sex much quieter when is was an act of personal gratification. As she did with her toys, she pressed at her clit until the orgasm she wanted was on the cusp of happening and then let the unconsciousness release happen, groan from her throat and gush.

She drenched him, and he didn’t move a muscle. instead she waited a few moments to let the wild pounding in her chest recede and roll-dismounted to the bed next to him. A heavy sigh escaped her chest on impact. “Ohhhfff.”

He was still unmoving. She smiled, not cuddling him in the heat of afterglow, but letting the back of her hand stroke over his chest. “Good boy.”

Friday Femdom Fiction: Toys For Good Boys

sex toys for boys are the best“It’s too hot to fuck.” She was clad only in panties, sprawled so they just touched, arm to arm and her ankle layered over his. In her perception is body was radiating heat, and she’d broken off their kissing to escape it.

His boxers were covering about 3/4 of an erection, enough to keep her interested, predatory and playful, while the cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles held him, immobilized and spread, on display.  She had planned it out differently, tease herself and him until he was full-hard, then ride him, but three minutes of making out had put an end to that. Summer was getting in her way.

He looked disappointed, but not like he disagreed with her logic.  “Ok, Miss…”

“Hmmm.” Although the fun of denial had its merits, it wasn’t what she wanted this time. She screwed up her face, setting herself to a new course of action. “Do exactly what I say, and don’t move.”

She stooped over him, pulling the velcro loose from his right wrist, safety first. “Stay.”

She left the room knowing he was safe, getting herself a tall glass of ice water, adding a straw with a sense of whimsy. As her demand, when she returned, he was still lying in place, band of the cuff still neat under his wrist. She smirked, refastening him. “Good boy.”

A moment later an the toy box was dragged from beneath the bed. “I was thinking I was going to make you into my fuck toy, but instead I think I’ll fuck you with some toys instead.”

There was what she needed, and more she didn’t inside. The cuffs and straps always lived on the bed for when she wanted him bound, but the rest was a buffet she lingered over, picking just the right accessories: the lube in its plain packaging, the plug, tapering from blunt point to fat flare and then its skinny neck and second wide ring, all silicone, and the canister with its supple sleeve lining the barrel. There really wasn’t a good name for it. Pocket pussy, onnacup, fliphole. Flesh Light. This one was an offbrand, bought at a sex shop, plain white plastic outside, pale beige inside.

When she’d picked it out, she’d tested it with her finger, penetrating it, and imagining what it might feel like. It was so soft, yet the pliant sleeve inside had a strength she looked forward to testing.

He got a glance at what she’d picked, and lifted his shoulders a little off the bed, stretching to try to see more.

“Hey!”

He let his shoulders fall, looked guilty.

“I should punish you, I never said you could move.” She took a sip over her water. “Be good.”

“Sorry Mi…”

Casually she dripped her fingers into her water and flicked them at his torso, startling him with the sudden motion. He flinched. She grinned.

“Ha.”  She fished an ice cube from her drink and looked over her target. His skin was pale, blotched pink at the least pressure, his chest and stomach marked but not hidden by hair.  The line of his collarbone made an excellent target, playful, leaving a melt trail as she pressed it to his flesh and slid the ice along.

He gave a little sigh as she circled the ice around his chest, around and then the lightest nudge against his nipples.

“That’s better you’re staying put now.”

He was biting his lip, curious to see where she went next. The ice went quick, melted down into almost nothing and she flicked her tongue across the melt-trail, tasting salt and feeling the contrast of hot and cool skin. He whimpered.

“More?” Her other hand cupped his groin through the fabric over them, then tugged at the elastic, sliding them off his hips, only to realize her mistake.

She made a tsking noise at herself, stopped from further undressing him by his bound legs. “Ha. Didn’t plan everything.”

A quick rip noise and she freed his leg long enough to get him completely naked. “You’re in for a treat, slut. I want you full.”

Even in the summer heat the slick, clear lube was cool on her fingers, glossy and viscous. She squeezed the bottle to ease out a little more, then set it aside.

Her fingers hooked in a come-hither motion, the longest one pressing and coaxing him to relax, spreading the lube and pushing it inside him, then caressing the plug, rolling it in her hand to coat it. She didn’t force, instead using an insistent pressure to push it, until he yielded, swallowing it up, first the tip and then the widest point.

As the swell of it slipped inside him he gave a grunt of accommodation, and that yielding gave her a little thrill that traveled from her cunt up her core. “Do you know what happens next, slut?”

She’d played with him, with the toy before, but it was still a novelty for both of them as she popped the cap off the cup, feeling the petal softness of the inner sleeve before filling it with a generous helping of lube. With the same casual ownership she handled the toys she grabbed around the root of his cock, pumping her lube slick hand up and down, once, twice, three times, before guiding the head of his cock into the narrow constriction of the sleeve.

His reaction was instant, a sort of tension that jerked his hips up at the first hilting slide and squared his shoulders. At first she took her time, hearing the wet, sucking sounds as the sleeve-and-cup did its work, nubs and ribs hidden from view but teasing the length of his cock. “Just right, hm? Tight but not too tight so you can’t feel it?”

As he always did during sex he had gone almost non-verbal, but he managed a quick nod, albeit a little shakey.

“Well look at that,” she purred, enjoying the perspective that let her watch as she engulfed him again and again. “You get that extra kick of hard when I use this, don’t you? But the best part is that it stays.”

He had his eyes closed, but his hips were making little thrusts from below. To punish him, she lifted her arm up a little, pulling the strokes back out of his control, while her palm rested on his stomach. “Nope, you will come when I want you to.”

He made another moan, but she took her time, building and reducing, until she could smell the mix of sweat and lust in the humid air. “Ready?”

A slight twist, skillful and a speed up were all it took to finish building. With a certain degree of satisfaction in her craft, she saw his breath catch and his balls tighten, getting him just about to the point of no return before her verbal consent sent him over.

“UNGH.”

She gave a chuckle. The sheets were soaked and his hair was glued to his forehead. Even the exertion of working the toy had left her fanning herself in the aftermath. He panted, open mouth, at the last little spasm.

“Shower time. Then my turn.”


 

Once again, a friendly fan offered to support a post to make sure that you guys get some extra smut. I’m usually overly busy on stuff that pays the bills,  but they meet all the criteria for a good relationship. In this case they are purveyors of blowjob machines, and I think I’ve been pretty upfront about how much I support men getting to enjoy sex toys.

Me, I took the time to write something as realistic as it was erotic. There’s not enough examples of normal people sex, with those pauses, unplanned oops and extra details like lubing it up or rolling on a condom.

Life Updates Again

I am thinking about the particulars of self-care. Not fairy lights and lush bath bars, but the immense amount of effort it takes to keep one overly ambitious adult woman ambulatory.

Since I started a lovely, bland, immensely important straight job, which, cards played right, I will do until I exit clutching a pension, life has stopped being an uncertain jumble of hope and turned into a semi obscured singular path, I have time to look at other stuff.

One of them is the knowledge that I will always need to focus on a certain amount of time to keep my shit together.

I feel odd talking about my health, in the least because I am aware that non-normative perversion includes a certain pressure to show it gets better, and that we aren’t all mad. Unfortunately having a health problem is a hobby on its own and I am rather unfortunately derailed into an activity I would much rather not be doing but must do to keep certain baseline function.

But writing this blog, properly, has been an act of self care because it is a big raw candid dump of erotic and neurotic, and I have to admit, a demand that I am worthy of love as I am.

Paraphilias, on the scheme of afflictions, particularly something as pedestrian as BDSM, are not a heavy cross to carry compared to say, being racialized or having a chronic illness, but they do a number on your self-esteem when your options are freakish, objectified or ignored.

My sexuality isn’t going away, it demands at least personal fulfilment, and this blog remains my message-in-a-bottle launching point: here I am, are you there?

Lately I have been feeling particularly unlovely. Not physically, but like my sexuality is a nuisance. It blew up things with Wildcard (although we had other incompatibility issues) and it complicates dating anyone else.

I end up frazzled “here is 7 years of writing, about my fantasies and vulnerability, can you please work with this?” so far has been a bit more fitful and spotty in practice.

Brick, for example, has no idea what to make of 3/4 of it. I think I have a knack for helping other people find themselves in my writing because I have spent my whole life aggressively trying to make myself comprehensible.

But, as I find my feet in a new city, stabilized into sensible bland work, at least I find that once again I can write. So there is that.

Reader Letter: “Femdom Housewife?”

I recently got this rather sweet letter from a long term reader, so I’m glad to get a chance to answer for everyone. It’s a topic I’ve talked about before- the awkward relationship between gender roles and power, but if people are still asking about if you can be a femdom housewife, it deserves another mention.

Inquisitive writes…

O Miss Pearl,

I am a bit-more-than-occasional reader of your blog. Recently, a thought has been egging my curiosity.
I was wondering that whether its possible for a male and female in a Femdom relationship (with said relationship being applicable in the bedroom and to a certain, not-discernible-to-others extent, outside the bedroom too … just to provide context) to still have traditional roles with regards to division of labor in the household. That is, man is breadwinner who is career oriented (or has certain ambitions in life) and engages majority of the week’s time in bread winning, career making and training etc. while the woman is in-charge of the household (and maybe has a small side business too in her spare time). A Goddess-of-the-Hearth, so to speak.
Just to be clear, I’m not at all trying to imply that that is “how things should be”. People should do what they choose to do, whether its career-making or home-making, and people whose choices are mutually compatible should come together. Also, I’m the last person in the world to “look down” on the role of a homemaker. I’ve seen first hand how invaluable the contribution of a homemaker can be that s/he provides in exchange for their upkeep.
My query is that, in your opinion, is such a domestic understanding/arrangement even practically possible in the context of this kind of relationship. And if it is possible, just how likely is it to find a woman genuinely into femdom who’d be willing for such an arrangement in life?
Looking forward to your response.
Thanking you,
Yours faithfully,
Inquisitive
Dear Inquisitive,

Of course homemaking is a fine calling for a femdom! I’m glad you asked and gave me a chance to talk about it. Although gainfully employed, I have already talked about being a domestic dominant. I personally find it fulfilling. It’s a part of my assigned gender I like.

Contemporary feminism reminds us that household domestic work is still work, and although not compensated financially, is no less useful. Indeed, there is a push to have measures like the GDP recognize this unpaid labour as well, to truly reflect the productivity of a nation.  Housework is work, and it is largely misogyny that it is devalued in the first place.
Criticism of “traditional” roles relate not to the labour itself, but to a lack of options that often accompany the pressure to do it, or stereotypes that demand other behaviours along with the universal mundanity of making meals and removing the dirt from the living space. No matter the railings of reactionary ninnies like “Above Rubies” or the emotional self stunting of the “Surrendered Wife”, if everyone in the relationship is freely choosing things to be so, then all is as it should be- and there is nothing about domesticity that implies submission.
Indeed, domestic discipline, with it’s spoon and hairbrush wielding matrons, is, in itself a fetish.  The imagery of a fashionable mid-century woman is just as likely to be put on like a costume by a dominatrix as an evangelical, and both do so because it armors them in a kind of power we are inherently aware of.  You see it even in would be secular reactionaries like Red Pill Women, or the assertions of the #tradwife brigade, that once they take it outside the context of a consensual kink, they can bray all they want about submission, but these women are, functionally, in charge.
Once you aren’t bound into a role, everything else is set dressing and personal choice.
Even excluding the wealth of pornography that blends so called traditional domestic imagery with femdom, to be a dominant is an act of desire that doesn’t stick itself to any gender or social class.  Women and men have always, sometimes, wanted female led relationships, regardless of the particular background noise of their culture, and simple, pat separation of feminine = submissive, domestic = drudge is ahistorical, revisionism, trying to make a narrative that was never as fixed as we seem to try to teach, where woman in her natural state is a slave.
(Ok, ironically for most of human history, human labour for all genders was primarily everyone subsitance farming, but even then, femdom is not new. Even when your biggest concern was spinning enough wool to not have your fingers freeze off while stockpiling turnips, there had to have at least been a few women who took the laundry paddle in from the wash house and filled their smokey wattle and daub hut with squeals and giggles. It ain’t like modern doms of any gender are all high powered CEO rocket scientists)  
And the truth is, even unpacking traditional roles, femininity often includes expectations of power and management, from deciding family spending to directing the entirety of the life choices of the family as a unit. When women protest exhaustion or frustration with their gender, is is not the work itself (although it can be hard), but the sensation of being taken for granted, or when their leadership is undermined. When women control their own finances, bodies and destinies, well, if you have the shared wealth that one of you can concentrate their labour indoors, while the other works outside the home, go nuts.
So in parting, have your femdom housewife life. As long as you are listening to her and affirming her power, you should be fine.
Love,
Miss Pearl
More posts on the subject include a post on the limits of caretaking and another more detailed riff on The Darker Side of Caretaking