Anti-erotic Life Updates

Pleasant lashings of Vancouver rain beat down on the new city I call home, while I ineptly put together homemade pancakes (got the texture wrong because I eyeballed it and experimented with cake flour) and my long suffering roomie wrestles with their cold on sick day number two.

My body is a disgusting PMS mess, dry and oily and swollen, over sensitive and blotchy. Although, in theory, I see Brick this weekend I feel as erotic as a mud filled pinata. My mood, due to stuff not related to sex, is ok, but mostly I am just looking in the mirror and seeing one breast a D and the other a perky E, and feeling more prickle than warmth in my cunt.

Of course, dear reader, that was more honesty than titillation, and were this a viable commercial endeavor rather than a collection of curated truths and writing exercises, my supervisor would be having a talk right now.

Luckily for me, I am allowed to be honest, so you get bloated and itchy femdom eating flaccid (but surprisingly tastey) pancakes. That is probably someone’s fetish?

Life has been, largely, not about sex. It involves career chasing, and learning my new home and worrying about sickly family and adjusting to a climate where the air is mountain dry and ocean wet at the same time. Most of the commentary I have is how much I like the misty temperate parts, despite everyone warning me how challenging the endless rains of the North West are.

Assuming I don’t plunge into a cold, I will go to the US to spend time with my boyfriend, and we will probably not have especially good sex, because my body is being more concerned with a tantrum over my lack of pregnancy than getting more dick up in my cavities.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Jerk Off Instructions

“Take off your clothes.” She spoke,  abruptly, after breaking off the kissing.  She could still feel the stoftness of his lips against hers, the right amount of wet, and the taste-that-was-not-a-taste when she had licked them.

They’d been making out for maybe five minutes, although she tended not to keep track of the time, with a buzzing sort of urge starting to clamour at her to grab control. It always came like this, with the arousal, that as the curl of sensation built up her spine, her mind turned mean.

Her words got his attention, and a little bit of a challenge in the tilt of his head, as yet unlifted from the pillow.

“Yes. Do it.” Sitting up, she got a good look at the whole of him, skinny, very male, matched to her in casual but not shelpy clothes as he took a certain pride in his appearance: a fitted t-shirt in a dark grey, and slacks in khaki that emphasized his squareness.

He had the start of the haze of lust in his pale eyes, body warm and stretched out in her bed in the mounded up cradling of the heavy duvet. A lazy late spring breeze carried fair sounds from outside and the shaded window cast them in the filtered light of the weekend afternoon. There remained a louche, laziness about his movements, reminding her of a cat.

Gesturing, she tugged at the hem of his shirt, up over his flat stomach. He saw it and saw the lack of horizontal splits where his abs could be counted, she saw only the achingly erotic furrow of the vertical muscles and their trail of soft hair to his groin. At her urging, the shirt came off and he stretched with it, pleasing her. His nipples were small pink points on his chest, hair there almost more sandy blonde than rusty red.

“You’re so fucking hot.” She said his name after, tone heavy with how much she meant it. “Show me everything.”

She continued to watch as his hands went to the band of his pants, fingers undoing the button, parting and pulling off his slim hips. For that he was forced to go half upright. That left loose knit cotton boxers and socks. The consortium of female taste had at some point decided men looked stupid in just socks, but she found this belief incomprehensible. It was part of the cozy, naturalness of real sex and she often made it clear they could and should stay on, a little exertion of her will on his.

There was always the tiniest flash of shyness when he revealed his cock, in this case just starting to stir. Earlier, her body had been on his, her weight pressing his groin and her hand running over the obvious texture of his sensitive nipples under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.  This teasing was an appetizer to him, but she was quite content at the result.

Cut, balanced in size, nested in hair that was the reddest bright on his body, small curls that added to the sense of radiating warmth. She put a hand on his thigh and the other to cup his balls, “I’m going to want you to finish getting that hard for me.”

She liked to watch men. He had a simple technique, out of the ones she’s seen, always a little different, this one being less curl and tickle and more a motion of the hand and fingers,  a circle pulled from mid-length over the ridge of his cock head.

Her cunt gave an anticipatory twitch, hungry.  As she watched she let her palm slide slowly from her collar bone over the swell of her breast, land loose to follow the curve of her shape, “Keep going.”

His muscles began to hold tension, a pull in his belly, a squaring in his shoulders and his face taking on a slight expression of exertion.

“I want you to keep stroking and pulling your cock until you get hard for me. I want to see the first couple of drops of your precum. I’m not going to touch it, this time, but you’re going to come for me, when I say, because I want it.”

He said nothing, but his eyes met hers, cock now full erect in his hand. It was pale and pink, even shaded, alive and warm. She grinned.

“Pull back a bit on the sensations, but don’t let yourself get soft. I want you to draw it out for me.”

He gave a huff of breath by way of answer as he complied. Sex muzzled him as surely as tape over the mouth.  She grinned, nuzzling against the bottom of his ribs with her face and kissing. From there she pressed against him until her mouth was close to his nipple, tongue darting out to flick, and then a second swirl. She knew it was more teasing for him if he could look down and see the dark wetness of her tongue touch.

“This isn’t about you, this is about putting on a show for me. So make those strokes longer, from cock root to tip. I kinda like the idea of you a little frustrated and wanting more sensation.”

Obediently he complied, and she admired just how long his cock got. “You know you’re so fucking big, and every bit of that belongs to me. That’s my cock, mine to fuck and suck and tease when I feel like it. Right?”

He didn’t have any words, so she repeated it again, prompting with a purr in her voice. “Whose cock is that?”

“Yours… It’s yours, Miss”

“Ok, good boy,” she purred, “You can go back to touching yourself how you like. Go on and get yourself close, I want to hear it in your breathing.”

He wasn’t a big groaner or panter, just an ever increasing strain, like the arousal was a weight that increased, pound by pound with every quarter minute. She spied a little bit of wet, precum, and suppressed the urge to lick it away.

As he got closer to the moment, his face took on a different caste, eyes widening even as the small muscles tensed. There was a desperation, but it wasn’t time yet. She wanted him to feel like they was no choice but to come for her. “Almost, ease off again for me, I like watching your take your time with your cock.”

While she talked, she had a hand on her own groin, pressing through the layers of her drapey cotton skirt and the barrier of her panties.  “Fuck yourself for me. Yeah, ok, break’s done, get yourself close again for me. Do you want to come?”

“unhunhh…”

“You do want to come for me, don’t you? You want to let go?” She licked her thumb and then swirled it over his nipple in a spiral.

“uhhhh…”

She could tell he didn’t have any words left, just the sensation.  “Come for me, baby. Your balls are all tight, I know you can’t help it, you’re gonna pop, and then I’m going to lick up every creamy white string from your belly.”

“unnhhnrrrrrrrr…!” It became a growl. Her smile was full teeth, even as she pressed harder and ground her own clit.

“Let go and come for me.”

The growls continued, instinctual, as she watched the first pulse of white fountain, spurt after spurt.

“Good boy.”


If you liked this, there’s a full archive of my free femdom stories here. As usual read and leave comments as applicable! Or share it with people who also like porn.

Retrospective 2018 On My Femdom Life

Blisters from my sexual journey.Let’s look at the metaphoric hiking blisters and holiday snaps from my sexual journey, shall we? 😛

This blog has seen me through four relationships, and a significant part of my adult life, almost a third of it, actually. It was started as an effort to put content out there that resonated with me, in a world that did precious little, for various reasons, to cater to my niche. I knew, for example, when I saw a scene in a movie where an attractive man was tortured I got very alert and excited, but there was a distinct lack of stuff explicitly made for my gaze and desire.

I started chasing this in 2008, with my move to Montreal. I slipped from turgid sex chats and online role playing to visiting munches, getting a fetlife account and playing with real boys (and real girls and then real nbs). The blog grew out of fetlife- it wasn’t my first foray into autobiographical writing or fiction online, but a very successful effort, cataloging my exploits, fantasies and trying to be a representation of femdom life.

I got semi niche famous. I’m still a leading luminary, albeit never the most important. The blog doesn’t really turn a profit, but book sales almost cover hosting and the odd freelance writing gig gained through it sort of balance it out. I imagine if I decided to put more dedicated effort into content churn, particularly ramping up the spank bank material we’d be a better business.

Now, about a decade of exploration later, I get to look back on what precisely what the hell all this means in the context of the now.

I am thirty two. A little thinner than my youth, with more grey hair and a few permanent scars on my skin and psyche and a few hard won pieces of confidence and honed skills. My writing is better through raw practice and editing.  I tackled some truly awful people in the local community of Montreal, battled all sorts of bad theory (Karma Sutra still has me blocked), ran a successful munch until I basically aged out, and can largely be happy with much of it even if I chafe that I am now what passes for an elder-mentor when I still feel like a hot mess. I think that’s a millennial thing- we’re all adults in a world where the meaning of adulthood exploded.

I don’t regret my kink explorations but I also remain wistful that one thing I wanted remains very much out of reach, long term sexual satisfaction in a loving, respectful relationship. I of course, always attract and prefer commitment oriented partners. I’m in a relationship and happy with him, but I’m still fighting to explain what I am and feel I am being understood and more importantly, cherished for it.

I’m still feeling like a freakish femdom unicorn.

I want things to be better.

It is still very hard to find a contextual niche about femdom that doesn’t cater specifically to being an object of male desire. This supposition is either that your power is based on limitless male longing, or that you are working within a selection of specific fetishes held by a male partner. The Mistress Manual is one of the better books about this (the New Topping Book is the inverse option that presupposes no gender and a buffet approach) , but the former’s premise is shit for a female dominant doing things for her own sake. (And fabulous for when he is the kinky one).

Sites like Femmedomme Society and Elise Sutton  now have enough practical adults willing to call out the fantasy nonsense for what it is, but the norms of the work, one where female dominance is somehow all powerful through pent up male horniness, still lingers, with the consumer model omnipresent. People still try to hire me as a service provider, or offer me porn inspired activities as “service” despite being perfect strangers (and my hoary old age in no way deters them).

The censorship of FOSTA and SESTA and crack downs on global social media ranging from twitter to instagram, and the perennial shittiness of the monopoly of credit card providers on what is acceptable sex-art will be a problem into the next decade.

It’s not all a bleak, joyless sex dystopia, however.

Shoulders are tits for people who like make bodies.Ava Ex Machina and Ferns continue the good fight in the field of femdom life blogging. The tumblr user curated porn remains excellent, and there are deep strides among the young folks through the niche called “Gentle Femdom” to pull people away from the client and dominatrix model of how this works. There’s a pile of male bloggers and writers plugging away with dynamics that function, and of course Dreams Made Flesh launched .

On a larger porn front, women are now actively being recognized as consumers. We dominate (snrk) the erotica market, as both consumers and creators, and happily consume all sorts of other porn.  Women write, read, watch and aggressively pursue sex in a way that was just not a thing in the previous century. It’s getting better.

I am actually confident that if I buy femdom porn I won’t necessarily come away insulted, disgusted and alienated. Performers like Lance Hart, much like the male sub bloggers, go further in breaking down the implicit external power dynamics of classic femdom porn. Sweet artists like GracyGimp or the flat out wonderful Yumine bring a certain lively coziness to what was previously more than a little cold. BDSM, thanks largely to the work of submissive women advocating on their own behalf, is mainstream.

But I am still having a crap time getting a partner to actually give me what I want.

There, I said it, that in large part pursuit of sexual satisfaction has been the fulcrum that moved me from various relationships, first out of one that was destroying me as a person, then into an interlude with Strong that notably petered out when the fetish fun times did, then with Wildcard, much more painfully, for he had a lot to recommend him. With Brick, it is no wonder I am fixated on trying to get it right, because my actions tell me this is clearly something that matters to me a lot.

My relationship, at the moment, has a huge pile of pressure to perform on him because a decade of experimentation and poking leaves some impatience.  I like to invest heavily in my partners- I would describe I am moderate-maintenance, but thrive when I can nurture my partner. He’s pretty and fun and smart and our hobbies that line up, but the figurative elephant in the room is my feelings around sex.

And it is really sucking to try to talk about what I am into with the absolute expectation of getting my needs met, because I keep second guessing that any communication fuck up is my fault. Now some of this is the gulf between fantasy and reality, for example there is no such thing as limitless submission or universal sexual chemistry.

Writing out that I am sexually unsatisfied, however, is an exercise in anxiety. What if my partners think I am judging them?  What if I destroy the hope my readers have? What if the collective judgement uses this as an excuse why being a female dominant is a condition we need curing from? What if, indeed the problem is me?

Heady stuff, in a world that isn’t sure if it needs to send you money and semen or off to jail by way of a psyche ward. I’ve made it my work to talk about the personal and a lot of why there has been a hiatus is that I did not think that the world needed more sad femdoms. Bitter girl blog is all well and good, but just like there is a relative shortage of our porn, there’s a wealth of female dominants in anger, misery and crotchety despair.

Then again, Fuck Fear.

I have to trust that if I put myself out there, a partner I can be happy with will understand me. This isn’t really what I wanted- I’ve been basically trying to “settle down” for the entirety of my femdom exploits, and the hard lesson, repeatedly taught is that settling down domestically with a person cannot be subsuming my own happiness to the enterprise, in the broken idea that this will make me happier. Unfortunately it’s probably living your own authentic self to accept that with age must come honesty, and the next fifty years are probably even more tactless.

I love, and will love, but I will also love my femdom self and above all things be honest, because if I cannot do that with myself, what hope might I have that others can?

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