Scene With Silver Go Whoopsie

Sunday, we played casual over webcam, myself in a clingy leather look mini dress but also wrapped in a loose black cardigan, and him no collar or other symbols except the hidden presence of a moderately sized butt plug.

I did not plan, let my mood decide where things went. As I am prone to I let a riff about my future desire to lay out belated birthday spankings with a hard backed hair brush pull us into that intimate state of focus on eachother, and the theme of the day became discipline.

Discipline is not a common activity for us. I don’t like the sensation of not receiving compliance and correcting it, most of the time, and have a hard time eroticizing not getting what I asked for. But it serves a purpose, and I ventured there: had he been bad?

He, squirming and enjoying the penitent vulnerability, confessed to missing three days of daily edging. Technically within compliance- as with most of my orders it was and if/then. If he is not sufficiently stressed by life, then edge and tell me about it. 

But I had given him the option that if he acquired guilt he could purge it in scouring. I am attracted to anxious people, and understand a fair amount about their psychology, one part being the painful state of feeling insecure about disappointing long after the disappointed party has gotten over it. And I know any anxious person go into a guilt spiral when they contemplate the comfort of being told something they feel they caused is still pricking them.

Punishment here is an act of reassurance. I mean, ultimately it’s makeup sex for kinky people, something we mutually enjoy to turn off the scumbag brain going NoNoNoBad 

I can’t, with distance and Covid19, obviously do pain play the usual ways, but while I am not a fan of the self spanking (I think I could get into literal self flagelation with a knotted rope scourge, but we don’t have one), we have the pavloc and the relative safety of stress positions.

Although pushing a button to make a zap, wince and erection throb will never get old, I like stress positions in particular, for Silver, because he is in meticulous physical shape (my cute little gym bunny!) and is the sort of person to whom if you said “fuck yourself until you are tired” he would do so not until his arm was sore, but until he was a weakly twitching heap on the carpet.

Summoning my disciplinarian voice, which for the record, is still in the territory of “croon”, but conveys a slight edge to ratchet tension, I ordered him to strip. This, he did so, shucking off clothes with wild abandon.

So I made him stop, remember to fold everything neatly.  I enjoyed the enthusiasm he peeled off with, don’t get me wrong. There’s an erotic thrill in the strip and toss, but the Aesthetic is a dominant’s most useful weapon in maintaining a unified mood.

Chastened by my observation of his flattering but accidentally disobedient display of eagerness, everything else was removed and duly folded, then piled in a tidy stack and held, fancy waiter style, on a flat palm with arm extended.

He edged for me and I corrected him accordingly, reminding him I would never discourage him from being excited, but he still needed to remember for the sake of remembering, and finding satisfaction, we moved on.

I made him hold the stress position called “motorcycle” which is basically a wall sit sans wall and with your arms up, and edge the three times he said he missed. During that he had to repeat several times, the first because he forgot to count out loud (to be fair I didn’t tell him to) and the next few times because his legs had enough.

Anguished, exhausted, vulnerable. I stressed that not doing wasn’t the failure as much as not telling me. And that I didn’t mind him collapsing and trying over and over again.

As much as he endured for me, I also layered on cooing, encouragement, reassurance. I am a sadist with a soft heart. I love his suffering and making him so makes me gooey inside. My physical arousal at each desperate groan when is strength gave out was matched with a certain sympathy.

Good boy. In the aftermath of his punishment the topic turned to the erotic, asking him when he did have free permission to cum (basically before me). What moment in fantasy was his release?

We all have our triggers. Mine is usually when the text hits a climax demonstration of some symbolic extreme loss of agency. Not shockingly I tend to read a lot of modification, brainwashing and captivity stories. And, as I mentioned these are often vile, physically impossible nonsense, and most definitely the sort of stuff we firmly call “cnc” to separate the barrier between really wanting to keep someone in your basement and imaging elaborate scenarios where this might be possible but no real persons are harmed.

His trip, more often than not, is the moment when the victim-protagonist succumbs to the control, hypnotic or otherwise, usually a symptom there of being their own orgasm.

So thus, I pushed, no orgasm until I take something from him permanently, only endless edging. He could either wait until I take his virginity in October (mine now!), or come up with something else.

Right hand continuously stroking a rather immensely thick erection, he thought for a moment and daringly suggested his twitter user name.

“You have a twitter account?”

Yes, lurking to follow points of interest, including a quiet follow when I first propositioned him back in November 2019 (American Thanksgiving), after I gave him my various and sundry online details so he could get to know my sexuality. Unlike Ferns, I treat my body of work so important to my core self that I do not want sexual or romantic contact with someone who has no interest in it.

Also of course, predating me, Silver quietly follows other content makers and dommes, either past service providers or persons of interest- this being the actual revelation. I actually am not sure what to do with that information since while I am a big believer in healthy relationships when practical with exes and in trust that it’s fine to think your friends, or other people are hot, I am not sure I want to pry into what feels like their intimacies.

For example, I enjoyed him sharing a few past scene photos providers had snapped of him, but in these cases the “she” wasn’t in the photo and I could admire her work more abstractly.

Providers aren’t exes, but they add the desire in me to treat them with the same respect and accommodation. Although I find the “true love waits” purity of a one partner only rhetoric alarming, I see the concept that intimacy and romance change a person, paid or otherwise, as a feature not a bug.

But, obviously providers don’t want some civie patiently slotting them into the same category I do of former members of my kid brother’s polycule, which is to say a distant sense of positive obligation that they have remotely plausible chance to turn up and be given a cup of tea.

So I get ridiculously British concerned about manners over it, a sort of fumbling divide by zero where I am feeling awkward because I am imagining a dominatrix bothering to reach out to a former, fairly casual client to catch up because she is in town or whatever. I project that role onto a hypothetical *them* and then immediately feel wildly embarrassed about daring to presume. Because obviously that isn’t plausible.

You can add a third meta hypothetical of said poor dominatrix standing in my kitchen patiently looking perplexed while my overly fussy brain steams out the ears harder than the kettle I am making her tea with.

Back to the moment (and erection) at hand

It’s not the first time Silver’s told me something relationship related mid-edge. Last time I ordered him to confess I learned, while pumping his cock, that he had politely sent his former dominatrix a letter cancelling her (er, his?) services and told his parents I existed. 

I think it’s kind of endearing that unless he’s come recently, my presence tends to cause the urge to furiously masturbate. 

I teased him about being “sneaky”, and I admit to a little spur of sharpness, even though contextually it was something that made the most practical sense, mostly because I assumed he did not have one after he mentioned not wanting to participate in the hurly burly of the barely moderated social sphere.

But, I also reassured, enjoying the bit of fight and the vulnerability of having a secret pocket he compulsively had withheld.

I leaned into this, pushing for more, asking what else, and he offered out handing over previously stashed erotica and porn (not to deny by my preference, rather as intimate data).  

Yes, but I knew he had those. What else?

He had a pause here, a mental barrel scrape, and I observed something very true but very difficult.

With every relationship, within 1 to 6 months, that person’s core structure become self evident, non-negotiables that I accept. Silver is an intensely private person. He will omit to mention things you would think were normal- not just a sort of grey rock, but affecting a river tumbled smoothness.

He would never give you his opinion on politics or share the latest documentary he is listening to. He wouldn’t mention an event he attended and spare any show of temper, blanketed under the most careful bland patience, withdrawing from the hint of social drama.

I had previously accepted pieces of him will surface in their own time. We might be ancient and well wizened decades from now, only for me to discover that every day he takes ten minutes to do an act of anonymous charity, or that he is a huge fan of 90s EuroPop sensation Aqua.

But, without thinking it would be hurtful, I teased about his tendency to lie by omission.  I had meant to underline the known contrast that Silver is deeply submissive and immensely independent and individualistic. It did not carry that.

This isn’t the first time I have played with the real. The other week I did a mind fuck, narrating that his (normal) anxieties about the relationship were actually his real self asserting over my seductive hypnosis, producing extremely aroused shivers of fear from him.

This time he visibly shrank back a bit and his eyes took on a hurt cast, small an vulnerable. I could not and would not eroticize that. His penis, previously rock hard, gently curled towards the left. 

Oops.

Silver did not cry off, but after a moment of reading his expression I did, breaking tone. There’s a difference in the way I use my voice, and had I been there in person it would be my arms that held him.

I do have to be careful, for me what is a reasonable right to privacy, is not necessarily a part of the self everyone is proud of. I told him that I loved the whole him, that I didn’t need all truths just for the sake of collecting them and preferred him to keep his space and secrets. 

Even these blog posts are run through him first, catching anything, in description of his life or our shared intimacy, that is too much and too raw to feed to the world.

Me keeping a blog is non-negotiable, me treating his own story with care is reasonable.

He told me that it was a hard moment where he thought he might safeword but he also thought I was really upset. And obviously, in his mind, he couldn’t safeword out of my raw feelings?

I told him he very well could. It is ok to take a break on a heated or difficult discussion, to make some things off limits, even to someone who loves you. 

Obviously there are practicals, but ultimately short of trying to shut down “aaaugh you are literally on fire” a safeword is BDSM’s best contribution to interpersonal relationships. 

We talked a bit until the raw feelings dissipated, in in the way that we do my words began to arouse him again, drawing his cock back up skyward and him restored. And I took back that purr of presence, by gesture and word telling him I was forcing him to come for me. 

Swift, hard, and with a complex sort of regret. Tease and denial versus making a man come is a bit of wanting to have my cake and eat it too. I want that rapt attention and desperation, but also I want him to have that mind blanking sensation of release. 

And then cozy discussion after, the usual routine, cupped palm to avoid anointing the carpet with thwarted biological imperative, rinse, towel around his middle. Chatting about the week ahead, we pretend covid and the US political situation wasn’t ominously intervening on the earnestness of our longings.

Parting ways a tiny bit of sad quirked, and he picked up on it and asked if something was wrong. I explained that I was just labile after, and it wasn’t his place to need to reassure me for something that was a bit of echo sad for finding a boundary. I told him, honestly, it would dissipate on it’s own.

By the next day it’s mostly gone, and fits into my knowledge that my ability to deserve trust as a dominant is not born of telepathy but testing, and proof that I won’t mangle things when tenderness is needed.

I discussed this with Silver a bit more than his usual read through because it deals so much with his vulnerability. I do ask you treat the privilege of his consent to share with the same respect I do.

Polishing Silver

Silver is, among many things, my muse. Lurid and vivid sexual creativity was one of the gifts the fae left for my birth, and love makes me into a better artist.

Every Sunday, minus when he was road tripping to family, or those weekends we managed an in person park picnic, we have Sunday Worship, aka furious mutual masturbation over webcam, aided by teledildonics via the good people at Lovense, and the quieter cooperation of the manufacturers of the Pavlok.

This particular weekend, a Hush was buried in his ass and the app hooked to my phone so he could experience vibrations entirely under my control. I was squeezed into a blue latex number that didn’t just hit him in the fetishes, but punched the target through the wall. It also appealed to me on two axises of desire: my long standing teasing kink (Mercy Maria uses pro-domme work to get herself a reverse harem, I seriously consider stripping as a sexual outlet), and my newly discovered interest in the medium of rubber clothing, itself.

And regardless of the props or where I decide we go this time, my mouth is always spinning out filth: alluring, lewd and descriptive. I’m privately very self critical of my abilities as a hypnosis mistress, but I do have a gift for the erotic gab, and Silver was enraptured at my crooning and storytelling.

The fantasy I almost made Silver hands free cum to last Sunday was telling him about sharing him out to my domme friends. It wasn’t the detail of hands touching, the excess or the cruelties. It was describing him earnestly looking to me, to be sure he was serving them properly, like I wanted. 

It’s that “you endure what they, do but you know it’s all about your Miss” that gets him so bad.

Ultimately Silver is a romantic, in that he doesn’t want to serve any random domme, regardless of having certain aesthetic fetishes. He wants that connection to one person. I don’t think I can fully express how sweet that is.

When he is screaming in mixture of lust and distress because he thinks he is about to cum without permission, well… that’s really gilding the lily.

I am also very big on the intimacy of a singular “person”. I fail at “proper” poly, although I can do some group activities just fine, but the idealized network of loves and separations of relationships in one’s sexuality just… does not work for me. I fall in love and that person is writ large in the sky.

Silver. Silver. Silver. I actually slipped into love more gently than with anyone so far. I am lucky about his amiable patience with my slower roll to “commitment”, but in turn it was not quite the same 2 by 4 to the face that some of the past experiences were, and yet… I prefer coming to love him slowly. I prefer the crush kindled as a certain warm affection that grew and grew until the hearth of my heart was lit bright and hot.

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Fantasies of Taking My Submissive’s Virginity

Relieve him of his virginity
Manga has everything!

Silver is somewhere out in the Midwest doing family things like the caring, good son that he is, but in that time I am entertained by a fantasy of fucking him.

I already told you that he is a technical virgin. The reality of his “innocence” is, of course complex. He builds desire together with me with sophisticated experience because he didn’t particularly limit himself in exploring his kinks, just (in my perception) the complexities of wading through three miles of waist deep vanilla courtship expectations, just to reach a possible opportunity to try an activity that wasn’t the highlight of his fantasies, provided no incentive.

But I like penis in vagina sex, so it’s on the table. Between Covid-19 and some incredibly complex feelings on my side, it hasn’t happened yet. But, not for lack of desire.

He seems extremely interested in losing his virginity now.

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Making My Submissive Fuck A Fleshlight For Me

Caption: making my submissive fuck a fleshlight for fun.

The Fleshlight is mounted to the glass surface of the desk, in an improvised hold with tape, and I am watching the pink length of my sub’s cock slide into the clear barrel of it. Making my submissive fuck a fleshlight is a mutual fantasy realized from one of my Friday Femdom Fiction stories.

He’s standing to angle a bit up as the height of his desk is ergonomic for typing, not sex. This only adds an extra frisson of sexy for me as to fuck the fleshlight means a struggle.

I am doing this to make him practice fucking for me. Some of this is to make do in the pandemic enforced distance, but I would also do it with him aa well. Today was no frills #SundayWorship, our weekly webcam date, anticipated all week around jobs and volunteering and other adult concerns. The only prop on my side was an old timey pocket watch necklace that sways in my hand while I repeat commands for him to follow. 

That gets him in an already autonomous drone head state, although he was smiling ear to ear when I called him.

As a toy, Fleshlight really goes out of it’s way to market itself with women holding the product. Maybe to make it less lonely or fight the current stigma, a real difference between the vibrators and dildoes for women which make no pretense of being for private masturbation first. It really feels like femdom porn is the only place I have found where I see fleshlights deployed as a couple thing, which is a crying shame.

Because of this stigma, there is an aspect of possible humiliation in what I am doing to him, but it doesn’t feel like I am degrading him. I think it’s fucking hot, all the voyeuristic glee of watching the line of his body undulate to thrust. He’s learning to fuck for me.

It’s so much harder for himthan edging with his hand because the sensations are all new, different, less in his control and he is focusing on a rhythm and also on me and my voice and reactions. Which is a good metaphor for sex: overwhelming and intimate.

That’s the purpose of this operation, other than pure gratification: training him to fuck before we do it for real, so he learns other sensations than the buzz of a vibrators or the excessive firmness of his hand. It isn’t because I think our first time will be crap. I actually want that awkward moment of him learning the intimacy of being inside me and having little idea of what the hell he is doing.

But I also want him to have a degree of readiness, because my objectification isn’t humiliation, it’s programming a prized possession.

The tape creaks and the desk bumps, the lube making a wet sucking sound. I see him get the hang of judging depth quickly, only one mis-thrust that throws him off, and he’s back at it. A good boy. I tell him that, calling him my fucking machine.

After I get him to pump away for a while from standing, I decide to make him change positions and hold the fleshlight so he is first half, than ¾ in and then keep it steady, thrusting up while I watch on camera.

Every time I instruct him to go deeper for me and hilt for me he gives a yelping kind of whimper and we have to take a break, a fact that owes at least a little to his up and down seated thrusts pushing a buttplug I had him fit himself with in and out as he presses back against the chair. I think the other part is the mental connection of being commanded to please me that way is just all too much.

Whike this happens, I am pressing and rubbing my clit in its hood, slick enough my panties are soaked through, black cotton with lace edges. I always dress up for these webcam dates, all stockings with bows and garters, seeing myself as well as him.

Each whimper and abrupt stop after a few strokes is like a mini, pop off orgasm in my chest, something between romantic butterflies and lust.

I look amazing, with my loose dark wavy hair, pale as milk skin and dark eyes. I did my eyes with light wings, and my lips on an almost black purple I know he finds visually compelling. It’s nice to feel powerful from something so simple and natural to my personal style.

He’s naked, but for a collar. He started on pyjamas, which had such a sweet weekend vibe I left him dressed for longer than I usually do. I crave that mix of kinky, raw filth and mundane normal.

Fleshlight had to send the wrong sleeve to make it on time for my birthday last month, but they did manage the clear model I wanted, so this too is letting me see the engulfed outline when he pushes his cock into the toy all the way. I like to imagine what it feels like, with the slick of lube and the soft tightness.

Unlike my cunt, the suction really kicks on the more he fucks it for me. It’s not a perfect pussy replacement, it’s a pussy compliment, a facsimile that puts me to mind of making a stud breed for you.

Some day in the absurdity of double income, no kids, I want a dream dungeon set up so I can auto milk him that way, but for now this is endless edging, over and over, struggling to please.

In all, a good purchase in our collection, and a favourite to use on him. Maybe I will upgrade later to the featureless, no fake orifice sleeve later, but for now, he will fuck this one to please me.

Valentine’s Roses From My Property

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

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

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

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

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

I want him to tell me when he is ready.

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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.

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.

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.

Not So Good Sex

We have not so good, hurried sex on Sunday night and neither one of us comes, although I get close.

He’s so pretty, but I think part of what went wrong is I think he just wanted to cuddle and my head’s in a bad place. Lesson learned.

Sometimes it just doesn’t come together. The weekend started with mixed promise: I was a bucket of grawr and he was at least just a little off  in his own mood. Friday night, he wasn’t feeling it, but his pheremones, weight and heat got me going.

I’ve been having a reoccurring fantasy of completely breaking him down. That plus his presence gave me a solid orgasm. I had another one on the washroom, almost as soon as I started to touch myself, the next morning while we got ready for a busy day.

I don’t think he noticed, brushing his teeth while my clit and fingers found me something as furtive as it was delicious.

Saturday, zipped into knee high black leather boots, knit lace and wrapped velvet, I teased him and teased myself. It showed such promise, feeling pretty and sexy, but by the time we got home from goth clubbing, my daydreams of shoving the length of his cock down my throat were derailed for sleep.

Sunday I got clotheslined by a morning headache, and then when that cleared, my stomach was off. I blame stress and restless nights where my body doesn’t want to sleep. We had sex after some home medical care of me on his part, but the sex still didn’t click.

I was the wrong kind of sensitive. I couldn’t get wet enough. My brain was scattered. I wanted cock, but like a child with a toothache in a candy store, I just wasn’t in a position to enjoy it.

It didn’t have the bad kind of ouch, but I know what it is like to be so wet and swollen feeling the least little chance to devour him is pleasure in itself. This was not it.

To Brick’s credit, even really not into it, he puts on an admirable performance. As disappointed as I am that we both ended up unsatiated, I’m more hopeful of next weekend’s possibilities.

Kinky Sex On My Friend’s Couch

Kinky sex on my friend's couch happened.He’s not a novice to kinky sex, but I am the experienced one. He’s fucked piles, but here on the couch I’ve borrowed for this, I am more comfortable in this realm than he is. We’re not even doing anything particularly intense, nothing with hoops to leap through or collars and protocols, but I like what we are doing.

My control is mental.

I talk a stream of consciousness line of filth. Magicians have a patter, I spin out linked bits of carnal ideas, like I am giving a massage with my words. Each sentence slides out of my mouth, luring and inspiring him, until he is fucking me. His cock fits just right, nothing feeling pushed or rushed the wrong way, feeling like I am feeding a yearning.

He comes, back sprawled on the arm of the couch, body splayed, while I tell him dirty things. He asks for it, precise about the hows as he hands over the keys to his head. It’s not enough to be succinct, he wants a flow of words to drown him, a riff on a theme, not a closed statement.

“Fuck me, yeah, you want to? Fill me. Your cock belongs in me, belongs to me.  There isn’t a single thing I’m going to skip with you. Keep fucking me. That’s your job. You know how many women its been, you little slut. Use me. Make it hurt. Go on, I want it hard, I need more than that.”

I’d taught him a little bit about how his ass responds too, that afternoon. He is so shy, meticulous in the shower, but there’s nothing I find personally taboo about flicking my tongue. It’s the taste of soap on skin. He’s just a little bit mortified, as I trim my nails and let him try the tip of a finger in a glove, well slicked with pharmacy brand lube.

He wanted me to explore his ass.

Itself, taut, muscular. Spread, he has no pigmentation to speak of, just pink, the way the head of his cock or his nipples or lips are the same blush shade. We did it very modern, sharing lists of things we would like to try. He told me anecdotes of other men who confessed being penetrated, there. We both have a little bit of coy reverence for anal, but while he thinks he doesn’t want up in a woman, he wants me inside him.

He’s a paradox, modern and conservative, American South. I like that bashful boy next door. This weekend he’s stressed and grumpy about stuff well outside the confines and control of my reach, so it’s nice to make him vulnerable. I like his lean, long body.  I like making him nervous.

So far he’s learned a lot, including that a magic wand pressed beneath his balls makes the orgasm harder, one solid spurt of semen onto his belly.

And I push him into playing pain games.

Of course there’s this, too. I don’t have any pretense that I dislike pain, and I am enjoying breaking in his shyness. It makes me feel powerful. He doesn’t feel completely comfortable with that part of himself, with me. But he wants it, too.

It takes my affirmative consent to let him express that with me, uttering:

“I want you to hit me”

This way I make him stretch plays with his desires, sadistic but also protective and it fucks with his head. He needs to hear me demand it. I call it Madonna whore, he who has fucked any number of women to whatever kinky thing they want, more shy about this with me, the woman he loves and requests.

But I won’t tolerate hesitance, demand he overcomes cognitive dissonance to please me. He can respect me and give me what I want. Kinky sex isn’t just for friends with benefits and event hook ups. Just because his pretty face and outgoing manner leaves his bed post notched into toothpicks does not mean I expect him to be different with me. I am going to take everything.

My thighs burn from his hand slapping on the soft flesh of them, creamy insides as I worked my clit into coming. I finished with red sting mark-splotches on either side, as vivid as lipstick prints. Good. I’ll have more, later.

I am making him do it.

He’s not a masochist either, but he wants to please me so very badly.

When we fucked the other night, I whopped his back with my belt. If you think penetration is submissive, try slapping him like he’s a horse you are goading.

Hetero femdom needs metaphors like that. Horse. Bull. Big, muscular creatures. Even small past partner packed a punch. Healthy boys, particularly Brick, it can’t be about control through physical slam-downs. Not when the average man is 20% stronger than the average woman. Submission knows know gender, doesn’t care about your flesh. The small and frail can be dominant. But, to work, you need any sub to crave you in control.

I tease Brick about being slutty and innocent by turns. Poor man, he doesn’t sit well with either. After a liftime of being game to try, eager to say yes, I show him a Hitachi put against his perenium, my tongue and my fingers up his ass. First time.

I know what I am doing.

That’s the power, in kinky sex, not about holding the other party down, but about them wanting to be held.

Some of this is old ground for him: I take off his belt and loop it to hold his wrists. Safe bondage, other women have tied him up tighter.

He needs to deal with myself being a monster of sorts, as least as far as desire. I like to put the dear into him, make him suffer. He likes to please, but oh is he proud.