Part 2 of my trip to further claim Silver, body, mind, heart and soul. If you are looking for part 1 you can find it here.
He bought the latex sleep sack off etsy to celebrate his promotion. It’s one of those things that only exist in the realm of perverse desires and has no practical use, neck to toe swaddling, sleeves inside to hold the victim even more immobile. Etsy is a wonderland of bespoke sex toys, both as a sole shop front for many small fetish ateliers, and a never ending fetish fair artisan’s alley where you can browse established makers together and make comparisons.
The sleep sack was fairly cooperative to wrangle, thinner latex that didn’t fight too much to get him in- if I were honest he could probably have sized down, but it’s a good thing to have a bit of stretch. And hey, my lithe man is in a bulk stage of putting muscle back after covid closures carved him down into non-gym access size. It certainly was tight enough to do its job making him feel restrained.
This was only one of several purchases- he also got me the most lovely underbust corset and pencil skirt combination from libidex and an experimental pair of stockings by the same maker (and gloves, which I got distracted and forgot to put on). I made him help me into the skirt, which even if covid has given me ten pounds from lack of walking, still squeezes up nicely. Squuuuish. ^_^
If you saw me naked, you would realize I am magnificently formed around a small waist and hips that occupy the size realm of things that influence the tides. Pencil skirts, tight tailoring and things that stretch and cling are the only solution other than custom tailoring to avoid all that vanishing into my clothing. This skirt plays into my strengths completely.
So, you can imagine I occupied that nicely empowered zone of knowing I looked sexy as hell. The stockings, alas, were a miss. In the first place I have 0 idea what possessed the designer to put the seam in the front. The cuban heel reinforcement suffered what a lot of socks do and sat too low on my foot- I’m a large 9 or a small 10 and all socks seem cut for a 7 by default. Meanwhile the top band did not flatter. These were not stay ups, so they wanted to roll down, but also somehow dig into and deliver up the fat of my thighs like whipped cream busting out a piping bag.
That is to say it still looked delicious, it just also looked clumsy.
Only after I was cinched and lovingly glossed was it time to slide him into his own restraints. Feet first, then with those settled, rolled over and arms thrust into those sleeves inside, before the back zipper pulls him from naked man into a sleek grey package.
This is going to be long, and entirely true, a diary trying to fit three days into some coherent narrative. After I started writing I realized the average reader didn’t want to gobble up several thousand words in one post, so I’ve broken it into parts.
The button on his coat set itself free, and I took the sewing kit he never used, but had in stock in his usual bachelor practicality. Then, with a needle and cuss, I mended it.
I said it would take two minutes, and it was more like fifteen, but I was happy to do it all the same. My slightly more than weekend visit had been an indulgence for me, but it’s in my nature to find pleasure in the smallness of the mundane.
When this happened we were a few hours away from carting me off to the airport, and the two weeks of confinement I am enduring while I write this. The obvious response on my part, with very little time left, was to have a “what does this all mean?!” relationship conversation and follow it with a blow job. I might be a bit of a yoyo sometimes.
After I talked about hard questions, like where this is going, desire followed. Posed like a man proposing, one knee down, one up, I suck his cock into my mouth. While I do so, his hands grip the marble edge of the counter behind him. He’s holding himself exposed and vulnerable for me by instinct, and more than a little conscious commitment to the spirit of the law, if not the spoken letter. I haven’t told him to act as if he’s invisibly bound, but he adopts it as naturally as I stir need in him.
He always submits to me.
I think, given a choice, he would prefer a hand job. This blow job definitely isn’t about what he wants, more satisfying my own cravings. I like using my mouth. I’m not so skilled, but the nerve endings and the taste, from oral, are both deeply gratifying to me. So he surrenders to this, accepting his place is to be used how I feel like it.
This time, to my delight, he also makes few thrusting forays, fucking my mouth. If I was a bit more relaxed I would rub my clit and come with his cock in my mouth. I like his taste and shape, and how he feels, even after four days of exploring desire, he still gets fully hard inside me.
Unfortunately, for various reasons I am still holding an unplaced thread of anxiety, and yet, in his company he has made the pain and half body cramps of the migraine I have had for 4 weeks finally leave me. We’re in a pandemic and work (in an office, back in Canada) is bothering. A doting, beautiful submissive man in another country is a treat at the best of times, and an extravagant luxury in the current circumstances.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So in addition to neglecting my femdom blog, I’m an avid participator in nerdy hobbies like roleplaying. Realistically this has always intersected with my sexuality- once I was charting my path beyond my parents running a tabletop for me. I got interested in it partially because my head craves weird dynamics I can’t find in real life. Since my teens I’ve deliberately played with this.
I participated in a large LARP organization recently, where I played a stupidly popular character. And what I discovered about this was how much people LOVE a dominant woman. Grown ass men calling me Mommy. Piles of people pledging fealty. Going out there and being me was a crucial part of the success of the character because the same energy I bring when my dominance gets to shine was present in the rambunctious, bawdy, loving ball of fluff that I played. And it continues to remind me how disempowering the standard femdom shit is.
My character got gacked and part of the sadness I had to process is this outlet for a part of me to safely let my dom out was cut off. Once again, no place to be my whole self. (Although perhaps I should try living authentically instead of through fiction? The world is not very nice to dominant girls.)
I can say this and people will argue until the cows come home that it isn’t because they personally feel empowered by it, but the whole concept of being a dominatrix is a performative straight jacket created to give a context to have power in a limited context that’s “safe”. You put on the leather trousers and use the understood scripts and everyone has the jist of what you are trying to do, so presto- dominance!
There’s good reasons, since raw and undefined dynamics are potentially dangerous. The character of a dominatrix lets everyone wrangle consent in easier than starting from a blank slate and then trying to explain “so you are my victim and thrall but also you want it and are not being raped for real just vulnerable like an amusement park ride because I would never, ever hurt you”. Since part of dominance is buy in, it’s understandable to fall back something people but into easily.
Only that’s been jamming a square peg into a round hole from day one. Not a lot of room for complex sadomasochists who don’t fit Dungeon Mistress well. Serious talk about it gets as far as accepting that being a dominatrix supersedes things like physical comfort, but not that it’s bullshit in a world where femsubs get to fetishize regular dudes in power positions and I need a corset and implications of sex work.
There’s no space to talk about how my fetish self is Queen Elizabeth I not Ilsa Shewolf of the SS. There’s no space to be an insecure mess who also needs to be respected. To talk about your needs as something more than a menu of kinks, or worse, a dismissive declaration that the sub’s needs are irrelevant, is hard. But those options leave my needs unmet.
For example there doesn’t seem to be space to talk about preparing to feel sexually dominant by cleaning my bedroom floor and dusting, because I intend to have a man here and I must feel utterly in control of my space. If I talk about the profound need to nurture my partner people will twig into it, but it’s not in the porn and it’s not in the archetypes.
As I write this, it’s doing that dusting and putting things to rights. I could have done this earlier, taken the bristle brush to the tiles of the bathroom, found the cobwebs in their corners and removed them (I fall on a medium on the neatness scale, much as I am neither extroverted or introverted) but it’s a good way to get my head in order. Momentarily I get to launch into some laundry, again, working to claim my space so I can claim someone else.
Scrub. Scrub. Visions of his naked body, the too long legs, the rust blond on his belly and chest and the odd shock of black hair on his lower back. I’m not offering him conventional femdom, but I suppose he’s not offering conventional submission.
Anticipate, court. Seduce. He said that while he’d aware the capacity is there most women just don’t do it for him. Is he asking for the conventional script done well or something else? What is the serendipitous leap that we need, that any couple needs to get that sing and sting of a unification between two people trying to make an exchange of power?
I cannot be anyone’s dominatrix. I can neither put that part of myself and its desire aside. So I think about this now, making my space mine before I make him mine.
Sundown, night fall, rain on the glass of the window and the road. Four orgasms, frisked out from my cunt, an evening alone.
The first two are standard, sheer black lace panties yanked off and pitched into the hamper across the room. I find my small clit after stroking the slick of wetness up through the tucks and pleats of my labia. I like the way they remind me of rose petals or warm folds of saturated satin.
When I come it is short, intense bursts, radiating from my clit. It takes the level of arousal I am carrying down to a level I can ignore it for a bit.
When want something in me it means a toy. I tend to default to the Tantus Silk, “Large”. It’s too big for my poor tight cunt, but I’ve never respected my own limits. The next step down, the Medium, is too small. Dildo shopping is hard, like a Goldilocks that’ll never be happy because every toy I can find isn’t as perfect as the real thing.
Getting it in…
I can press it against the opening and play with my clit and gradually with gentle pressure, it’ll yield and slip in. I’m too tight to thrust at first. 1 1/2″ width at the head is apparently my upper limit.
Some girls take monster dicks or whole hands and I read and watch in fascination. Hell I had my hand in multiple people. Somewhere extant is a picture of me fisting my female friend and looking totally nonchalant.
Mine grips. Mine is small. My whole equipment is the same scale, wee little clit so cozied up in the hood it never gets touched directly. Regular labia, nothing exceptionally prominent.
I never got the point of kegel balls. You put them in and there they stay, right? Even the heaviest? How do porn stars do it? Hopping onto a cock like it is nothing.
The Silk is lodged in my cunt, until I tease my clit more. Then I can feel the pull inside as it shifts. I sit up and the wide base rests on the bed, a few inches out of me. My fingers find the hood around my clit and I almost come and then the sensation of my fingers and the toy gang up together.
And then even the least pull on the toy and I am coming from that. I cry out, unconcerned if my open window carries the noises to the street below, pushing it in and out.
It feels different, deeper, inside. It’s not a full body orgasm like I have sometimes but it’s pleasure in a place that I don’t usually feel that kind of expansive and warm flutter and burst.
There’s no proper metaphor. For me it’s like a squirt of ink suffusing in water, first the release and then the bloom. Or the sensation of watching a flower open in timelapse, if it briefly turned your brain off. Like brain zap, but good feeling. Sometimes there are lights, I think phosphenes from the flutters of the muscles of my eyes.
When a guy comes for me there’s that build, contract and spurt. Women, more subtle.
The lust subsides by the fourth a bit. I want more, want to be fucked as I fuck myself.
But I like learning that I can get more out of penetration, because I can make a man get me off.
It’s a novelty- a possibility that my partner can offer more than hot fantasies to get me in the mood to finish myself, but also something incredibly scary.
It’s probably my thirties making my cunt decide that everything was going to work better. I never understood barely legal and virgin fantasies. Everything we know about sex observes that it’s about three decades of having a vagina before they start cooperating with all the features.
I sort of see why Freud tried to classify vaginal orgasms as more “mature” if they are the purview of older women. But there is a curious kind of vulnerability…
When you are used to not being disappointed by inadequacy, the realization that your partners could be better is a kind of lightbulb. I don’t think when I was 25 any amount of fucking was going to let a man make me come from his efforts alone but now, I know in the post afterglow, gingerly dislodging the thick bulbous head of the simplified look fake cock from inside myself, I am thinking about the next time I get fucked.
There is an affiliate link in this post. I didn’t write about my sex toy to sell you one, but I did buy it from this supplier and I am not going to be sneaky-sneaky about it.