In theory this was a last longer visit before I return to work. The two body problem kicks back into gear, as my office job cannot be imported over the border, WFH or not. I am a Canadian, and though Silver is more portable in his skill set, Vancouver consistently swings below competitive in tech salaries. We make do, but for now we cram the time together before I must return from portable disability to fixed labour law compliant behaviour.
It feels like visiting another life. He emphasizes “Home”, wanting me to feel that way, and makes every pain to make it that comfortable, but my practical roots are still paying $1000 to share a two bedroom with a friend, and my brain still parks myself there at my legal address. Home isn’t where my heart is, but where my childhood teddy bear, resting on my pillow, and my mess and the clutter I am still struggling to grapple.
With him, I think we have started to escape the honeymoon extra effort period. Even as he continues to dote on me, this feels sustainable. We have passed the first year or so where everyone is on their extra best behaviour. But, with the matter of the extreme step of moving to make this permanent, my life is an Elizabeth Barret Browning sonnet:
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors … another home than this?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese 35
I think I could be happy in this quiet domesticity. Working on writing projects on my computer. A farmer’s market in the morning, doing our laundry in that continuous cycle of always being more to do daily, and making us meatballs from scratch for dinner. He puts up with my criticisms of his bachelor kitchen patiently. It’s not the franks’n’beans and no paper towels squalour we stereotype men with. It’s the not having to answer to anyone but yourself- so there’s a kitchenaid mixer, but the grater has a crack in the plastic frame, and things I take for granted aren’t there. And yet… Sure he has less cake pans, but he owns more pots than me, in fact in many ways more things on hand than I do. Deviance in our kitchens is more personal preference than otherwise. Though my tools tend to get junked when they break, I am still getting my shit together after what amounts to 5 moves in 10 years.
The steady progress here says that in another while, there will be a move there, too. All the things I established in Vancouver, my nest, will need to be upended, those possessions that transformed money into comfort and convenience winnowed for duplicates and storage. I am a person who wants roots who has lived relatively rootlessly. I wonder now, if my nest making was foolish and I should have expected to be shaken loose from each new home in the speed I did.
There’s a bit of care there, on my part, sensitive to feeling less than in the totality of the measure of our lives. Though I apply therapy to my insecurity like an ointment, the thought is ever there with a deep penetration. Reader, if you came here to see an ice and leather goddess regiment worms under her boot, or see a woman drift guilt free on a tide of consensual exploitation, alas it’s been ten years of disappointing you and counting. here, we have naught but the neurotic and horny, a fiercely distrustful and scruffy mélange that leads me to only half facetiously say I’m certified femdom trash.
Tea and Travel with Femdom
Before we left Vancouver, we caught a comedy show and before that, high tea on a comically low table, again. We went to the same place as last time and yes, they seemed to remember us. This time the server didn’t kneel to set stuff on the ankle high table they parked us at, further hinting the vibe I picked upon last time was the sort of passively acceptable little consensual extra. It’s context dependent, isn’t it, the way a little, non-telelogical flirting is inoffensive? I hate getting emails from strangers calling me mistress or goddess, but playing along from a polite distance always feels more like finding the staff strewed your honeymoon suite with rose petals.
The venue made the tea well and scones wrong, remade a second time with much fluster on their part. The first effort came out closer to cookies, flat and burned on the bottom. I continue to flaunt my lifestyle, flirting with bad taste and thumbing my nose at people who think my existing in public while openly kinky is a blanket enforced invitation to participate. Maybe the venue speculates I am the dominatrix who brings her client to tea, but fuck, he wears a suit to these things and that’s no less fetish gear. Possibly more, as I know more people attracted to men with strong opinions on those clothes than I do people jonesing for the so called fetish looks.
My garb as not as dramatic as the “is it fetish or fashion” latex in public last time, but I played to ambiguity in a form fitting leather look dress and my faithful pleasers. The day Shoefreak.ca offers warehouse appointment try-ons, I am going to go bankrupt. This time, perhaps to make up for the scones, when they learned it was belated Valentine’s day, they sent us off with a little box of lindt chocolates shaped like desserts.
We hit the road the next day, and arrived without issue, but for the summer itself
When I arrived, the heat and it’s humidity, already pestering me in Vancouver, massacred me. It took the first third of the visit to acclimatize. My obsession with the weather lately is something I non-metaphorically wonder is OCD, checking the forecasts on my phone and planning my physical comforts and tasks days in advance. And yet, Autism doesn’t fuck around and let you ignore your sensitivities. Summer is my least favourite season, for while I am cold sensitive, ultimately the annual sharp pains in my hands and feet, and the dull wet-cold ache in my bones don’t compare to the sensation of my skin being covered in an oily powder that makes every microhair on my skin prickle. In the heat, especially humid, the idea of pressure, of the straps of lingerie or of latex, mades me want to scream. I wanted to lie, naked in the dark, with an AC soothing a body that’s showered every 4 hours.
I hated it. Neurodivergent people universally seem to resent this restriction on our ability to live. We might be better at reconciling our way of being social among others as less diversity than disability, but there’s no negotiating when the lights are too loud. You can check out, disassociating in the face of pain, but that’s no way to experience life. Though I want to swan about all ornamented, ruling him with pose and poise, latex or bodysuits, for the first part I largely retreat to lying on a fuzzy blanket in front of the fan.
This climate intrusion seemed to retreat, after a while, and we settle into a low stress routine of sorts. In the mornings, I go with him to his very expensive fancy gym on a guest pass, him unstintingly paying my way. I trudge on a treadmill, trying to force sluggish, heavy legs and tight chest that they want to run for half an hour straight. It does not, and musters little intervals, and I coax it along, trying to convince myself the reward is in the constancy. Dear reader, you know I am nuts, and my mental health intersects with any health issue I have that doesn’t manifest only in my brain. I am, however, blessed that I seem largely unbothered to be fat or slim, only in wanting constancy.
In the mirror, my blessed by genetics ass wobbles in my tight spandex. In a Kink Engineering catsuit, the atelier gave it two deep pockets at the butt which are fitted to my actual measurements. Off my body, they are collapsed like deflated balloons. On it, they split and lift the cheeks, the zipper going into almost thong-intimate depths. It is, I am let to understand, an Eastern European typical ass. Whatever it is, it showed up at age 12 and makes it hard to find pants and one piece form fitting dresses that fit. In the gym, it sways and wobbles. Sheathed in something that fits me, I make a terrifyingly high contrast picture.
When I decide I want to put it on that aforementioned catsuit, I am still bothered by a migraine. This disappoints me, but I find that space of trust to recover. It’s a safety Silver builds for me, with me, and in that certainty of his compliance, I order him to care for me. Gendered shit: it’s not that boys are terrible, it’s that the kind of trauma women and femmes get give us really low expectations. I have eldest girl syndrome, high standards for myself, a little resentment but also the ego that comes from a moment in time I was the most important person on the planet to my caretakers. Silver, good boy, middle child but eldest son, navigates my currents and insecurities with a thoughtful yet smooth expertise. Massaged, ridding my body from neurological rooted pain, I am smoothed into that catsuit with a gentle ease.
There’s an art to getting into the damn things comfortably. Customized, this one’s easier than most, but it’s all too easy to get it hung up on a bit of me, so the slack isn’t where I need it. That’s unusually the worst on my shoulders, where rubber will often leave marks, if I haven’t done a good enough job inching it up my legs. He smooths everything up, delicate with the stretch. I think how my real skin can take more, even as I bruise and the shiny black doesn’t.
Pleasure in and out of latex, and the complexity of desire
Just being around Silver, in his apartment, flavours our play. This temporary co-residence selects for less planned escapades. At another time, a dungeon or a hotel room creates its own world, a third party in the tempo, tone and planning. With constant access to him perverse impulses, and the birth control pill double up together. Most of the time, sex, in the manifold ways you might define it, happens, spontaneously, in all the rooms, excepting that weird oversized closet with the water heater and the washer/dryer. Granted, there’s the extra comedy that a come on for us includes me asking how his butt is doing right now. Some impulses can have dubious prizes. But, the unplanned can lack a certain erotic tension, familiarity precluding certain flavours of romance. Extra preparation breaks a complacent pattern.
Silver is well trained by my likes and dislikes, where to touch, and how hard. In turn, we have our own language, built of insider reference and shorthand phrases to mean big feelings. We are that couple of disgusting adorableness, crooning “Love! Love!” back and forth in a babble. We are also the couple that can match the mutual commitment that latex sheathed, he is going to be subsumed by the interaction of my beauty and his fetish. I will it, pushing his ever waiting service mindset, nudging him to surrender to it, to show his appreciation. I like pushing him to places of single focus.
He makes his best effort, unselfconscious in his submission, while my mouth runs a litany of reminders. You love my ass. It rules you. Surrender to the latex. I am drowning out any other thoughts that he might be distracted by, turning off everything but the now. The talk doesn’t need to be clever, indeed it’s literally mind numbing. And, in turn, I remind him of his fetish, because I find it endlessly hot. If there is a metanarrative, me, with my unfettered brain overthinking this, even as his face is blissfully pressed into the perfect inky gloss globes of my butt, or his mouth is nibbling my tight wrapped thigh, it’s that my want for him to want me like this is probably even more powerful than his latex fetish itself.
Likewise, I have watched a craving grow in him, for sex in the more conventional sense. It is not that it feels good, as there’s an infinite scope of ways to enslave his cock via hand, sleeve and vibe that probably knock out the lesser flexiability of my pussy. And yet, the psychological power gives me a thrill as he admits, as we tangle together in bed, me tormenting his flesh with pinches and kisses: “I want to be inside you”.
Other femdom couples, the kind you might see in porn, put their emphasis on other things. Making him confess to some degradation or another. But, with Silver there’s nothing more vulnerable than that moment he asks for an escalation.
Begging, for example, doesn’t come naturally. If “No” is said, no it shall be. He doesn’t ever ask to come, either, except at a point near it being involuntary for him due to my command, practically preemptively asking more for protection from disobedience than the orgasm itself. But oh, the thrill of those little moments he will open himself to getting a little bit more.