Leash Fantasies for Him

My arousal is a suffusion from the nape of my neck to my knees, a warmth and skin hunger that buzzes away in my breasts and the softness of the inside of my thighs. I think about a thing he doesn’t want to do and it is erotic.

At the party, I took his necktie, parading him about with the enjoyment of my casual ability to inspire obedience.

Blame a friend joking, oh no now that we’re dating “[Brick] wrangling is your job” and that I got the leash now. I sent back that nobody told me there was a leash in full enthusiasm, kink hiding in the plain sight place we use humor to fig leaf.  Hahaha, you want your boyfriend in a symbolic costume of  servitude, a base state where you can pull a band and make him comply.

I think, naked. It’s my fantasy, though there’s a pile of edge play that in real life would be negotiated and blocked out safely, here I can have my audience to his helplessness.  Here I tell him to put the collar on and clip the leash in place and there’s no self conscious echo in my own head… but only if you want to, right?

Hey, it’s a fantasy, it doesn’t have to be real. I can put all sorts of scenarios. Porn likes losing bets to create this sort of thing, but I could have mind control powers I’m using to break him down if I want, make him helplessly watch as he does the thing he doesn’t want to do and fastens collar about his own neck. Kneel. Surrender.

Brick doesn’t like it. Doesn’t come easy to him, doesn’t know how a lot of the time, good natured about it, but not necessarily comprehending the depths of the metaphoric rabbit hole.

So he finds it distasteful? Tough. My fantasy, he has to.  Has to be naked on command because seeing even a shirtless picture makes me catch my breath a bit. Mine. Strip, slut.

I like the idea of leaving him with an in his head defiance, an awareness he is being forced into it. I like puppet play, where the victim knows what you are doing is wrong but can’t help it. I want it. Actually that real resistance becomes another toy in the toy box.

Trawl through my fiction from a young age and surprise, lots of tall, skinny redheads.  But the real? Fantasy screams to break him, tie him, chain him, find out what takes to make him beg.

Lust is a heady, heavy body grabbing sensation, a hunger I can self slake temporarily, but that wants to devour someone else.  I want to treat Brick like a sex object,  and while he’s used to being found an object of desire, I don’t think full on sex slave is part of the repertoire he’s tackled before.

No, no gimp suits, none of this boys are icky never gonna come while the bull fucks me. No, Brick’s the man other people see as their Bull. And you know what? I’m the girl who sees that and thinks about how to put a metaphoric ring through his nose.

I’ll lead you to market.


The image in this post was borrowed from here, where you can buy a leather english bulldog leash and collar.

Puzzles and Problems

It’s there, but goodness only knows where it is. No amount of standard levers will shift this particular boulder, slap him, push him, sit on him and none of these things push him there.

It’s day 3 of his visit and he’s finishing off the crunchy bakery bread toasts and fluffed up scrambled eggs I made for him. We’ve been having sex in a cycle of squirming, fucking and recovery for the last two days and I am giving my cunt a break after a combination of size and first time tension has left it a little beat up. He’s giving his cock a break, every so often checking it for bruises with the care of a man tending to horse after a hard ride.

Sex Ed does not prepare you for being slick wet with arousal and then the muscles of your cunt not wanting to yield. It doesn’t cover fucking so hard you have to take into account his equipment damage. It also doesn’t cover god damned former LEO using completely non-damaging restraint holds on you so you are forced to return to the mental drawing board.

I think he was a bit concerned that my sadism was going under but I managed to communicate it’s not about pain, it is about control. And a very specific reaction. The sexual chemistry is off the charts, nuzzling, skin and scent hungry. He watches how the lightest brush flushes my face and notes he can smell the shift in me as I crave more of him. I can feel a few little wriggles to get cozier and his cock has started to stiffen.

He goes to cutesy kiss is fingers and then put the kiss onto my lips and finds the wetness as I suck his finger into my mouth. I don’t think he realizes how sexual I am.

Lying next to him, twined up, he sees the mental calculations. He’s enjoying the novelty of a girlfriend after seven years a bachelor. Picky prince, he’s still feeling out the realness, same as me. So much you can’t say over the phone or in text. Can’t show him I can cook. Can’t show him the way his breath on my neck causes me to go into lordosis.

Can’t quantify a feeling of needing power. Brick’s been about a bit, enjoying plenty of creative nerd sex with plenty of willing women, but I don’t think he’s really dealt with my desire to have him.

Also he has no idea how to give up control. He acknowledges my dominance and finds it inherently arousing, and enjoys my cheerful willingness to expand to the limits of what strives to contain me until I stretch it into a skin in the mould of my self.

But outside that minute immediately around his orgasm he has literally no idea how to let go. I don’t think he knows how.

 

Goingto be interesting watching him figure this out.

 

On The Cultural Limits of Conventional Femdom

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.

Ending 2017

For Auld Lang Syne, whatever the heck that means.

2017 is over.

Breaking up with Wildcard has led to a unique amount of closure because it was so non-adversarial. I like to think it was even heathy, if painful. The longer apart I am from him, the more I find myself appreciating him as a person and the resentment I was starting to accumulate abating.

It’s been less productive than I’d like these last few months, but I suppose I have also enjoyed a certain degree of relaxation. I would write, but I don’t necessarily feel the appropriate level of simultaneous distance and investment to churn something out.

I both need to have perspective if I talk about Brick (or anyone), because of a certain degree of shielding I do, but also passion enough to fuel something readable.  I don’t just traipse in and hammer out every feeling in my head here, because while I’m fairly comfortable with my own vulnerability, leaving a legacy of rambling for other people is something that takes more scrupulous behaviour.

For example if I talk in the moment about how monstrously filled with all consuming desire I am, and resultingly how hard an LDR is, in the moment, the whining will be sincere, but in a public blog leave a particular impression. It is not a good sign when your post launches a flurry of supportive private messages unless it is an actual crisis.

I am doing Vanilla writing outside this blog, but my relationship with the erotic is complicated because I have worked out the uncomfortable truth that part of my behaviour is powered by seeking and having a muse, and talking about the slice-of-life sexuality that makes for my best posts, outside of the angry funny ones.

I am so fucking PISSED at the Montreal BDSM scene, that collapsed into nurturing abusive people. Urban Dungeon found a new sponsor and a new name (Le Triskelion), carrying on post rebranding with none the wiser and a fresh batch of victims.

A bunch of people who should know better claim that he has mad amends, and everyone is too attached to having limited venue space to care about the noxious reputation attached. I regret that I can’t stop this trend of actively self harming behaviour, but the whole thing being foul and rotten to the core makes me simply not want to invest much into it.

Although probably getting doxxed by my so called allies is pretty up there in terms of why Montreal needs a break from Miss Pearl. There’s a certain point when people don’t fundementally respect you as a person you can’t help them.

That’s not to say all is lost- I hear amazing things from Tension. A nice, clean, safe rope space- if only shibari was one of my fetishes! Opale cleaned up and gave HK  the boot. But “The Center” and “Le Triskelion” being the babies of people I consider horrible, and the other games in town being mostly oriented around Rope, I am giving stuff a pass.

I’m also planning to move to Vancouver in February. Prepare, I am coming. >:)

I get two kinds of letters as a result of this blog, people trying to hire me for domination services and people appreciating that I put this out there. The latter people make my day (month, really), while the former make me facepalm. If you like the stuff I write, give me money. I love money. But understand I have no business being a professional dominant. The extent I can dabble in sex work is demanding decriminalization, being an ally and writing porn. I’m not a cam girl, findom, etc…

In less than a week Brick visits Montreal. Tuesday he ends up in my large but under furnished apartment. This is going to be interesting.

I have two feelings- the mere thought of his arrival causes instant rampant arousal. Then I get kind of nervous, somehow feeling it won’t be enough, etc, etc…  Not much I can do other than trust that it’s good for both of us to get some in person time where I am not all set to shine like I was in our last flesh-meeting.

I love him, but I also am aware that this is very new, and that I am gambling a lot on an emotional connection. So next week is about transcending that. being me, real and mundane.

Why Kinkshaming Ruins Christmas

Snowy gif used to illustrate conversation on kinkshamingOk, ok that was shameless clickbait. I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. What I am talking about is actually the conversation around “Baby It’s Cold Outside“. There are two camps around this popular carol, one that observes that it is a festive version of Blurred Lines only worse, and a counter point  that it is totally not an ACTUAL date rape in progress, just an old timey courtship that looks like a date rape by modern standards.

The latter is going the rounds of my Vanilla-ish facebook, which I think misses the point completely of the first camp not enjoying hearing a woman playfully plead about not wanting to be there. It argues that “Mouse” (the woman) and “Wolf” the (the man) in the duet are consenting but playing out the script of the era, so to relax. Other versions mention it is a husband and wife team that wrote and originally performed it as if this was relevant.

I have things I can say on facebook- I can say it is problematic because it’s about the expectations of predation, a celebration of an era before enthusiastic consent, the mere fact that the duet parts are named after specific animals tells you the expected power dynamic and so on. I can rebut the fact that trying to defend it because she softens her no to blame other people is bullshit that doesn’t understand how women diffuse rejection to protect themselves.

And sharing it uncritically as old timey fun is how we end up with this rather gag worthy video where Bublé uses child actors to show how cute it is to push past a woman showing she’s not interested. This is probably a more accurate version from Funny or Die.

But… then I also write horrifying kink porn for fun and profit.

The thing that frustrates me is that there is no space to step in and tell people it’s ok to fetishize sexual violence, but you have to acknowledge it as sexual violence. Romance and erotica have always had a scope of displaying everything from full consent to outright rape, and the ability to label things dub-con (dubious or questionable) or non-con (sexual assault) in contemporary porn is part of developing a healthier conversation around it.

It is ok to be titillated or warm and fuzzy about a holiday song of  light M/f.  It’s ok to want someone to ‘force’ you into spending the night with them while pretending innocence, provided you also have the framework of free consent protecting you. The point it becomes dangerous is when you romantasize that being just how normal sexuality works or worked.

And it’s not like this was the distant past- people who fucked in the fifties according to these standards of conduct are still out having sex. Harrison Ford’s Deckard was assaulting Rachel Replicant in 1982 and having it be told as a straight if stormy love story (and his Indiana Jones was paired with someone he first boinked when she was 15 to his character’s 27 to which he blames on her). 80s era romances are notoriously rape-y, hence the perpetuation of the idea of the bodice ripper. The recent spate of sexual assault scandals are all built on the same idea that the enthusiasm of one of the partners doesn’t need to be present either at first or at all.

You, the reader, probably knows that real reluctance or real resistance is a flat out hard stop. If you permit either you have a global dynamic that means that “real” still gives your partners and out.

A safer world means one where we can explicitly say that Baby It’s Cold Outside is about as icky as He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss).  It also means one where we look to why we feel the need to use historicals to tell stories about sexual assault or statutory rape (in the two 80s movies I cited, one is in faux 40s  future noire and the other is set in the 30s, continuing the trend of).

But…

I am turned on by fucked up shit. I also have dealt with harassment and violence, and I don’t ever want to do or experience that shit for real again, and harp on consent so much to stop this from being an issue.  But as far as the complete picture, people like me are left out of the conversation because we can’t be honest about the reason why we are clinging to excuses to share and enjoy unhealthy relationships.

As the various people share that defensive tumblr post on facebook I can’t point out that what they want is a rape fantasy. The fact that talking about getting turned on by consent violations is taboo leads to a really unfortunate, lopsided conversation. The middle path here that lets people enjoy the idea of people ignoring their No while still having it respected for real is missing. Kinkshaming ruins everything and is forcing people who like a lil violence in theirf fantasy life into uncomfortable company with the people who like a lil violence in their real life. Since the latter should catch fire and fall into the sea, this sucks.

If we had a healthier conversation about the role that stealth kink plays in people’s idea of the romantic, we’d all have a happier Christmas.


The art is taken from here.

Fucking Myself on a Solitary Evening

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.

I take a break and message him. He makes vague cozy noises at me. He’s not so talkative lately, having a lot on hit plate before a grand move. I stay away from poking and fussing, I have my own shit to get together.

I recognize that the urge to poke and fuss is not supportive. There are some things he hinted he wants to hand over, in that soft way that people don’t really think of power dynamics in their relationship as kinky do.

I think about his cock, and wish, wistful. Until he’s settled I don’t know when next we’ll fuck.

With Brick away, 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.

Sex with Brick reminded me that if I don’t fuck myself when he isn’t around, that tightness gets worse.

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.

Coming.

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.

 

Corporations Hate Kinky Sex

Credit card providers don't want you to have kinky sex.At the time of writing, Patreon and Twitter are both going through a phase of removing adult content. Patreon changed their ToU, while Twitter has been merrily shadowbanning accounts it deems sensitive, trimming them from the general popular discourse.

Twitter managed to hit historical expert @Whoresofyore during her book promo, while Ferns of Domme Chronicles and a number of other prominent sex bloggers have discovered they have been secretly muzzled. That’s what makes Twitter’s handling of things particularly frustrating- nobody knows how your posts and content pass the threshold of unacceptable. And nobody notifies you. You just need to figure out if you have been silo’d.

This was in the heels of, and overlapping with the Patreon change. Those who make porn remain ever vigilant that the guidelines of a corporation will crush them. It’s old, tired and familiar by now, part of an ongoing trend.

I had been thinking of making the switch to Patreon support, so I could put more effort into content and less into other sources of revenue, both linkbuilding for SEO (which I am iffy about) and the unreliability of getting scraps of freelance story requests. I don’t think that is as likely to be a viable option and that frustrates me. And that’s the challenge here, with trying to make adult oriented, and to be explicit, sexual art. Everyone wants the fucking stuff, but nobody wants to pay for it and admit they want it or give it space in the mainstream.

And when we do try to make stuff easier to pay for, we get yanked around by the credit card providers and financial brokers that underpin the transactions that make this possible. Because they are private corporations, unlike writing to my MP, it is considered to be a privilege to me that a few companies have a monopoly on most of the use of money that I do I and everyone else has no recourse.

The truth is, credit card providers don’t want you to have kinky or unregulated sex, and sites like Patreon are hostage to that. Meanwhile Twitter’s logic seems to be tied with the same efforts to try to scrub out trollish harassing nazis- only they remain more interested in punishing outspoken women than the people who bother them.  And at it’s core it’s a problem with our heavy dependency on for profit business to maintain platforms of public discourse but also the fuzzy moral madness around sex in society at large.

This is part of an ongoing war, both government side, and through the whims of the monopolistic control of private corporations, to decide what kind of sex you are allowed to have and talk about.


Read the full post »

My Take on Cuckolding Fantasies

Cuckolding fantasies are more than just cuck focused“So multiple people offered to throw in cash to get me to go to this event at $nerdhobby, I am so popular.” I’m not bragging, I’m surprised at my popularity and slightly bemused by the absurdity.

His reaction is to miss a beat, face going suspicious, “Oh really? Who?”

“The very gay $nerdhobbyguy, for one.” I know the implication, but I live with it and measure it accordingly. Boys offering you things is kind of par for the course as an extra level of social complexity to navigate. It sucks as an artist of any kind, because patronage is also how we wend our way, and nobody likes trying to suss out if you are trying to fuck me or support my writing. And I never apologize that men want me.

He’s not quite calm about it, not mad at me or displaying any sort of impolite or threatening anger, but outlined to me what it had always meant when he had offered to sponsor a girl, and then realizing that I might take offense either via implying I condoned really low wage sex work or was naive to the ways of the world, falls into repeatedly reassuring me that he trusts me.

Brick, you see, is a jealous man but not a controlling one. He’s liable to characterize it as “protective”, from the perspective that I need to be saved from all attention, pursuit and appreciation. On the other hand there’s a definite thread that we share a similar mean little desire to reject and trammel all over a guy. You’re never going to catch him as the forced bi bull shoving his cock down a would be rival’s throat, but there is a desire to emotionally and socially dominate other men (and in fantasy land probably beat the shit out of them) that pretty much occupies the same space a cuckolding fantasies do in the continuum of things men are socialized to have feelings about.

But, I like watching you fight them for me, even if I want you to win.

I am not one of those people who thinks that jealousy, or any feeling, in the abstract, is bad. I don’t think one’s feelings entitle you to automatically make the other party responsible for them, but I like the honesty and vulnerability in him getting possessive, the itchy fists and raised hackles. It’s hot. It makes me feel in control and turns me on. I enjoyed that Brick’s reaction was not compersion, that mainstay of the poly community, but murder.

I’m careful here, because this is a raw dynamic, which means that it’s his Real Feelings (TM) and could actually hurt him, so I’m not going to do anything to actually harm him or manipulate him. But I like that the script is there. I like the idea of using him as a tool of my sadism and dominance. I think he would get worn out and stressed if he thought that other men were constantly testing the boundaries of his relationship in a way that imperiled him, but I’m still going to enjoy it when it accidentally falls in my lap. And I have more thoughts on that… Read the full post »

And Some Things Still Suck

A good part of my life remains not about the sex, and with my decreased involvement in the BDSM community proper is leaves me flailing about a bit for where I stand on stuff. With Brick it’s something incredibly new, and hilariously, driven by my libido being several magnitudes over his (honeymoon phase he says. Ha. Nooooo this is who I am and that’s with a mild dose of SSRIs and their dampening effect.) But not all is sexy.

So, the family shit.

I am wrestling with my brother having landed in Montreal, sans means of support and in full psychiatric crisis mode.  It’s not easy. Without my guidance he basically flops out unable to even get basic social services, with very little drive to look after himself. By setting hard boundaries I’ve avoided falling into enabling him to just keep up the non-functional life of hiding in a corner on the internet, but in cramped quarters. I’m worried about him being homeless but he is not keeping his agreements with other people regarding couch surfing, so the instant I let him stay with me he will never, ever leave.

The problem is that getting help is a full time job, and he is either too sick or too unwilling to put the effort in to do that, so being destitute is too difficult for him. I can help him with little nibbles, but I can’t really take on supporting a full time adult, particularly one who isn’t going to respond well to me just taking charge. I keep watching other people try to help him via teaching him how to adult and it is very frustrating to try to explain that the fundamental issue here is not that he doesn’t know how cooking works, it’s that he doesn’t have any motivation to do anything.

Brick, very sweet, keeps trying to explain dysthymia to me. He knows what he is talking about (although I do too) but he comforts via giving grounding blocks of information. But it’s a bit more than just blob-mode.

Last night I had to tell my brother that I can’t just keep giving him spontaneous grocery money, that the next level of help I had was a bus back to the Maritimes. With our awful family. But then he wouldn’t be homeless or starving.  Because there really isn’t much in the way of stopgap measures and he keeps telling the social workers he is doing better than he actually is. And even when he is honest there really isn’t much in the way of support for basically anything short of vegetable or dementia case.

I’m trying to be an upright, functional adult myself and it is soul rippingly painful to admit I can’t help my brother. I keep going back to the idea that maybe if I give up everything remotely luxurious we can make a life of it on ramen, with him on a futon on my office floor and it is a really bad idea. He already tried to move in and perma live on my couch back when I was with Wildcard.

Christ, I cannot get away from people expecting me to take charge of them while giving me no cooperation.

I pulled out of the BDSM community because it was watching my partner chase everything but me, or policing people who had, on the balance, no interest in anything but minimal efforts to stop sexual assault and harassment.  My nerdy community is doing the exact same shit and I am very much getting impatient with the local people being non-stop sources of ridiculous interpersonal sillies.

There’s a kind of twisted mirror here about femdom. I have a friend, lets call her Miss Ruffles, a sub. I know her through nerdy stuff, but the overlap between kink and nerd means that the Venn diagram s almost a perfect circle. She’s one of the few people I have met who intuitively knows how to hook into being supportive to someone else in a way that affirms someone’s leadership, without having to think about it.

But for most people, that knack doesn’t come naturally, just like most people hate and feel stressed out by managing. Most power exchange is bedroom only partially because it’s really, really hard to sustain any sort of non-sexual power.

I generally try to keep a distinction between my sexual/emotional kinks and my leadership, but I can see some parallels to a lot of the frustrations doms of any gender have in trying to sustain dynamics with any other leadership role I have had.

So yeah, things are not easy right now.

I think, although I am largely happy, what I need is to be pissed off at people who keep poking me to parent them and absolutely heart broken about my brother.

Honestly, I Need To Get Fucked

Fuck me.I need you to fuck me in a way that makes me want to shred your skin and bruise you. I want to see you vulnerable and helpless and there’s the ache and the little niggling tinge of fear for me because to want something is to let yourself be open to the possibility of not having it.

I want to be able to just take you. And to make you perform for me. I want to lure you in, to learn where all your buttons are, so that I can push them at will. It’s a potent, heady feeling when I zip up my leather boots and you get that look. Your tongue touches your lip and your eyes go unfocused and very focused all at once. If I could bottle that feeling, of knowing I’ve hypnotized you, I would. I could get drunk off it.

You know how it felt, putting your belt over your neck?  Looking at that band of black, bisecting your throat, book-ended by my curled fists holding it to the mattress? Lust. But the confidence you have to marshal up to put yourself out there, that takes being brave on my part. Not much of a come down from no. So much shyness on my side as well as I made you try the new sensation. What if you hated it?

It makes me wet to think about you helpless, but I need your consent. No, fuck that. I need your enthusiastic consent.

Every boy wants a dominant woman, you learn that pretty early. The belief that she knows what she wants, that hint of aggression and violence is catnip even to guys who think they are vanilla. But there’s a trade off, boys get pretty fucking lazy about your sexuality. They’re used to porn and pros, where she’s only so dangerous , always offering a menu he can pick and chose from or a program, neatly planned.

It’s either all in on his perfect fantasy, whether that is locked cocks forever or serving as someone’s stud stallion; or reviewing a pro-dom’s website and ticking off the boxes: smother me with your ass, slap me about but hold the cross dressing. It’s not fake, per say, in that any pro-dom who can stay in business knows how to get in a man’s head. And I can’t fault porn for doing its job well.

You’re not like that. You want to make me happy. Sure you like it when I zip into leather and I’ve learned a few of your other buttons. I’m good at turning people on- a part of this blog is the knack I have. But, I’m the one with the weird fetishes. Who’s pretty much started to believe that most men want to want a dominant way more than they want to have her.

A million blog posts and are extant on sweet talking a missus into a mistress, and here I am, trying to figure out how to fit you into my sexuality with the same sort of gung ho enthusiasm I have trying to cram the entirety of your cock down my throat.  You’re too big to swallow but I want it and I get what I want. I’m going to work up to it.

We trade what we can over video and pictures. I tease you with a little pleather dress that cost me $22 at Forever21 (They’re having a grunge/goth revival, all the stuff that was in when I was in highschool). You send me snapshots of your hand wet with your cum, I debate prying a little into that- I’m almost disappointed when you finish yourself,  unseen and un-commented on because I want to tease you more. That moment just before you come is when I feel the most power.

I’ve gone claw the drapes crazy over you, but it doesn’t make me submissive. Doesn’t even box me back into vanilla, not that I’ve ever been there. So yeah, you said you want me. I told you the whole of the deal, how I want to hurt you and own you. I’m both complicated and easy going enough that it isn’t automatic slave contracts and collars, though sometimes I wonder if this would be easier if I just had an uncompromising menu instead of this crawl-into-your-head-and-control it thing the sexuality fairies gave me.

Oh god. I need your desire.  It’s the best thing, the drug I’m hooked on, filling you up with want, and draining it from you. I want you utterly helpless.

You know that moment when you are most attractive to me is moments before you come and you’re opened up and really feel it when I call you my slut? Sure the sex is good, feeling your body slam into mine, sure I scream because it feels amazing. When I come with you it’s this odd vulnerable makes me feel all small and sometimes you saw I cried a bit.

Because it’s hard to want something this much.  Not just your cock, although that’s plenty nice, but to have you.  And have you want the entirety of me, not as things you have to make concessions to, but are excited about.

It’s really scary. Also I really, really need to get fucked.