Friday Femdom Fiction: Experimental Purple Prose

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Naked.

She pulled him hard, by a handful of hair at the back of his head, a rough yank to expose his mouth for the kiss, and her lips met his, tongue fencing tip of tongue, the same tongue that talked with sweet and sharp word and found the fountain spigot that set her cunt trickling clear and sticky. Here, now, she found his cock, and her grip cradled, clenched and pulled back and forth that the middle, just below the too sensitive head, but above the balls beneath.

Unbroken by the challenge she made, he took her by the shoulders and shoved, back onto the soft bed. His own hands found her slit, with the pads of his fingers crooked to tease and test the wet state. Fitting them inside her, and then into the mouth that had just stolen a kiss from him. Grazing her lips, then, with a glaze of her own other lips and meeting the gaze of her eyes until her frustrations and the promise of what she might do to him forced him to look away, fearing now, and feeling the rake of her nails on his broad back.

“I want this,” she hissed, finding his prick and replacing her hand, using it as if it were the lever and the bed they rolled upon was the fulcrum; the fixed point by which she could move the world. Or at least seek to make him move to her whims as she made what was erect in her grip plug the wetness that continued between her legs.

Guttural breathing, him on top, her parting herself, kissing. They fucked like snakes, more twined together, bending and wriggling, than slammed mammals. Her curved body soft at the places she swelled, but hard where bone made delicate looking hollows; him sinewy, long and lean, her legs wrapped to keep him in place and him sliding, belly to belly, back and forth. She engulfed, pleasured and trapped him twice, inside and out.

“More, more, more!” She always wanted more, whether she swallowed him into her slick gullet, teeth coyly sheathed; wrapped him in slippery hands until his semen spurt brought him back from demanding a double grip to hiding, shrunken in one hand; or like now, where her cunt muscles devoured. Her hips tilted up, lunging, her hands finding light ways to hurt and leverage to take what she wanted.

The same fingers that had probed her cunt were now tamed into helping bring about a body spasm that started inside her, shrill calling, her cunt becoming more intimately aware of the part of him it had borrowed and was using. She wanted him to stay hilted until the last shudder finished, taking in a suck of air between her teeth as the energy of her excitation defused.

And then his face was turned away from hers again, into the pillow, two exhalations and then a male cry, matched with a final surrender as he stopped pulling back, away and accepted he was helpless to hold off coming. She never felt the splash of semen at the moment, just the aftershocks that shook him gently in her arms as she held him to her, and then the seep as he stayed buried.

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I wanted to get back to the spirit of Friday Femdom Fiction, which was supposed to be more spontaneous and less polished. So you’re getting something experimental this time.

Light BDSM With A Lover

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“If you wanted to torment me, blindfold me and tie me to the bed and force me to have an orgasm with the (Hitachi Knockoff) vibrator, I wouldn’t mind,” the request is made as coyly and casually as he can manage, couched in terms that let him pretend he’s not asking for a very specific scenario.

He doesn’t like to ask for things- but then again, neither do I. For me, I deal with it by hinting, coaxing or just flat out taking. He’d been toying with trying to seduce me, little misbehaviours and touches for the last day or so. I’d noticed, but I’d been careful about the bait- he’s been under the weather and I’ve started to second guess myself, not sure if he’s doing this courting because he’s ready or because he feels like he should be ready because he cares about me. (Holy first world problems, Batman!)

At times like this, my body is at once throbbingly libidinal and jealously guarding that same energy. I certainly wanted sex. I’d spent the morning of that day intermittently wandering out onto the sun warmed back balcony, looking at down at where a pair of young men were pulling apart a brick patio- gloves, t-shirts and well fitted jeans on slender, muscular bodies. They didn’t seem to notice that I noticed them, the handsome one in the grey shirt, kneeling and pulling up red rectangles from the spring damp ground.

I thought about something cliche, taking him for an anonymous fuck that made him feel used, working out the logistics in my head: the condoms, the communication, the nail scratches on his work dirtied skin. Then I put these thoughts out of my head because something, beyond the challenge of the chase, is off. I don’t typically tell Wildcard about these momentary distractions because I don’t know how to convey that when given a sexual choice that doesn’t mean  either/or but also, I still want him more. The presence of attractive men makes me grumpy that they are not him, and I don’t like admitting that. Given free reign to fuck any man I want, I find myself recoiling, not even mustering up the enthusiasm to flirt. Even weirdly resentful.

But that night, after a morning of fuzzy headed domestic productivity and little in the way of writing, I’ve put those thoughts away. I feel, and dismiss, the sort of pressure that suggests a migraine is looming, a throb in my sinuses and behind my right eye. I’ve been moody again, slow moving and prone to looks of introspective sadness that leave him asking: “What’s wrong? is there anything I can do?”

He feels responsible when I look that way, like he has to find out how to take me out of my head and back into the moment. It’s the sort of relationship thing you discover is important when you’re an adult. But my mood is my mood, and I don’t want to deal with that, for the moment, and so I find the wound up cloak of my aggressiveness, the thing that blankets comfortably around me when I dominate. Casually, I select a candle from where it’s resting in the clutter on his bureau and tell him to take off his shirt. White paraffin lit with a red lighter is then tipped over his bare back.

The little drops cast a shadow before they land, making it easy to guess where you’ll see a splat materialize. I test them on the back of my hand, and pepper him with wax drops. I know he likes the sharp, quick and hot pain on his skin. It’s a cheap trick, but all fetishes are cheap tricks and easy shots, the sex version of knowing where someone hides their spare key so you can rifle through their home unmolested.

His back is like leather, for whatever reason, probably just one of those genetic quirks. When we were first discovering each other’s bodies I wanted to hurt him, to see if he could deal with my level of sadism, and sunk my sharp nails next to his spine. He gave a deep sigh and relaxed, his taut shoulders loosening. For Wildcard, that was just the right amount of pressure to deal with his constant knotted state.

Watching the wax fall, it lands clear and hardens in white, fuzzy edged blots. He shifts a little, and I know he’s enjoying it. This is light BDSM, nothing terrible or complicated, no fearsome scourges or complicated rigging. He’s not even tied down at this point, although his arms are held up and well out of the way, but his head’s going to the right place. It is, as it should be.

When he drops, it’s always very subtle and achingly vulnerable. He lets the tightness of his body’s assembled parts relax and folds down, head dipping and nuzzling against me. His large eyes will half lid- decadent, his guard down. I flick and peel most of the wax off his back and make him stand to brush the rest off, and I can feel the lightest pressure of the connection I’ve just built.

If you were into woo, or magic or tantra, there would be some poetic insertion here about energy, or sacredness, or waking the goddess in me. I’m an atheist and left stumbling around with half remembered undergrad psychology lectures and the sort of inaccurate drug metaphors that hint the closest I’ve been to getting high is wrinkling my nose at someone else’s pot smoke.

Nonetheless, I feel in control, and push him back onto the bed, climbing on top, my eyes meeting his as my hands find and capture his wrists to pin him. He doesn’t like meeting my gaze when I get like this, as much as he likes the dominant part of me- it’s like looking directly into a light.

I tease him that I’ve never really hurt him, and he tells me that just my eyes are scary. He knows I can be mean, but I never force him past what he can handle, and yet the way my eyes look are a reminder that this rigidity is always there.

Wildcard’s a switch- he knows what it’s like from the other side. He’s made those eyes at me and dealt with the fact that I don’t look away and I don’t inherently find I want to, not with anyone. We navigate it as a power game. I know from experience with him that one session like this will discharge his submission and he’ll flip the other way, joking about spanking me and possibly doing his best to make that happen. I look forward to the play scraps in the future, but tonight, wriggling up against him, I can feel the hints that he’s aroused by what we’re doing and still hoping for the reward he hinted for before we started.

I tease him, threatening to not carry it out, tasting the power to say no, but I enjoy it, tying my soft red scarf over his eyes and buckling him into dark leather cuffs and clipping those above his head so his cock is mine to tease. We use slippery, cool lube from the pharmacy, Life brand “Intimate Fluid”, less viscous than ordinary KY, trickling it into my palm and in a wet glaze over his penis, pink and shiny like he’s just pulled out of my cunt or he’s breaking a world record for volume in pre-cum. I use my hand first, before I find the toy. I watch him wriggle and tell him I miss seeing his vulnerable eyes, now hidden away under the scarf and he tries to assure me I can still see his mouth.

The strong pulse of the wand works best squashed flat against the middle of his penis, my other hand curved to cup around, so I can feel the tremors and better jerk him up and down. When he comes he utters three sounds, starting with “Oh…” the two other words too garbled to make out.

When we started doing this he used to utter “Oh fuck!” just as semen started to fountain. Like he was holding a particularly awkward and fragile object that just slipped his grip, or he was startled to suddenly be aware he’d came under these circumstances, his whole body jerking forwards. I don’t know if he’s consciously decided to change what he says, but it’s the selfsame ejection of warm cum, three strings spurting, onto his furred stomach and my fingers.

I let him relax, and sort out the business of the cuffs that are holding his wrists. Kleenex blots away the evidence except for a little residue, and I wash my now slimy hands as lube and cum cool and curdle. The icky part of sex- but not a bad part. Sex is not supposed to be sterile or dignified.

He wants to be a good lover, so he does his best to try to make me come, touching and stroking my body, bringing his mouth and tongue to my nipples. He knows how to do this, but I never got rid of the migraine. Instead we talk a bit, and then my headache spikes and it’s his turn to dig into my back, massaging until the stab behind the eyes fades.

Tomorrow, he’ll help make me come, selfless about his own pleasure as the wave pattern of my own orgasm builds and my mind still carrying the lingering traces of the things I did the night before, but right now he gives me what I need in the moment and exactly what I want. The pain in my head fades and in the dimmed lights, bouyed by the warmth and the weight of the blankets, I sleep with him, in his bed, nested like lego bricks.

BDSM can be a lot of things for people: structure, an escape, release or catharsis, a way to be someone or something different. For me, it’s intimacy.

On Being a Femdom Unicorn

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So, the thing about being a non-pro female dominant, especially one that’s vaguely conventionally attractive or has something approaching a civil personality, is that you are, in effect, a lot of people’s unicorn.

The problem with being a unicorn, is that it often ends up being an unlikely stand in for an actual fully fleshed out human being. For example, if you’re a femdom, some guys go their whole lives dreaming of someone just like you, while trying to convince other kinds of horse to wear a horn for them. Many of them have come to terms with the fact that they’ll probably never meet a ‘real’ femdom, and may even be convinced that the only way they’ll ever touch one is if they pay vast amounts of money to rent time with, or share her. You’re elusive, mysterious and probably, in their minds, just about mythical. They may even have their own personal beliefs that only someone who is true and pure of heart in some way can attract you, or draw your true form, where it was trapped in the body of a normal women, or come up with curious theories about your motivations and powers.

So, it’s not unusual for sub and switch identifying guys to flip their lids on meeting me. Heck,  a lot of these guys, still unable to imagine having me via the limits of geography or age, seem to be brightened just knowing people like me are out there. They’ve caught a glimpse of magic, and that’s enough to help them believe. You’d think it would be endlessly great for the ego. I’m special, right?

But the flip side about that is that you meet a lot of people with big expectations for what it’s going to be like and no ability to deal with the real you. These guys basically have put so much time imagining what unicorns are like, and what they enjoy, and how to make them happy, that when one comes clopping into their reality, said unicorn can find herself simultaneously fawned on… and rejected.

It’s lonely.

You see, with no actual experience with unicorns, theses guys have done a lot of thinking and planning about what it might be like. With all those poor other horses that just couldn’t measure up, any problem that appeared was blamed on the lack of a real horn. Meanwhile their expectations for what unicorns are like has been entirely fed by art, and stories, and poems, and people who do a great job wearing the horn for love or money and know all sorts of pretty tricks. Unicorns are imagined as trip-trapping about on rainbows, milk white and glowing like the moon, magnificent, fierce and deadly. Your average random unicorn chaser is not quite ready to deal with the fact that his unicorn might in fact be a piebald hack with a pointy bit.

And if you are a femdom, that horn just grew there and it’s not like you were trying to be the Twilight Sparkle of sex on purpose. It’s not particularly magical for you- often it’s been a major draw back in relationships where the guy wanted a delicate foal to tame with tenderness or some mane tossing pony or massive and sturdy plough beast. But try as you might, that horn was always poking in ways that couldn’t be ignored- that thirst for submission demands that even a genuinely awesome vanilla boyfriend couldn’t quench it. Quite likely, you’ve tried all sorts of things, from wrapping it in a pillow to filing it down so you could be just a normal kind of horse.

But the unicorn chasers aren’t actually natural unicorn riders- the thing that you are looking for is just as much a unicorn for you. So it’s very easy to find yourself a chaser who gets desperately enamored on the spot and… fizzling out as soon as they actually realize that horns are kinda sharp and ouchy. Or who is so into the fantasy ideas that surrounded their idea of what a unicorn is, that they start dressing you up in a desperate attempt to make you fit- a little glitter here, a little hyperbolic behavioral attributions about your “piercing dominant gaze” there- and you’re left with the guy still asking you to wear a fake horn over your real one.

You also get very familiar with people who have thought long and hard about how they are going to deal with the horn, but have put no thought into the rest of the animal- for example shyly explaining that they’ll try any of the fetishes they think you have, but they can’t promise they’ll like them. They’re just stuff that they heard comes attached along with the horn- yeah, they’ll *try* strapon sex because that’s how every femdom gets her kicks and how else will they end up in women’s panties? They *suppose* they like the idea of being beaten or forced bi- it’s always been hot to masturbate to, so, yaye? You get a lot of people who think that just having a unicorn shaped hole in their life will cause you to embed, like it was a you specific vacuum.

Or they get super into it and then burn out, because they are trying to be the perfect sub… and then poof, the day in, day out aspect of living with a unicorn means that they realize that anything magical was very common place. And being a femdom, in real life, is just like being a regular kind of horse, only stabby. And sometimes you end up feeling that a lot of people would rather want a femdom unicorn they can’t have and imagine the stabbings, than deal with the inevitable hooves, tail and impalement every day.

Catamite Pt. 23

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The dormitory reminded him of something between his childhood and his days at university. There was the same jocular brotherhood of close quarters that he remembered from his early school years, but although he guessed most of the men he shared the space with to be a few years younger than himself, they were definitely adults.

They were housed comfortably at four men to a room, each with his own bed and trunk at the foot. The other men were friendly, although he felt like perhaps he got a bit more space than they gave each other, marking him an outsider but not unwanted.  When he first arrived at the facility, Annette had been greeted by Chloe, and then left him in the custody of her servants with no indication of what his purpose for being there was.

Chloe was a Foreigner, whose presence only emphasized the educational atmosphere. Like most of his teachers and caretakers at his childhood school, she had skin the colour of molasses and wore her hair in an un-restructured halo, cloud like curls coiled about by a single braid that went around the crown of her head. She was dressed as a lady, trim and tight waisted in a suit of grey charcoal wool, a bit boxier in the shoulder than the current fashion, but giving an affect of gravitas that extended into her obvious leadership of the place that now housed him. He guessed, by her face, she might be in comfortable middle age, but then again it was hard to tell with Foreigners, who lived as they pleased. Unlike the rest of her kind, she affected not specialness from the social protocol, even going as far as wearing the gold band of a marriage on her hand and none of the other symbols they used to indicate the complicated interpersonal relationships of Foreigner culture, although Annette and the Foreign woman’s staff addressed her as Dr. and not Mrs. Dr.

When she had departed, Annette had taken a moment to put her hands up on his shoulders and remind him to mind himself and look to how he was taught. Then, one of Chloe’s servants led him to the dormitory, and there he’d been housed for the last 36 hours. His box of things was delivered, and he discovered, packed in it, someone had put the book of photographs from the colony in with the paper and pencil box that Annette let him have.

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Teasing Wildcard- Femdom Sex and Lovelife Updates

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I want him to want me. It’s a powerful ache, indistinguishable from the sort of desire people would think of as “horny”, a straight trip into wet and throbbing, with a scenic view of my ego, made on a road paved with my vulnerabilities.

Usually, it’s easy to make myself happy without another person- anyone with a decent supply of pornography or at least an active imagination and the capacity to orgasm can take the basic pressure off. Desire for desire and power games are why I bother with other people, rather than just fucking myself. Well, that and falling in love, but the body urge that sustains it takes its power out of the first two things.

So I seek and touch and look for cues that my effect is working. I adore grinding up against a man, him feeling the unmistakable roundness of my ass with all those stimulating places on me pressed to his groin, letting the muscles of my thighs work, up-down, pushing against him until I can feel that familiar lurch as his weight starts to shift onto you as he weakens with lust, and the way he reacts when you pull away.

I often dress to please myself by pleasing the eye of person I want to tease. I got lucky with bodies, or at least I think I am blessed, breasts and hips that do as they are bid and few overwhelming hangups- enough of a little of everything like tools in a kit: sharp collar bones, pale nipples, nipped waist, cream soft thick thigh and thin wrist and ankle, enough that’s average and exaggerated to let me play with both. But I like my body best when it is being a lure. I like to feel like I’m hunting and baiting and my skin feels shivery and fitted best to me when I pull his gaze.

Like all things to do with sex with me, it’s unnecessarily complicated and personal. Wildcard reacts best if I initiate sex, but is very coy and careful- tug or pull the wrong way and something tears or breaks and the immaculately self contained facade melts into water, rushing out or becoming un-graspable as he slips away completely into himself. I did not pick a partner who came prepared to surrender, but one who has to be lured there.

He speaks in subtle things, but seldom seems to notice little touches, or prefers to pretend he doesn’t feel the hints in our brushing legs or my fingers on his arm. I can kiss him and still feel a distance. At times, to push past this, I am blatant, outright forcing him to look. Last week, feeling impish, I set him to the task of preparing dinner and then joined him, stripping off my clothes, layer by layer until I was naked except for a line of black jewels down my sternum. It was my pleasure to touch him how I wanted but deny him, and delight in his aggravation when I added high satin pumps to parade my nude self past him, hearing him groan. “Oh come on!” before he followed me around trying to get my denying self to give him some release.

Often, he ends up on his back, my hand circled around his cock. He takes the gentlest stroking, like some sort of fragile creature. It reminds me of holding a snake, the way that it is at once clearly rigid, and alive and able to give and shift and respond to your warmth, but the skin is so velvety, the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I make him beg to cum, sometimes pressing him between my breasts, or adding a palmful of wet and slippery lube or licking and sucking him until I’ve made him wet with me.

And he just can’t resist. And for me, that desperation is downright addictive.

On Scamming Findoms And What They Say About Femdom

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Money!Brace yourself, I may bloviate a lot here. After a discussion on fetlife about malesubs being irked at all the scammy women demanding money just for declaring themselves to be dominants, or to consider a guy’s submission. If you’ve been living under a rock, this is a thing. It’s a thing far more than the minority of male subs who fetishize handing over cash for whatever reason. So, why is it a thing?

Well, outside of the fact that humans are inherently scammy sometimes, there’s a number of factors going on here, which I’ll do my best to unpack.

The jist of the problem boils down to 3 things.

  1. The popular perception of femdom as a vocation, not a sexual orientation has re-enforced the idea that asking for money is the norm. I talked about this problem already here, regarding the confusion between pro and not pro.
  2. Female desire is being presumed to be either identical to whatever the sub wants, or to be absent from the interaction by default, part of what feeds into cause #1.
  3. There is limited information about kink, so people looking to become active this way have to deal with the challenge of sorting through all sorts of different norms, some of which are based entirely on fiction, and/or contain attitudes that re-enforce cause #2.

I’m not personally opposed to sex work, but the specific problem of findom-as-a-scam thrives because there isn’t really a clear separation of expectations that presume that a female dominant is not serving male desire. The barrage of ‘sex me this way plz’ messages are the other side of the same coin that allows women to announce that they deserve cash for absorbing oxygen- it’s one where female desire has otherwise been taken out of the equation. Or, to be exact, female desire is still there, but a little bit of ‘lifestyle’ polish on a professional is like a porn star having an orgasm- the desire exists only as it conforms to the package-able script.

Precisely speaking, findom scams are also the cousin of the beatings-for-housekeeping deals. By these, I don’t mean people who enjoy service, which is glorious good fun, but the all too common case where men feel like they’re making a trade of service for what they actually want- and I don’t doubt that some of the women are enjoying the inherent power of having a houseboy, but I’ve read all to many accounts from women ending wryly with that they’re going to end a session feeling vaguely used, they can at least get a clean kitchen floor out of it.

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How I Learned Modesty

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Image by Susan Rosen

So, me, the blogging exhibitionist, developed a sense of physical modesty to enhance my sex life. As an experiment, it not only proved completely possible, but I’m finding I’m enjoying the results.

This may seem like the exact opposite of a positive step for someone who values sexual frankness and freedom- after all, “modesty” tends to be the baliwick of people who are doing it out of religious subcultural affiliation and it tends to have a bunch of unfortunate stereotypes on board about body shame. But modesty is also about control, either artificially imposed on someone or imposed on the self. and when you fetishize power it’s too tempting a toy to pass up.

Besides, there is a certain tension inherent the commonly covered body that makes you keenly aware of bared skin. It sensitizes you to touch, to the the slide of fabric up your thighs and off your shoulders. Whether the brush of air or fingers, it’s part of the sensory buffet that’s part of sex. I do not suggest it for everyone- for some people always being brazen is better.

But, Wildcard and I have one of those complicated dynamics that are inherent in the fact that he’s a switch and I’m a dominant sadomasochist. Asides from adorably awkward attempts to navigate each other’s comfort zones, since he’s the kind of switch that doesn’t prefer to be in one mode in exception to the other, and I balk and get prickly when my sadomasochism moves into more than a temporary defeat, we both seem to keep things in a comfort zone where we both need to feel we effect the other and a lot of the erotic charge comes from the resulting sexual tension.

One of the things Wildcard brought to the relationship is a particular fondness for forced nudity, an exhibitionist thing based on control of gaze. He’s very equal opportunity about this, just as happy to strip or be stripped. It’s nice to get to play with a set of fantasies that I enjoy but are not my main set and he makes them exciting by how they are shared with me.

Yet for me, it provides an extra challenge. A lot of kink related to power has the paradox of wanting something you don’t want (or wanting the person not to want what you are giving them). I am the aforementioned brazen by default- body shame isn’t part of my general makeup. It is not in my nature to be easy to get at, and yet I also enjoy getting attention, especially the kind that makes me feel in control. A reasonably portion of my sexuality thrives from baiting an aggressive and more predatory streak in my partner and watching how that plays out. With Wildcard, nothing faked was going to cut it and he already knew I was happy to lounge around naked.

Nothing by real coyness would do,  and for that I first had to break the assumption on his part that he could take my nudity for granted. I put on clothing on a regular basis, for the first time since I moved out from my family, adopting a regular winter habit of comfy PJs. When I changed for bed, I did it in another room or ordered him to look away, while I changed. It wasn’t about what was wrong with my body, it was about how it was mine. It didn’t take long before I caught him disobeying, and my very real reaction to that proved I was taking it seriously, so of course he began to take it seriously. I like feeling like I can frustrate him, and like I have a means of denial, but also that I can tease and the risk that sometimes that can be exploited.

As a side effect of making sure I was covered, it meant more mindfulness about the subject and more attention about what and when I was on view. Of course Wildcard knew I was doing this all along and why. The results, since I started the experiment, have been very entertaining. Now I want to see what would happen if I put him through the same project.

The Scars That Contain and the Scars That Sustain

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Today I’m going to talk about scars. Not the flesh kind that give the physical body its unique character and where an injury didn’t quite correct itself on the skin, but where the scar is ripped or worn into your psyche.

Reading based on stereotypes, it’s not a ‘done’ thing to be a dominant and have been an abuse victim- not unless it’s well into the past and you are speaking from a place of power. I’m not old enough that my relationship mistakes are youthful foibles compared with my current conduct. I went through a really, really bad relationship and it ended at the start of last year. The impact of that lives on.

I can’t masturbate while someone fondles and touches me from my right side. That’s the legacy from my Ex. Being touched that way was a typical conclusion of sex I was profoundly not into, and the flashpoint for one of the major sticking points of the relationship, my ability to leave into the inside of my own head. When things soured, I was too pissed off at his mistreatment of me, and him too selfish about my needs for us to work well as a couple, and I was too terrified of dealing with him and how treated me when he was upset to want to address my anger- besides, I fundamentally had lost trust of him and thought he didn’t care about my needs.

So we had a lot of sex based on me being annoyed that my orgasms were slaved to his, and that I had no choice- I had to come to get him to fuck off. It was an earlier trend- when our relationship was mostly cybersex based, when I wanted to sign off and go to bed he would make sad noises at me unless he himself was physically tired enough to sleep and emotionally satiated- and he needed to know I had an orgasm in order to not make noises of distress at me, distress I found almost impossible to respond to. Net result, a bad trend that self replicated through our relationship.

Why I was dealing in defensive mode with him all the time is partially where he had demonstrated himself to be frightening to me, and partially from scars that were cut into myself by earlier relationships. Likewise, the endless need to fix and tend is a part of my personality that seems to be my biggest strength and one of my biggest drawbacks.  I’ve talked about the darker side of caretaking already, but more personally I know damn well that my childhood was the textbook of how to raise someone particularly inclined towards the sort of victimization that happened to me. Getting away from my Ex meant referring back to where I got my first scars, and learning where I’d learned to be helpless.

Because I had a family life that taught me I was needy, undeserving and my feelings didn’t matter, it was easy to accept a relationship that was like that. Living with a parent who was mercurial with their indulgence and gave out affection and attention only with a  heavy toll later in accusations of being demanding; who enabled and modelled accommodating abusers; and who taught, early on that I was only there because I had a need they couldn’t stop themselves from filling, as was everyone else, gave me the sort of scars that teach you to accept abuse, and to try your best to be an every full vessel for others to drink out of.

But getting free also meant escaping another sort of scar, the kind intimacy leaves on everyone.

I don’t feel this gets talked about enough with advice about breaking up, but relationships thrive on comfortingly familiar patterns. The way your bodies fit together, the way you learn to talk beyond words and the way that the other person responds. It builds a bond and in that bond people end up tied together as strong as an addiction. Love is wonderful and terrible, it grows where it shouldn’t, the roots burrowing in and cracking apart what seems like perfectly sensible social constructions, or holding together edifices that have no sensible or sane business being upright or together.

It gets some lip service that breakup advice tells you to take some time off, two weeks being the standard time keeping, to accept that you are not in your right mind in a parting. What popular culture doesn’t tell you about is what to do when a person who is bad for you sucks you in easily. It is mentioned as weak and silly that someone’s words can sway you, but never why you might want to return to something you know to be terrible. My Ex and I developed a cycle- I would get some time away from him and stop feeling so emotionally exhausted I could think again. I would feel better and happier than I had in months, like a weight was taken off my shoulders. Then whatever was keeping him away would end and I’d start feeling a full body sensation of frantic panic, bracing myself for when he’d come back and I’d be smothered again. I’d use the remaining solitude to try to escape…

Only to get sucked back in as soon as he was in my life again. A little bit of contact and I went from solid and upright, to crumpling down into a doll-person who couldn’t do anything but react. The least bit of positive overture from him was like the rush of a drug. I wanted, more than anything else, to be wrong and for him to actually care about me as a person. Since the work of being a relationship with him generally left me with a patchy support network and limited resources, I ended up being hauled back in.

Or I would try to break up and somehow shut down, my head screaming “no, no, what are you doing?” and I folded up where I needed to be strong. I know in hindsight that some of it was that the deck was stacked with abusers tricks- that he would fuck up shared expenses to keep me broke and then arguments would tell me to physically get out of the house, that I had no personal space or room for myself- but that intimacy groove and his ability to maintain a pattern kept me locked closer than if he’d leg shackled me to something.

Meanwhile our fights got less and less rational and his behaviour in the relationship incrementally but steadily worse. Eventually I gave up and hid as much as I could, losing a summer to hiding in fantasy games with strangers where he couldn’t get to me. And we fought, but I was past exhausted and straight into numb- I could no longer perform as he wanted me to and I just lay flat out and cried helplessly while he tried all the tactics to try to get me to do what he wanted. I was pretty much sucked dry- I didn’t even feel miserable anymore as much as numb.

But this complete surrender ended up giving me some space- the online environment give me some friends beyond his reach, Strong became among them. Strong was, to be frank, blanketed in need. Without going into the intimate details of his life, I began to interact with him as a tool to motivate myself- I never really got beyond my base over-nurturing tendency but it was part of getting distracted enough that my ex faded into background noise. Strong was tempting in a way that reminded me that I had alternatives.

So I fixed my life- I found a job, started stockpiling money, started getting exercise every morning and trying to look after myself, and started taking long walks in the evening, talking to Strong to push the walls my Ex had built around me. I tested myself, repeatedly, making myself do physically unpleasant things as a sort of inoculation, telling myself that the actual breakup would mean the same amount of discomfort. Until, eventually I broke away like a person fleeing the country, and I was gone.

But the scars he left remain. Dealing with my Ex was always very unsettling because I was never sure that my backbone would hold. Fortunately for me the fact that I was helpless enough to need him to the degree he could control me was an elaborate fantasy he had built in his head and got me to buy into- independence gives great perspective. He stopped sounding like he had anything positive to offer and started sounding a little unhinged- joking about putting a shock collar on me so I couldn’t run away became an all too real, literal interpretation of what he wanted, while efforts to offer me a loan came out as bald faced bribe that disrespected the fact that I made my own damn money.

But in the most fragile few months of building that solid space, a fair quantity of credit has to go to Strong for being distracting. Simply keeping me busy, alongside preemptively blocking my Ex’s ability to reach me were two things that mattered more than relying on raw willpower. But it was amazingly hard- even though all talking to my Ex meant being unhappy, a part of me stubbornly wished that I could just talk and be friends and it would be okay. Knowing about that means self loathing and guilt- fighting that’s taken many months

It took a long time, about half a year, to get to the point of being able to feel better enough i didn’t tear up anymore. And even now, with Wildcard, I still find little landmines leftover, scars that are rough, echoes of the past. He occasionally ends up asking “Was [Ex’s name] literally an ogre?” He sees me flinch at something, finding a splinter from the past lodged somewhere tender. It can run up against my prickly sense of independence- if the Ex did anything it was re-affirm my early lessons that my needs were my weakness, but now I have to unlearn that, soothing what is hard scars with something to soften them so I can unbend.

I don’t want to be a person who can’t relax and rely on other people, it’s literally insane behaviour and it’s going to take me a long time to let go, if I ever can completely. I might be a dominant by self description, but I’m not some unassailable bastion of good sense.

But all the scars from my experience gave me one other gift. Knowing the hard way, where I was vulnerable and my Ex hurt and held me stuck to him, meant that when the time came to pay it forward I knew how. So there’s that- my escape let me serve in vigil to others who needed the same framework and support- and frankly, distractions. And that is the upside of the scars that never leave you- the lesson you learn doesn’t either.

He’s Been Feeling Submissive Lately

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Wildcard saw me typing away on a blog post comment the other day, (this one actually), and when I turned and smiled to reach up and touch him from my nest on the couch, he leaned over and mimed typing with two fingers to add random content to my post.

“No! Bad!” I grabbed him by the robe, near the lapel and at the waist below the belt, and tugged him down over my lap, landing then playful spanks through the terrycloth fabric.  He looked amused, but compliantly flopped.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes. I will never write anything ever again,” he announced solemnly, as he rose back up.

I hesitated long enough to give him a look, pulled him back down and flipped his robe up, landing the next series of blows on the thin plaid fabric of his pyjama pants, “No! That’s not it at all!”

After a time I paused my spanking again. “There. Have you learned now?”

“Hunt and peck typing is bad?” He opened his eyes wide and innocent, making a stabbing gesture with his index fingers.

I made a grumbly noise in my throat and hooked my fingers into the band of his pants, pulling them down to expose his ass. My strikes went from pats to swats, and he buried his face in the couch. He’s never a very demonstrative victim- you can never really know for sure if he’s having fun, but if you watch him closely, you can see the way his shoulders move and how he relaxes into it. It’s the same coziness of a hug.

Each time I got a silly answer I intensified the strength of the blows until he conceded that editing my posts was not a positive quality, a surrender made mostly because he’d run out of funny comebacks.

It was one of those happy little moments, like a few days before, when I’d leashed his brown leather collar to the bed with the help of a rope and metal clip, and then bound his wrists with bondage tape so I could tease him.

I made him fuck the rippled, massaging inside of a Tenga Egg, half using it to stroke the length of his shaft, half making him thrust into the slippery channel I’d made with my hand and the toy. He had to beg to come, stretching it out until the orgasm was so intense he got a cramp in his foot, and I’d made him promise a forfeit: I got to take naked pictures of him..

This weekend, I made good on my threat, dragging him, nude except for the brown leather collar around his throat and made him pose, threatening him with all the places I was going to put his pictures while he stroked his cock. It was massively erect near the end, leaking a few drops of shiny precum- and he was absolutely gorgeous in the pictures.

Sexual desire makes  sort of vulnerability, especially when you can make the person pose any way that you like and he knows it. It’s all pouting lips and wide but shadowed eyes. I have a favourite picture in my collection of him, his hand on his cock, and my hand on his neck, shot to show his body and a glorious expression of helpless desire.

So yes, it’s been fun.

10 Smart Blogs You Shouldn’t Forget (And Why!)

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Broken Crockery Award For Special WebsitesLists are trendy right now, and in honour of that (and for those people who go under appreciated on lists and break crockery so they can feel better), here’s a peer nominated list of 10 smart blogs that have made themselves unforgettable through their writing. Whether they specialize in self examination or dirty word porn, or just give an inside perspective to trying to do sex right, each writer has made their mark and should not be forgotten.

In No Order Of Importance, Because I Want To Keep My Friends

  • Girl On the Net Girl on the Net provides a great intersection between accessible kink and sexy writing, with a smart, thoughtful approach.
  • Hiding in Plain Sight Probably one of the most valuable things to other kinksters is raw, honest disclosure about what it’s like when it does and does not work, not just where it feels good but also where it hurts. Perverse Cowgirl is completely candid and open, with good insight into her own vulnerabilities.
  • JTRevener For one reason or another, you don’t seem to get as many blogs from the position of a sub identifying male that are also writing on their perspective as a sub, irregardless of his relationship status. JT makes himself as open and accessible as possible, and he’s not afraid to stand up for himself either.
  • Switch Studies As a bisexual switch, this blogger has a great perspective on the diversity of approach in kink. It can get way to easy to get caught up in your own version of doing things, and Ginger’s blog reminds you to be a little more flexible about other people.
  • Not Just Bitchy Stabbity might characterize herself as ‘rage-y’, but her think outside the box approach to the kink standards we take for granted is briskly refreshing. Someone’s got to do it, and she does it with panache.
  • Becoming Her Slave Another active sub male voice, Giles of Becoming Her Slave deals with one of the most common conundrums in kink- submissive men with loving partners who may not necessarily identity as a dominant.
  • Femdom Resource 99% of the traffic probably comes from people looking for his massive archive of other people’s art and writing (woo community service), but Paltego’s experience driven blog is worth taking the time to read.
  • Dumb Domme Sometimes what kink needs is not taking yourself so seriously. As her tagline says, D embraces the “intersection of femdom and fail”. For me she was one of the first voices I encountered that agreed with my belief that dominance does not give you magic competence powers.
  • Sex Blog of Sorts Sometimes simplicity is at the core of smartness. This blog is completely new to me, but comes highly recommended. Less kink and more sex romp, the writing here still makes it a great part of the blogging landscape.
  • Domme Chronicles Ferns is the moderating executive with a ban hammer that makes several online kink groups behave, and she’s generally got a sharp eye for what the latest discussions in F/m are. As a result, she not only gives great insight into her own life, but is plugged into the hottest, freshest topics.