Taking My Submissive’s Virginity & My Feelings -An October Visit to Silver (Part I)

Taking My Submissive's Virginity, mending buttons, different ways to dominate him, and love

This is going to be long, and entirely true, a diary trying to fit three days into some coherent narrative.  After I started writing I realized the average reader didn’t want to gobble up several thousand words in one post, so I’ve broken it into parts.

The button on his coat set itself free, and I took the sewing kit he never used, but had in stock in his usual bachelor practicality. Then, with a needle and cuss, I mended it.

I said it would take two minutes, and it was more like fifteen, but I was happy to do it all the same. My slightly more than weekend visit had been an indulgence for me, but it’s in my nature to find pleasure in the smallness of the mundane.

When this happened we were a few hours away from carting me off to the airport, and the two weeks of confinement I am enduring while I write this. The obvious response on my part, with very little time left, was to have a “what does this all mean?!” relationship conversation and follow it with a blow job. I might be a bit of a yoyo sometimes.

After I talked about hard questions, like where this is going, desire followed. Posed like a man proposing, one knee down, one up, I suck his cock into my mouth. While I do so, his hands grip the marble edge of the counter behind him. He’s holding himself exposed and vulnerable for me by instinct, and more than a little conscious commitment to the spirit of the law, if not the spoken letter. I haven’t told him to act as if he’s invisibly bound, but he adopts it as naturally as I stir need in him.

He always submits to me.

I think, given a choice, he would prefer a hand job. This blow job definitely isn’t about what he wants, more satisfying my own cravings. I like using my mouth. I’m not so skilled, but the nerve endings and the taste, from oral, are both deeply gratifying to me. So he surrenders to this, accepting his place is to be used how I feel like it.

This time, to my delight, he also makes  few thrusting forays, fucking my mouth. If I was a bit more relaxed I would rub my clit and come with his cock in my mouth. I like his taste and shape, and how he feels, even after four days of exploring desire, he still gets fully hard inside me.

Unfortunately, for various reasons I am still holding an unplaced thread of anxiety, and yet, in his company he has made the pain and half body cramps of the migraine I have had for 4 weeks finally leave me. We’re in a pandemic and work (in an office, back in Canada) is bothering. A doting, beautiful submissive man in another country is a treat at the best of times, and an extravagant luxury in the current circumstances.

I took my property’s technical virginity.

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But why won’t she dominate me for free?!

It’s the week before Locktober, that month when all good boys (and bad boys) hope that a somebody in the spirit of the season, will help them enjoy a little tease and denial.

Net result, a slight uptick in men wistfully publicly dreaming of a bossy lady taking charge, being the approximate equivalent of Valentine’s day for femdom. “Is there a Miss, a Mistress, a Ma’am, who would want little old me?”

And that trots out the same old wishful thinking: what if, out of the blue, a woman wanted to take charge and provide the denial role for one, or a harem of men?

And of course the usual insistence is made, that she be really, really into it and prove that by being free.

Thence comes anguish, why is easy to find femdom only for sale?

Ok, let’s unpack: Why not? What’s going on with all the sex work attached to femdom? Why charge? Why can’t straight guys easily get someone to dominate them for free?

The lazy answer I get is that there’s a ratio imbalance, and in the same breath, that femdoms are fake if they ask for any remuneration. Sites catering to such dynamics, but with a low barrier of entry rapidly clog up with a soft whine “are their any real dommes on here who don’t charge?”

While sex work has always included people who were indifferent to through to disdaining the tasks that make up its labour, I posit rather that the circumstances that make any sex work exist are largely compensations that deal with both the variable artistic quality to audience demand, and the lack of protections for promiscious/ sexually open women.

What does dominating “For Free” mean anyway?

The fantasy of “Free” is that one is so attractive that without the use of currency, one’s partner is so enamored of a person that they fixate and tend to your particular need, getting back warm and fuzzies or erotic hurrah sensations in reply.

Next door to the Free argument is that your own inherent attractiveness should be payment enough- assuming that money makes any social interaction complex and insincere. Ironically the claim is often that it cheapens things to bring money into it, placing the presence of a dollar figure as below priceless.

So, let’s unpack the Free = Authentic false belief, that anything we are passionate about we cannot receive currency over.

I mean, obviously that’s bullshit, we use giving people things including ludicrous amounts of money, as some of the most ultimate measure of someone’s worth. From the bloated salaries of corporate executives to dropping a tip into the hat of a street busker, money means you approve of a behaviour or person.

And, what about me?

I believe the prodommes who say this is their sexuality because I try to take people at their word, but also because I know my own erotic creative overlap into sex work is both a labour of love and a thing I like to get paid for.

So- I enjoy writing fiction, but I am good enough to do it for $$$ so I also do that. Selling my fiction, as well as giving my femdom stories for free, both give me warm social fuzzies.

Let’s be 100% cards on the table. I know that my fiction (and writing) causes both orgasms and emotional feelings of comfort. Both bring me positive attention, and knowing people do donations and kindle book sales to support my sexy art tells me I am special and popular and people love my stuff.

If I didn’t market myself and aggressively pursue attention, the nature of the signal to noise ratio of online content means my work (and thus my voice) would probably go unnoticed. I am loud and have confidence in my value, but more than that, I want you to notice and read my stuff.

That’s a lot closer to the reality of professional femdom.

A lot of what you are paying the pros for these days is availability, risk management and sustaining the lifestyle to do the whatever. I do caveat I ain’t a pro and the pros speak for themselves better than I could, but I am a femme human and being sexy is dangerous… and expensive.

For example, costwise, just as a sexy lady making just herself happy, I have spent about $1000 on lingerie and fetish wear in 2020, almost half of that on latex alone- that’s on top of the hair and makeup- and I’m pretty frugal for a woman who bothers to dress up. On the safety front, I also have to be paranoid and secretive- my overt presence, even an erotica writer draws both social condemnation, persistent sexual harassment, and depending on my visibility, ever increasing threats. 

Death threats, boundary crossing attempts to find and force a personal relationship, you name it. Being female shaped, particularly sexually in public and pestering and wishes for violence happens, largely unchecked, except by your own actions.

Put a face picture out there, and the abuse and negative attention increases exponentially. Sorry, that’s the breaks, not only might people try to shame and hurt me for having my sexuality, but for not hiding it well enough.

I also spend a couple of hundred dollars a year on web hosting for my blog- although not as active as it was, traffic isn’t free for me.  Living, itself, isn’t free, and I am compelled to occupy myself working some way or another to pay for everything.

The Economics of Being a Slut

Sex work tends to exist in the overlapping area of being on the edge or past mainstream acceptability, and significantly limits your options for most women if you are found out. That being said, it isn’t the easy industry the average misogynist seems to think it is. As much as you see a sea of lingerie clad “fakes” doing drive by insults, the economics of sites like OF is that most of these women are losing money.

No really, unless you are very good at marketing yourself, sex work isn’t just real work, it’s got a very poor pay off prospect. This goes to conventional old school porn, where being an actress meant neither controlling any part of the copyright or distribution (much less royalties), to the realities of things like stripping, or even the so called full service sex work.

Leaving aside discrimination on the basis of looks, and the usual ugly age/race/gender biases in paying porn… Payment takes both luck, sales talent and a number of factors otherwise typical of any other business.

If you add up marketing effort and work out their hourly, for most OF models, it’s actually a significantly worse take home than grabbing a few hours at McDonalds or similar. They are, in effect, giving a product partially for the feeling it gives to them in pursuing the dream and maybe a pay off.

Ok, but prodommes?

Domination-for-pay has this factor too. You are managing a client base, advertising, etc… probably trying to juggle complimentary revenue streams (eg clips, phone sex, etc…). It’s likely that you are renting a dungeon by an hour, if that’s expected (although some obviously own their own space), buying and maintaining gear, etc…

None of this is required to be a dominant, however. But, it is required if you have any hope of making a consistent amount of money. And the money pool is small- only a slice of guys can afford either occasional or regular by the hour “sessions”.

Prices go down, ironically not scaling with the actual work or risk. Indeed there’s a certain unfairness that the people in the highest prestige positions in sex work are likely to get the treatment of the most legitimacy and ease in crossing into work that isn’t stigmatized.

I don’t think adult content consumers realize this.

A lot of guys assume that because there are many pros they can see advertising that they are a licence to print money- its not. For a minority of women you can make a decent middle class living (or even be wealthy), but like vanilla modeling or being an instagram influencer, it’s not exactly the most reliable pay off. 

Sexist idiots, in particular, labour under the idea that all women enjoy a sort of sexually motivated UBI. I don’t think I need to spend much time combating the delusions of misogynists with detailed facts and citations, but I do think it does help to look at the ingredients on the salami even if we don’t tour the sausage production facility.

The other sad truth is that the encouragement to go pro can sometimes be a form of self defence. To be a sexually out there woman means wrangling all the same creeps, and putting a price sticker on it can simply be a means to sustain a literal lifestyle that’s incompatible with being perceived as socially acceptable.

For example being doxxed won’t go any better/worse for my lack of official sex work. I’m still the nasty slutty pervert lady. Femdoms exist in a perfect storm of representing a certain phobic projection to a certain kind of man, while getting smacked with the “whore” stigma, is it any wonder that real or not, they charge?

So why don’t you go pro, Miss Pearl?

In my case I don’t do prodom work, but that’s partly because I don’t have the attraction to the scenario that would involve. Am I asked to? Frequently.

The overlap between dominatrix as a viable commercial archetype, and my sexuality is not close enough to justify it. I don’t dislike all of it!

For example as a writer, even in erotica, the hot thing is incest. I could write incest porn and more people would like my work better. But… I dun wanna.

I got out of vanilla copywriting because the pay to effort was shit. I don’t write incest porn because my personal perception of it being gross (victim of real life incest) isn’t worth the uptick in happy readers.

For me, the other askew is I don’t personally like the two conditionals of pro-domme work, both the necessity of certain conformity, and an availability that makes me squick hard.

Conformity isn’t falseness.

I am overdue to write about the other femdom audience. It’s a whole essay on its own, that we exclude women in conversations about our own physical and aesthetic presentation… even though we are actually the (snrk) dominant voice by dint of the whole nature of contemporary gender roles.

To put it on a napkin: although the economics make male patronage favour certain modes and aesthetics, whether designing, assembling or performing the aesthetic, fashion is a woman’s language. It is so female coded that men existing in our spaces as creators and taste makers cannot escape at least the presumption of queerness.

Nailing that down, it hits the artists dilemma: what sells is nessarily pragmatic. Just as the technically submissive enjoy more real power in a BDSM sex act by virtue of the fact that that their submission isn’t passive, he who pays the pegger picks the pipe.

Where we go wrong is saying that he composes the entire scenario. It is possible that clients can create it as a form of vanity theatre, the Sun King (or Sun Kink, if you will) in the centre of his ballet of courtiers. But, again, composers, costumers, set designers, advisors, etc… all express various points of agency.

I am no baroque ballerina, but that is a lot more personal pathos than a dislike of every bit of dance. Supposed social structures and group participation in a whole, to me are fundamentally a reminder of my being broken. Trauma or Autism, I cannot hear the beats that everyone else seem to.

I mean, this makes me a unique kind of fraud, because I pass pretty well as a relatable rebel. Only once you spin out the #fuzzyslippers and #pyjamadomme to its extreme, I fall out of step with the chorus.

I am correct that the monopoly that the current structure has on defining femdom (looking at you Annie Nomis, you Academic Elise Sutton) is hot garbage, but “Real Femdom” is just another trap of limited definition. I am not going to be any more happy if the entirety of my sexual performance is directed by that norm set more so than the Dominatrix one.

Back to the point at hand, however, that norms, themselves, help us bridge the gap of communication with the unique selves. Costume, title, tool- all are overlays onto bridging the isolated self into the other.

I am reticent to admit but one of the places I am most able to connect to others is through my sexuality. The intensity of the moment, a free ability to suddenly lose the bewildering metaphorical wall of noise that most people are and just be merged as the self overlaps over my victim is a sensation of joy beyond my body.

Some sort of conclusion

When you pay a sex worker, they are no more or less fake than anyone you interact with. What you are paying for is the risk and the effort involved to make themselves work for you, outside of the pure creative work.

Being upset people ask for payment is being unaware you exist in a world that largely caters to your desire and asking for people to make it even easier for you- there would be more out there lifestyle femdoms… if you dealt with that pesky sexism problem.

Hypnotising My Submissive At The Park

The more you desire me, the more obedient you become. The more obedient you become, the more you desire me.”

Initially, the syllables don’t flow easily, but the loop pleases me. After I’ve taken him down with simple breathing exercises, timed with counting, I make him repeat them until they come out in a smooth mantra.

He is so relaxed in my arms, I am cradling his head, controlling how he flops back onto the bright gingham checked picnic cloth. It’s about two in the afternoon and we are both making the best of things on international territory, a park that lets us be together in person while a border is mostly shut.

To anyone observing, we are one of the many couples here, in their invisible bubbles, slithered up to one degree of intimacy or another. We are not the most bold, that point goes to the wriggling pair who brought a blanket, nor as practical as the two or three who brought a tent. I don’t think anyone could be brought up on a public indecency charge, but it’s a common state of shared longing.

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Making My Submissive Fuck A Fleshlight For Me

Caption: making my submissive fuck a fleshlight for fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Property Fills and Sucks At My Command

He’s bent over the table, the largely featureless black dildo well engulfed into his mouth, base steadied with one hand while the other edges himself at my command. Around his waist, straps further anchor an inflatable plug, sitting with a ring set such around the root of his cock and behind his balls that both are delivered up invitingly.

Silver is American and lives somewhere in awkward, but plausible visit distance from my own base in Vancouver. This was perfectly ok for a weekend long visit, until Covid19 happened.

The border has sealed itself to non-essential travel and it is thus months before we can expect to satisfy our mutual yearnings. A global pandemic doesn’t care for young love, much less the kind that stubbornly won’t call him my boyfriend but uses the L word, and professes to own him.

Pretty much from the word go, or honestly beforehand hand, based on his behaviour, he handed control of his orgasms to me. For Silver this has a distinct psychological effect, taking him from a dry sort of delivery of witticisms and reserved fiestiness to a more open and needy state. Both versions blush easy, but Priapus doesn’t have anything on the eager, thick erections a week or two of nothing but edging gives him.

Covid19 nailed both of us at about the same time, despite being apart long enough to have gotten it from separate sources, and what had supposed to be a little interlude ending in an orgasm at the end of March hit a hiccup where lust wasn’t really something either of us was inclined to feel. Now it has passed through and so a game I had started in mid-March got an extension.

He has dutifully banged out over 10k words in the last short span, the price to be set for consideration for an orgasm. I am happy with him.

I told him that regardless of completion of the goal, on Sunday he would be filled up at both ends and edging – I prefer tasks like this, that help improve my property but also aren’t a chance to fail as much as a chance to succeed. In the meantime, after we cleared our respective cases of Covid19 he has been locked in a cycle of getting turned on by me and edging himself silly.

I test him with sadistic talk, asking what if I didn’t let him come until quarantine was lifted? We don’t know when that is, and the border prevents even the least contact until then, so we are already luridly imagining that intense moment. Until then I am using technology to social distance, amused by my governments explicit suggestions that you can still be together, even apart through video chat.

My remote control ravaging of his body is the patriotic thing to do.

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Silver, Before I Kissed Him

Before the aesthetic of New Years Eve demanded a kiss, we had a first play date.

My first time in your apartment, I have teased you with a simple key necklace through the morning and previous night. I wonder now about my choice to play with you, as you whisk me away after social brunch in your car, but I have always had the ability to make adventures out of even mishaps. If it goes wrong I will laugh later.

It does not go wrong.

The purpose of this is couched light and easy, a bit of beating for me to blow off steam, nice and casual.

Getting to know you this way, you want ritual and you bring out bits of fantasy I didn’t ask for, but do not mind: submissive posing and acting just so. You kneel beside the couch, not on it until I pull you up, like you were a pet someone else house broke to have such good manners. When you do that I briefly imagine what other hands you were under where you learned that, like a third time shelter rescue with an inexplicable fear of orange shirts.

This is not the first time a partner came so pre-set, but I don’t find it as off putting as it had been with him.

I told you to wear a belt I could beat you with. You want to have tea for me, waiting on any little desire that you can please me with. You are more desperate for me to give you my needs than you are for an orgasm.

Meticulous control. You need to perform with a constance, like a shark always swimming forward. I hold a brief bit of intimidation in my head- two perfectionists squaring off, wondering if my skill will be disappointing, and I find the core of control in me, and with it confidence. Men seldom scare me.

I ask you if I should just follow my instincts or take things one step at a time, and you pick the first option. Good.

That’s probably the moment that undoes you, later, when you literally and metaphorically fell for me.

Down, your back on the carpet and I straddle you. I don’t think you have ever been touched that much by a woman. Pressing, seeking, exploring. Your hands are freezing and I put one to my neck and one to the dip of my waist.

I massage you and your back pops like firecrackers on a string. Your nose hovers inches from mine, but I won’t kiss you this time. Your body is mine now, and you have never been an object of this kind of desire before.

You stand in the trance of your own amazement, and although I do beat you, there is a moment that surprises us both where in our place on the floor the caress of my body against yours nestles the shaft of my tall, sleek black boot against your groin.

You press and are lost, rubbing, begging to come. I am a little flabbergasted at how early you move for this and tell you- ok but if you come, there goes your submissive feelings and I am not done beating you up. Was that what you wanted?

The possibility changes your intent, so you prove yourself a liar instead. He who said he was “not really a masochist” is back, bent over his cool granite counter and starting to shiver as my hits take your down yet further. You love this and the pain. You pass a test you didn’t know I set for you. I need you to want it.

I prefer masochists who get hard from my torture. I have never been attracted to the ones who endure just out of service.

And, a surprise: You bought a crop for me to use on you and almost sheepishly suggest it is available. I am perplexed of what to make of this. You are like a cork pushing back up against the water, a buoyant thrust back into my hand.

Normally I toss anyone who tries to back lead out with the brats. But… this is a lot more anticipation of what is incredibly useful, with the reassurance of an optimism you say you don’t understand. I don’t understand it, I am pessimistic and holding my needs and full self with guarded care.

I have a tiny little orgasm grinding and straddling you. So be it, this desire. I want you.

I offer you an orgasm, opening my sheer blouse. My breasts are, I wonder, an allure or just a way to show you another intimacy? There is a language here. 

I see your cock for the first time and you are notably pleased at my declaration of enjoyment, “oh my!”

We have not still kissed and I am sprawling on your carpet while you kneel. I touch myself, mostly those freed breasts. I wonder to your thoughts.

Later you will tell me you shocked yourself, at the electric moment when, earlier, you ground yourself against me, then met my eyes, saw not just my consent but enthusiasm, and from thence you were lost.

This is something incredibly new to you.

Aftercare has a stiffness to it. If we had opened with an elegance where you had knelt and cleaned my boots with all the polish and charm in the world… Here, when you are unsettled and I am still holding you, I find more I approve of, and more of what I need.

We have a simple dinner you buy me. I let you do what I usually won’t let, paying. You want to give and give. When we discussed this when I propositioned you, because of the ridiculous world we live in, although you didn’t ask, past experiences told me to tell you up front I wasn’t a pro dom.

My transportation home is delayed by the wet weather so you take me the three hours drive home, then back. I almost say no, but catch that before it lets me say otherwise. Three hours of pelting rain discussing old sci fi and fantasy. This is probably more open than you have been with anyone in a long time.

I think I like you as a person, at least the parts I have met, or easily sussed out, for all you hide them behind a seamless sheet of smooth granite. But I am still playing wait and see at this time and later months will take things further.

Valentine’s Roses From My Property

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

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

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

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

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

I want him to tell me when he is ready.

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Eating Ayn Rand

He is an eager puppy, and everything I do is wonderful. I am not particularly surprised; this has been the nature of my interaction with the opposite sex, at least since nerdy boys discovered nerdy girls. They become stunned and impressed that someone else simply exists as she does.

I cut my teeth on boys like that, and I could call them chew toys, but that doesn’t really get across their nuanced feeling, because it isn’t contempt. I perceive them as humans with inherent worth and dignity and yadda, yadda.

But sometimes that is the enthusiasm in the proper consent to abuse them in a way that you both want.

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New Year, New Me, New Rules

My break up is not something I will particularly touch on, other than to say we wanted different things, and I wish Brick the best in future. Me, I have been processing it as a series of feelings, largely as an immense amount of vulnerability, a bit of cumulative damage to my self esteem, and a few conclusions.

Whether or not I actually make use of these lessons is an experiment in free will versus disaster planning, but whatever.

One of these is that I absa-posa-lutely should not do any more rushing in anything, regardless of whatever my heart decides for me. Several choices over the course of my life have been made on the hinge of the closing door of my last relationship. These choices seemed temporary and laced with hedonism, only to morph very quickly into responsibility. That is a kind of love, but one where you end up singing Joanie Mitchell songs about Clouds.

Here is the gut truth, over several relationships: I seem to like high strung men, and the nurturing is a part of my attachment. I do not think I can change my type there. It does, however, cause certain trends that repeat over the last decade.

I am going to make a slightly more selfish and self contained path in the next six months. No relationships, lots of exploration. That isn’t to say I table the idea of settling down forever, but I want to experience being single.

Even if my heart attaches itself, as it is wont to do, nothing worth it requires me to cast off all balance to claim it. Dates, dance classes, flirting, fun. Busy, but aware.

And more writing please. I miss doing that.

New Years Eve, A Sub & A (First) Kiss

Finding another kind of fireworks with a submissive's first time

Silver sits, stiffly, in a chair in a circle of the first comers to the party, and stands between the protection of a tall fan, and the edge of the television, his back to the wall. He is immersing himself in the gathering like a too hot bath, with the lure of my presence to bait him out and across the long drive over the border.

I promised him his first ever, real kiss, for New Years Eve. I wasn’t planning on moving that fast, still covered in Brick dust, still reeling from by what at turns was ripping off a bandaid and putting a kitten down, but when you find out that you have a perplexing puzzle box of a guy who is at once about the same level of perversity as you, has pursued it, and… has made it four decades without a kiss on the mouth, the Aesthetic demands sacrifice.

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