femdom life

Scenes From a Femdom Marriage

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We were 3/4 of the way through an episode of Mice & Murder when I realized we were starting to procrastinate on our pre- planned play time. He is going in and out of a doze because he has already seen this episode, but he’d also put this on in the first place after we’d already watched the back half of the prior one and Saturday is definitely drawing to a lazy close with things, or rather him, left undone. That won’t do. I tell him to pause the show and strip, while I start rummaging to find my latex catsuit in the three boxes the latex is stored in. I have wanted to do this since yesterday, almost did it last afternoon of my own volition, but his work day ended early and instead we cuddled with his head against my chest and the stress of things seeping from him in an almost audible hiss. 

It wasn’t the right moment then, not just for his obvious state of stress, but because I have been a bit fragile too. While he would have been able to transition from the vagaries of tech industry imperial court nonesense into helpless little bitch mode, I knew then I would need more emotional uplift from him than he was prepared to give if I was going to hurdle into into the head state to treat him like a besotted fuck toy and not obsess over my own troubles. You can do the surprise firm pounce on a stressed person, but not when you can feel the raw edge that if something goes wrong in your bullying, on your side, you might end up in tears.

Instead, the other day I had vocalized, around previously scheduled D&D sessions and farmer’s market trips, I wanted to take time to do more than the casual default we had gotten into the pattern of doing. This weekend Something More should happen. And it was important I put it on our mental calendars, because we aren’t doing it as much these days, and that’s not what I want for us. 

It’s a hazard, in couples that live together, that kink stops being An Event. Even as you still have the sexual energy of a couple of rabbits, you can just coast on your prior exploits. It’s not a dead bedroom, or a default to vanilla, either. It’s almost that the emotion/narrative of all the elaborate nonsense that has passed between you so far wears a reliable groove where trying hard is no longer necessary. You get the couple version of how you can get so comfortable with your particular kink you don’t need to read the whole story/watch the film/finish the fantasy to come, just the idea of it. In a couple, much as you can look at eachother and toss out just the punchline to a running joke to make the other person laugh, with mutual kink dynamics of any tenure you can just hit one or two of the right spots and bam, you go from slightly in the mood to done, cozy together and discussing what veggies in the fridge need to be cooked up first before they wilt into the trash heap. 

It’s not that that’s not nice, in itself. In fact that’s sort of the ideal foundation, but if that’s all you do, over time it starts feeling like just how easy it is comes is at the expense of the potential highs of putting in a smigen more effort. I’d even told him maybe after an episode of Dimension20 we should play, but now I can feel the inertia of the cozy bed and when I start hearing the little whistle of his semi unconscious breath I know, very starkly that if I don’t say something now, all that is going to happen is some makeouts, and edging session and then I will make myself come and there’s nothing left of the day but dinner.

And honestly I am not tracking this episode either, just surfing erotica on my phone intermittently. I can almost perfectly visualize the episode ending in another 10 minutes, be kissing, and the way that just immediately goes to me coming and then  him making roast chicken and the peach cobbler I also planned. So I take control. The TV goes off. I tell him he is going to help me suit up. We are going to do this. 

Of course there’s another delay. He makes a trip to the bathroom and I need to pee before this suit is going on, so I sort of wait around in anticipation unable to do much else. I am both psyching myself out and being cross enough with my own brain that I am in a simmer of horny and cranky. I remind myself that I trust him and if things don’t actually click this late afternoon it isn’t the end of our kink life. Now he is chilled out enough I can be insecure without is just being a buzz kill.

So, dressing, we talk about how I am worried the suit won’t fit (I am learning to deal with a healthier, but fatter body) and navigate around how I messed up my shoulder last month in a way that compresses my ulnar nerve. That’s been the other major damper on our play. It’s hard to feel attractive when extending your right arm causes immediate 7/10 pain. But the injury is better and the suit fits fine. Kink Engineering does good work and while there is a lingering stiffness on my injured side I can feel from the latex full body squeeze, it’s trivial. 

I remind myself of the same thing I did after our first play time and he drove me 4 hours home. I trust he wants to be here and knows how not to offer what he doesn’t actually want to give. I trust him to be an adult, not a martyr, and a veteran kinkster who long since discarded unreasonable kink expectations. There’s like 5 minutes of polishing and sort of trying to get into the groove. I am still so jangly it feels like he isn’t there, in that mindless lust state, but I am also aware even if he was, my brain is enough of a scumbag to lie he isn’t. So I tell him to choose the position I am going to fuck him in, and snatch the harness from where it hangs in the closet.

Of *course* the dildo I want is missing, and he has to get up to help me find the box of cocks. We go through and “um, pick one of these three” moment with some other reluables, but I find the general, a more implausible toy. There’s my hair and fluff stuck to it and I am distracted by cleaning it. If I was more organized, I would have had my chosen cock in hand before I suited up, but that’s not who I am. I tend to play by inspiration, not a script, even my own. I walk tiptoe to the kitchen sink so as not to lubricate our floor worse from any silicone that drips off me. Silver, out of the three, picks the bumpy white one he usually prefers.

That one is kind of meh for strapon play because it has a hollow core at the base you are supposed to lodge a bullet vibe. I think this is an unfortunate choice, and it makes it worse for thrusting, but I am not going to nitpick after asking, because that’s a bedroom confidence killing move and I did offer. And, in fairness it’s a visually pretty toy with ridges just where they need to be. If the designer hadn’t given it a vibe pocket it would be my number 1 too.

However, at the lubing him stage I determine that his ass, usually drum tight, is pretty loose today. This is incredibly variable, with some days it being a bit tender, too. Not today, perhaps due to the on his back spread V he chose. My fingers just shloop in, as my gloved hand works him over. I can get four to the knuckle easy, his absolute limit on his best days. 

Butt stuff is always a delicate process, emotionally, because even cleaned out you may find something. I can’t even call them “surprises”. That’s like opening your fridge and being surprised it has food in it. Pretty universally, the one getting filled is in a much more emotionally vulnerable place because they are worried about being an object of disgust. But, today he is clean, not even notable santorum. An idea, already planted from my rummage of the cock-box forms.

He is already edging away while I work, as it’s the other trick to open someone up- and every stab of crooked fingers into his prostate is getting significant reactions. Reader, lest you doubt there is anything going on other than this sort of physical mechanics there is significant dialogue being exchanged by way of psychological stimulation, but up until this point things aren’t quite feeling they click for me. When I am jamming him into proper groans I start feeling the connection I want, but it’s still taking a while to warm up.

Chronic pain, body changes, all that bullshit really get in the way. Yet it’s the most pain free day I have had in a month and I am still pushing through the sort of bad feeling hangover. I do end up giving him a few thrusts with the strap-on loaded with his ridgey pick, but this isn’t quite it. I make a judgment call.

The ruddy, plump headed general had already been thrust into his mouth after it’s impromptu rinse. I’d left it lying on the bed next to his hip, and I scoop it up, announcing that he is going to take this for me, too. I am pretty sure he’s limber enough for some moderately advanced anal invasion.

Fucking men in the ass in your terns is not the universal apex of dominance, but the knowledge of his body combined with my fetish for larger insertions is making things lubricate on my side as much as he is opening up on his. I don’t force it, nudging, with many groans and whimpers on his side.

It’s actually hard not to stop here because the noise he makes in pain and the noise of not really pain at all but just hitting the spot just so are pretty similar. That’s where my experience with him matters. After pulling the literal plug well before his limit numerous times, I know that if I stop now I will be over cautious. I can, as it’s after all as much my prerogative to stop at my limit as much as everything must stop at his. But precisely because of the number of times I have stopped sooner than he’d have liked, in this moment I know just how much further I can go.

We have never discussed this as an official safeword, but I know now the moment it turns into a harsh, “Fuck!” is actually the stop point. We aren’t there yet, but it’s a nudge forward/nudge back kind of thing where one step away to ease up only means two steps deeper, after.

I drop into soothing encouragement. He is so focused on the challenge at hand that he won’t have more than mono syllables or little head twitches to work with. That’s more than enough and the general is several inches lodged, exactly where I want it.

At this point it’s not about depth but travel. In, out, never entirely popping free. His hand is still pumping his cock up and down in a way that’s basically instinct to him. The toy is gliding nice and easy. There’s a definite sensation of finite space and resistance on my end, gripping the flared base and leaning into it, but it’s neither a hard block nor rough scrape. I couldn’t tell you in minutes how long this goes on. Honestly the whole thing feels pretty brief, in hindsight. In the moment it’s enough, the way pleasurable sensation lingers, like a mouthful of something delicious making things seem to extend past the gulp, chew, linger, mmm, and swallow.

But, Silver is particularly quickly undone to size… if I can get it in. A whole sideline exploration into inflatable plugs has taught me that he’s a combo of a tight ring, but weak to a firm jam up against the underside of his cock. The general, and probably my encouraging but persistent running patter about how he is taking it, he is going to take it, this is for me, etc… have got him to the point where he yanks that hand away from his cock, now, with a great deal of urgency. He utters something about being close.

I wasn’t going to make him come, I planned, prior when I first started thinking about slithering into the catsuit, to leave him wanting. This always happens, every time things get prolonged. I tell him he may.

Well, precisely I tell him if my cock and only my cock forces him to come that was meant to happen. And it does. It’s like pushing him off a precipice all that manual edging placed him on, but it’s also a sensation like the invader in his ass is forcibly displacing the semen out of him. After he is done he stays in position looking utterly drained, even as I ease the dildo out of him and post it into the sink as well.

Check ins do not end where I expect, however. He stays put and spread, but as sandbagged as he is acting there’s and insistent second wind. I chase that to see where it goes, with his hand back on his cock and another, fresh dildo wedged into his mouth.

Crooning more nonesense mantra about holes and their utility quickly shows he has a rare second go in him. I am on my period, and what I want, to engulf him, feels a bit too much. I slick my thighs with more lube and get him to fuck those instead. That isn’t quite right, though it feels good.

The catsuit has an access zip, but it’s in the way and I am too slippery to come now with this on. I make another decision in the moment and send him to get a fresh towel. The tampon gets posted into the bathroom trash.

When he is back, there’s a bit of a decline in turgidity and I can see things sliding into performance frustration because at first it’s not wanting to couple up they way he hopes. I take charge again and essentially grab him by the brain, commanding with firm confidence it doesn’t matter. I wrap my legs tight around him. His job is to rut. He will obey. Doing that and even losing a small lake of cum earlier isn’t enough to stop him going the rest of the way hard. Then he is mine, completely engaged. I croon that he will fuck to exhaustion or until he breaks and falls. 

Still unusual for us, it’s the latter, intense, even more so than the first time. He is limp on top of me and I am holding him, reminding him he did a good job. Only when he recovers do I turn firm again. This catsuit is coming off because I want an orgasm and it is now in the way.

He helps me slither out, careful of the fragile material. I am on my back and he is helping, at my direction, with how I want my breasts touched. My orgasm is not long after that, finally, long awaited. 

I don’t recall much of the rest of the evening other than the chicken and potatoes, and that we both cleaned off somehow. I do remember two sets of cozy pajamas, and holding him with many uttered affectionate statements of love, but the rest blurs into the many nights that have been and will be just like this one, in bed until we are asleep. 

I Got Married to Silver

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The Pacific Northwest is pretty and reliably temperate most months of the year. My life is taken on some comfortable aspects and some aspects of disquieting idleness, sitting in the sort of lucky it feels like impolite bragging to share.

I got married last month and elopement at a courthouse dressed and simple white broderie anglaise, quick vows and paperwork with two witnesses. I did so because I love him and this is the most reliable shot we have at together, forever. That’s staring down the gauntlet of more paperwork and a long exile from my homeland. But I can be very confident in my belief Silver is worth it. He’s worth is because he is wonderful, inspiring, makes me happy and is confidently happy to do the complex kinky things we both crave.

My writing brain hasn’t been with me for the last little while. Nonetheless, the desire and my sexuality maintains. It’s a relationship where, at a distance, we’d call thrice a day and have the energetic enthusiasm to edge him silly each time. Together, we share a bed every night in an apartment that feels much too nice and I plan a little gathering in the fall, with family, to celebrate my marriage.

I make tentative steps outside the home, to a femdom munch in Seattle, monthly, run sharper and smart than mine ever were. If you are in town you should go, and can easily find details on fetlife. I already met one reader, which is fun. Though those pesky health issues linger, I do my best to stay involved where my stamina lets me.

The kink remains foremost. We prioritized that from day 1. He is as randy as a man half his age and it fits what I want. It’s simply there, often light, a hand reach to his throat away. Likewise, I find him beautiful. He’s a Midwestern, blue eyed, built more spare in frame with a gymnast’s propensity to bending, under a relentless maintained layer of shoulder to ankle muscle. This is balanced at equilibrium that he neither wants to return to actual utility for his white collar life, nor allow into neck stiffening thickness.

My own body is softer, a little wonky, but the urges are still there under the flesh. I want and I remain hungry for this. I miss the energy I used to have, to do things as much as I used to, but I peck away where I can. I’m learning to crochet, and maintaining the health I do have by using the gifts of where I live to try to push myself to exercise as regularly as I can manage. It’s paid some dividends.

If you imagine our household s something of elaborate protocol, him constantly demeaned, you would be wrong. It is with respect my hand takes his throat. That he affectionately comes where I am curled on the couch in a nest of blankets and kisses the tops of my feet. Our vows did not reflect the ownership of my Property, true, but they carried in them the seed and scaffold under which we do what we do.

I think I have the best anyone could want or aspire to.

Asexuality Is Complicated (And for me, particularly)

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asexuality is complicated (and for me particularl) a messy smudge on an asexual flag

Most people tend to conceive of labels as tidy little jars, even if much work has gone in the other direction to point out that there’s spectrums. Enbies, bi people, even switches are no exception, with more people than not approaching this self description with an asterisk. Very few people who don’t slot into a binary actually exist in a balanced average or a half and half. 

More mercilessly, these middle spaces are more often than not messy. By this I mean disclosure to others of nuance makes it difficult to refute your hermetically sealed jar without sharing things people have deemed rude, or worse some ninnyhammer will mistake the information for an invitation and shriek you are “involving them in your sexuality”. 

Enbies get assigned to be a third gender that must perform androgyny and release hewing to either pole of the existing binary. Switches are talked about like watered down dominants in a three step social hierarchy. And bi people, bless, are not only all tangled up in the assumption of being a swinging door, but also an uber slut who could never be content with monogamy.

And asexuality, well…

The paradox of asexuality is a community stereotyped as something either prude or pure (sex repulsed, traumatized through to bored by the sexuality of others) and the reality is more complicated, but falls particularly strongly into somewhere you face a social penalty if you give more detail. It is also a community that in actuality is often deeply horny.

These days, as dangerous as being gay is in most of the planet, in progressive spaces if you say you are a lesbian/gay/bi people will at least get the gist, shrug and move on. They may muddle trans-ness with sexuality more than they should, but but they also may just go a little trans medical and just nidnod and congratulate you that you got your binary sorted out. (Pour one out for the gay trans people tho). But there’s this tension between the constant human spew of sexuality and the human discomfort with that. 

And the asexual spectrum kind of requires you to understand how varied sexuality outside of the surface detail. It holds your head under the surface and forces people to confront that arousal and attraction aren’t universally coupled. That there’s nothing, even fucking, that’s inherently sexual or inherently not sexual.

Every bit of queerness blows up some sacred cow like that beached whale some small town explosively detonated onto themselves. Asexuality removes the tidy little veil that lets us ignore whether a given human is horny or not by sincerely believing it isn’t possible. Like early 2000s highschoolers in hysterics that a lesbian in a change room might be into them, take things off the rails and for many folks all certainty is abolished. Men aren’t men, women aren’t women and bare breasts aren’t more platonically sexual than a shapeless wool sweater. The logic of asexuality being properly understood allows that if people are able to be out of a category they are also allowed to be in.

And you still have a person screaming into the void because the norms they used to feel cozy are gone

You can take the scathing approach and tell them they are awash in sexuality – the art, the assumptions, the background radiation of existing in community. But then, all they seem to do is get more stressed. The argument helps for the already convinced to articulate why other people’s disgust isn’t automatically their problem. But the paradox of a collective bent to erotophobia in a species that averages so horny this actually interferes with our ability to reproduce is more than a cosmic joke.

Julia Serrano observed in her book Sexed Up that occupying a marginalized identity meant a higher risk of being sexualized. What she also provided was a more nuanced definition of what that means, not just the presence of potential sexuality, but imposed assumptions on how that sexuality works.

If gender critical numpkins read predation into trans women, they are paradoxically acting from the same place by imply trans men are essentially losing the traits they associate with sexuality. In both cases top surgery to add or remove breasts are an objection to losing a power relationship where they can define what breasts mean for the person who has them. The security of that power is lost to them. 

In the same way, to be on the asexual spectrum and be accepted is to remove the ability of others to assume or define your sexuality. The casting of asexuals as exclusively tragic trauma woobies or blushing loveshy naïfs is a projection as strong as the assumption bisexual people, (particularly women) are here to fuck anything with a pulse. 

And, when confronted with the practice of the asexual spectrum in action, which in addition to the sex repulsed or disinterested contains the biggest bunch of perverts in the world, the reaction is to leap to assuming any awareness of the habits and practices of others is to experience violence. And you can’t do anything about it because the sexualization is coming from them, not you. 

What asexuals deal with is part of queerphobia

I am old enough to recall how 2008 was about people pushing for marriage equality against folks fixated on wildly over stating the risk of rectal prolapse. The same stands for things like BDSM, that in collectively acknowledging that stuff that humans have fixated on forever could be sexual, suddenly it becomes that it must be sexual. From thence comes the fantasy of harm, and the assumption that awareness must be a performance of not for their benefit, at their expense. 

This is how bisexual cis women end up being the second highest group to experience violence amongst queer identities. (Trans women are the highest, and we can assume bisexual trans women must have it even worse) To have sexuality becomes to be sexualized, and from there to be assumed to be up to trickery and malice. Bisexual women are cast as temptresses, objectified by men and treated as traitors by those exclusively lesbian. Everyone invalidates their choices as performed for someone else’s entertainment, and a higher rate of assault follows. 

Make no mistake, compulsory sexuality can be violence, but compulsory repression as much so. Part of the harm I experienced was that there was absolutely no space to be my sexuality to the point that I had to figure it out by assuming I was doing regular sex poorly. For many, many years of feeling alienated from what I was told. At the expense of real pain and heartache.  Like a lesbian raised in a culture that doesn’t realize it’s even possible, allowing space for my desires to be normal rather than vanilla or celibacy is important for my comfortable and safe existence.

But to this day, education about BDSM is suppressed. Although I was sexually active from the age of 14, a perfectly normal statistic for a Canadian, access to the idea of an asexual spectrum just wasn’t available to anyone really, yet at the time. And today, it’s a footnote in the rare places that permit queer education without much detail.

Going into any detail is back to that comment I made earlier about escaping your hermetically sealed jar causing people to act like you propositioned them personally. 

This blog post, for example, would be treated like something that needed to be as mature content flagged. It is expected to be handled the same way as a picture of me having some sort of complex penetration with some other person or object. Nothing about it is particularly interested in arousing anyone, least of all myself. 

But the fact that I fuck is a taboo, that my sexuality is different doubly so. Talking about how it is different as circumspectly as a person expressing the gender they are attracted to is still treated as twice as lewd.

Thus, talking about kink or BDSM isn’t tolerated to openly do in the mainstream. Not only do a bunch of folks still believe you can catch paraphilia memetically the way they think rapid onset gender dysphoria is a thing so they want to lock down any mention of BDSM, but pretty much even the kinky folk twist the concept of consent into knots that the least whisper of it is the same as pegging on a park bench. 

While I like porn and want it to exist, the only real places I am permitted to be seen is incredibly marginalized barely able to escape censorship porn that definitely is trying to communicate sexuality OR fictional depictions that have all those flaws (unhealthy, trivial and covered with three layers of context obfuscation). This means that even grown ups like myself are out here causing chaos. We don’t even know what we can potentially be, so we waste years feeling shamefully broken, having dysfunctional vanilla marriage, and/or having painful and soul destroying sex that was simply unnecessary. If we are lucky we eventually figure that out. Many of us don’t.

Censorship as a byproduct of our nonconsensual sexualization causes real harm.

Thus, while the repulsed and disinterested, demi and the rarely/sporadically attracted get a grudging pass (demi with a bunch of bewildered other people going “but I thought attraction worked for everyone like that?!”… Nobody is ready for the entirety of asexuality the way that historically getting recognized as trans came at the expense of permitting being married to the gender people now acknowledged as being. Much as it turns out there are a lot of bi, gay and lesbian trans people who previously had to choose between their source of attraction and/or love and living as their gender, there’s a lot of asexual folks like myself who can’t live with authenticity because the larger society we live in doesn’t respect us as possible or moral. It’s not ok.

Note bene: someone, if I am lucky enough to get read at all, is getting real stroppy about queer to queer inter identity comparison. Yes, it’s not precisely the same, but it’s same enough we all have the common label.  And part of this label is that we compliment each other in our overlap.

Asexuality permitted to be the whole of what it might be, and celebrated for it requires people to back the fuck off. Everyone would benefit. We would have a whole new toolkit facilitating coexistence and live and let live. There would be no downsides. 

Lifestyle Only Femdom Blues

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I wish I could say I am a dominant without people assuming I am a pro (or a man), but I would also like that not to be at the expense of anyone else. To be a lifestyle only domme is, for the most part, invisibility, but the conversation on the problem is poisoned by whorephobia.

In this regards, even my writing on the topic, over the last 10 years, hasn’t always been ok. Acknowledging this issue, nonetheless: for our culture at large, the general handling of my desires is to treat it like something that will make others happy or at the very least, to focus on how it will make me feel as far as how others react to me. Dominance, in women and femmes, is not allowed to just *be*.

Even in lifestyle only land, our forums are dogged by the single minded demand: where are the dommes and how do we get them? To these men, I am not a thing that might want him, to be bargained with as an equal or a suitor, I am more akin to the rib they hope to rip from themselves into the form of a helpmeet. My existence and authenticity is defined by my ability to complete someone else. 

Yes, the roots of this is heterofatalist nonsense, the same pressures demanding compulsory monogamy of vanillas. And yet, notably, my status as a thing that is presumed to meet desires doesn’t have the Domme version of warning me I’ll be a crazy cat lady spinster if I don’t settle. Likewise, no boyfriend, husband or fiancé will deter them the way that vanilla and Dom men alike imagine I could be claimed. A Domme, in her being wanted, is presumed to be there to satisfy. Hell, a Domme, existing, is presumed to be what is wanted. I’m not! I swear, I’m terrible.

This also is belayed in how Dommes are taught, formally and informally, to be.

Through workshop and book alike, femdom is packaged as a vocation or a toolkit that will empower you, not through discovery of your own pleasure, but the same old bad girl wins at hustle culture fantasy. Education is almost always gendered. Male dominants, for all their limited wardrobes, are treated as stepping into an aspect of masculinity, but for me, there’s a template and faking it until I make it.

It’s not all bad- the new topping and bottoming book are a bastion of gender neutrality and deserve their place in the canon. And yet, step out of the very performed-identity focused domme specific classes and into the BDSM scene at large, and prepare for just about everything to be built to assume you are a man topping women. And, get ready to deal with a steady train of people sure you are a less than, and if you dominate men that you are a threat and they are repulsive.

I decided, in the end, weird rapey ropetop dudes and femdom’s closer embrace to queerness and it’s transgression were enough to make me pick a side… But, as a Domme, I am (largely) not interested in being skilled, or having presence. I want a “persona” like I want another hole in my head. I don’t think nobody should want these things, but none of this is to the benefit of my orgasms and dorky power fantasies. Even as a least bad culture fit, the real me is very much an afterthought in femdom.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to have a sub and know my way enough around what I am doing to do so safely. And I am lucky that there’s plenty of humans extant to which a domme can complement rather than complete. Likewise, I don’t have a strong opinion on “pyjamas vs corsets”, I like both of them, but I like them from a position of being certified trash who doesn’t want to be compelled to wear either. I am writing this in an ugly beige t-shirt dress that I threw on because my stamina fell out the moment my work day ended. This isn’t a mark of my authenticity, it means I have given up on life for the next 3 to 6 hours. 

Someone might find that hot, but I don’t care and I don’t want to care.

That part is the problem. It’s where the gaze is turned, all the damn time, unrelenting. On me, never from me. And yet, despite having the worst temperament, flabbergastingly people keep kindly trying to nudge me to hang out a shingle. Some extremely well meaning people in the field have even encouraged me as if I lacked confidence. Me, the don’t wanna be touched, don’t wanna be vulnerable train wreck, was told I could definitely make it work, because my dominance could push through pretty much anything. No, being a pro is a hard, people focused job. I am a pervert, not an entrepreneur.

I don’t want to be paid to dominate, I want to be pandered to by creative professionals who want to take my money to sell me my fantasies, usually via prose and illustration. Just like the femsubs and dudes of any orientation. They enjoy an ocean of porn. Seriously, in the case of the femsubs, they are so omnipresent that in any given romance novel the odds some lady’s do me sub fantasies are getting tickled is about 50/50.

Instead, I am told for money purposes I don’t exist. I am as elusive a market to care about, as I am to the dudes who seek me to complete them. And boy howdy is that an incredibly alienating place to be.

The No-Needs True Sub Is A Nonsense Concept

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If you spend any length of time in the femdom side of the internet, you are going to encounter some version of this idea:

“Femdom is about female power. If you were truly submissive, all those other things you want would be less important than whatever a dominant you submitted to wanted.”

(Paraphrased from a squintillion posts, tweets and nudges)

They mean well, unfortunately. Femdom-as-a-culture is currently over-saturated with things that cater to the fantasies of male subs more so than female doms. To be a domme is to be perennially assumed that your primary interest is performing in a way that meets the needs of subs. An additional pressure is applied that not only is your authenticity measured by how well you meet another person’s fantasy, it is idealized that you just happen to do so by being who you are. A push/pull forms around you, where you being powerful is fetishized, but that power is put on very tight rails.

For a dominant, being told you are all powerful while being confined to a rigid script can feel like a cruel joke. As such, the last 10+ years have been one long push back, against the ubiquitous uniform, against the idea you can’t do certain sex acts, against dehumanizing stereotypes that you are (only) a selfish monster or selfless mommy. Likewise, the matter of courtship became a debate on methods – with a fixation on changing (male) sub behaviour. We endlessly hashed over developing magic bullet first messages and dating profiles; on service resumes to trade labour for kink; on the entitlement of all dommes to expect some nominal payment; and how best to broach having a kink with your wife/girlfriend so she would either do it or agree to give you a hall pass. And, every step of the way, matters were made much harder because however you changed stuff around, somebody fetishized it.

Gentlefemdom and the idea of the domme in fuzzy slippers started to fight the idea that there was one rigid, dungeon bound way to kink, and looped back into absolutes and people wanking about how much hotter the domme next door was. The service resume trend led to the people into service being treated as the true femdom, and a bunch of people who thought it was a trade being bewildered now the service focused dominant wasn’t reciprocating. That’s not even opening the can of worms that is gray-area sexwork and findom! Not all changes were bad, of course, for example the discouragement of people randomly subbing at any dominant they met willy-nilly is a huge relief. However, through every new solution, once nuance vanished, so did

So Why Not Encourage Subs To Be Completely Selfless?

The problem, however, is that an effort to make the needs of sub dudes less overwhelming has come with the nuance-free version that deals with it by chucking his needs out the window. At the extreme end, back in the day when a wife said no or he feared her reaction to broaching the subject, we used to tell men in vanilla relationships to embark on “stealth submission”. This pretty quickly got called out for being dubious consent, particularly where the party being submitted to already said femdom made her wildly uncomfortable. However, I will go one step further and say that it’s a dumb idea because it doesn’t even meet the human need of the sub to be wanted for who they are. 

The current advice, that as a (male) sub you should just front load all the whims and needs of the dominant, doesn’t solve this problem, either. You end up with one of the following:

  1. The sub in question didn’t have much more than a service/obedience fetish, to the extent that if their partner decided anything from a vanilla to an M/f dynamic was what they wanted they would be gung ho. Any quick look around at people who identify as subs and dominants would show this population is a tiny minority, and to be honest even they tend to have some pretty significant caveats.
  1. The dominant just happens to luck into meeting the sub’s other needs because she wants to. But a conversation about *why* they might want to gets ignored, including that some dominants are motivated by understanding the desires of their subs and meeting them while others are not. One cookie-cutter domme template has been imposed over another, but we are still stuck with a very rigid default for everyone.
  1. The sub creates a one sided dynamic for themselves that is not sustainable. Everything carries on for a while, until the weight of not getting what they want causes things to fall apart anyway. Then nobody is happy, and the dominant can’t trust the sub to know their limits.

Ultimately, the idealization of the “no needs” sub is an effort to side step the inherent equality any kink dynamic should be built on. It’s either still fap (shoving anything an ostensible dominant could do on a pedestal while the sub gets the thrill of self abrogation) or a bargaining tool to avoid rejection. In the very best case it’s a temporary pause to try to undo the damage that being too pushy or to help a person ease into kink when they are uncomfortable with parts of it.

While I am all for not being excessively pushy, and I recognize that your average ostensibly vanilla partner may be alarmed if you front load the more uh… dark and complicated kink activities one might get up to, I suggest that inversely, the thrill of “femdom is whatever she says it is” is overwriting “femdom is whatever we make it to be”.

Who Am I to Tell People They Are Doing It Wrong?

I caveat I am speaking about general approach, not your personal relationship. There is a whole rainbow of ways people might construct a functional dynamic. If a given couple likes to make the needs of the dominant their primary focus, cool. Where it becomes a problem is when that fetish is imposed as a one size fits all solution or held up as a purer/better way to do kink. My criticism is in the assumptions it requires as general advice and the problem is when completely back burner-ing your needs is presented as a universal solution and starting place, not when it is your personal fetish.

When I say power exchange needs to come from a place of equality, I mean that. You cannot exchange power until you both have it. You can pursue your equality in an intersectional fashion, building in a foundation that is as once robust and elastic as it navigates the many aspects of our identities However, if your starting premise is “because I am a sub, all my needs are less important than the whims of the dominant” you need to add another layer before that: “My needs have the same inherent worth as those of a person who happens to be dominant”. This can still flow to “I feel fulfilled when I prioritize the needs of someone I perceive as dominant to me, more so than any other activity.” But if you start from devaluing what you want, you are over valuing the other party before you have agreed to a mutual hiearchy.

Finally, one of the reasons why I find this particular piece of advice needs countering is the fact that it keeps being imposed at dommes without acknowledging that it’s just as fetishistic as the guy with the elaborate fantasy of being transformed into a coat rack, whether I need a coat rack or not. While the intent is trying to come from a good place, the reality is a lot more like announcing you know what we need – a blank canvas, so perfectly smooth and unresistant. And yet… it remains a wild overcorrection, both unsustainable for most people, and just as dehumanizing to dominants as treating us like fetish dispensers.

Gravity and Kitchens

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I love you very much, painfully so, with the yearning of spending too much time apart. We are that couple, together, in public, but just as much with no eyes on us but each other. 

Red filter overlaying a fancy kitchen with white text "FEMDOM DESIRE | Yearning in Motion| Gravity & Kitchens | Mundane architecture and high end, self-thrusting sextoys"

I cannot recall the music, writing this now, but I remember, in late February, dancing in the kitchen with you, guarding for the slight slip of my black cotton tights on the faux wood linoleum as we shimmy-twist. Alongside the peril of losing my footing, it’s distracting how beautiful you look in motion, in a blue blazer over a light blue button down. Your body tapers sharply from your shoulders, shimmying. I’m wearing the green vintage dress you bought me for Christmas. When we pull apart and I twirl, the skirt bells out, all picturesque.

We have returned from a Pike Place Market french restaurant, where I stole half of one of your crab cakes, and you took, at my urging, half my salmon filet. I think I got the better trade, though there was nothing wrong with my fish. 

There was a window to the restaurant kitchen marked by a pile of citrus fruits, aiming to put themselves into the dining area to make things feel more casual, or maybe make the most of the space. Once upon a time, in the 70s, this was a jazz spot, but its so crowded I wonder where they used to put the musicians. Still, it’s well prepared fresh fish, bread with a $5 up charge and pleasant crab cakes. And noise, lots of it, more crush and clatter than intimacy. The hints of old music, there, are drowned out in the excess of the conversation of others. I am content, holding back my urge to nitpick this nice gift, but nevertheless we do not favour them with the opportunity to sell us dessert. You serve me icecream instead, later, after we have danced. Looking after me is just what you do.

When I arrived for the weekend, I took the train in. It’s always comfortable, but too crowded that particular night to fight the line in the dining car, so you met me with food. It’s been a bad eating week for me again, a fact that I am not proud of, but being home in my space is driving me a bit nuts when I try to cook.  

I daydream about kitchens that are not shoved into main areas. I am well sick of exposed, designed for people who don’t cook counters that push atrocious storage and a strict inability to let anything be, lest it become noxious clutter. I keep optimizing, all the endless expenses to try to make the space livable. Hooks for this and that, shelves expanding outwards and upwards. Ultimately no compensation can fix a cramped, poorly laid out space with too many things in it. And there’s no walls in spaces, anymore, a victim of the open plan trend. Sharing these spaces is even more frustrating, because there’s twice as much room to let the dishes or the mess get away from you.

If, perhaps, I lived flung out from my work by another 30 minutes, I might have my own solo shoebox, on my comfortable middle class salary. It pays more, on this coast, but rents jack up to eat one’s earnings. But, even paying more, the kitchen would still be in my bedroom, or at best, still in my living room. On the west coast, new construction is the norm. I think they are so cheap, regardless of the actual cost, they would leave the doors off bathrooms, if they could justify it.

Case in point: Tech job or not,  your kitchen, the one I danced in, is “open plan” as well. This pivot and swirl smooth space I slide about in is an island of no texture in the otherwise stucco and wall to wall carpet, an alley of linoleum fenced between appliance and an island counter. For this visit, you draped the island in a rich quilt, handmade in a medley of turquoise and blue, serving as tablecloth to display a bouquet of flowers. Pink and purple and green, stems capped by pale, fat roses that remind me of babygirl birthday cakes. Just for me, to be pretty to look at for the weekend.

We’re in the approximate orbit or Valentine’s day, so we brought each other gifts to unwrap, too. Yours were piled up on the kitchen island when I got there, mine hand wrapped in sticker covered tissue paper and tied with real satin ribbon. You gave me a cape-capped coat dress with a flash red lining;  a box of fancy tea; costume brooches; and spangle-sparkly tuxedo bodysuit that tugs at your fetishes to lift the collective sense of power over you, even as the glitter roughness of the fabric repels your touch. I gave you a high end, self thrusting sextoy by lovense.

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I Am an Expert In Being In Love

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To tell the story of Pearl, it’s a bit more than just saying I am a dominant sadomasochist.

At this point it’s probably clear that the whole femdom thing is indelibly stamped into the core function of my sexuality, enough that I have been talking about it a LOT lately, or at least my place on the asexual spectrum. But, part of who I am is influenced by something a bit adjacent to demisexuality, and that has been further effected by the fact that I fall in love easily. I don’t use the word “love” lightly, like I pop off crushes on lots of people. I mean the sort of heart soaring heavy nonsense. Getting there, for me, is incredibly easy.

After many years of having this part of my makeup, I also have determined not everyone falls that hard. Insights into the spectrum of human possible really does involve a lot of guessing, like discovering some people are ear rumblers or cilantro tasters. But, much like the latter case, if people don’t have the capacity themselves, they may suspect you are somehow exaggerating. Which, I suppose is just the part of the human condition that finds it comforting to suggest one is making things up, or that the severity will reduce with the right mindset, like comforting a child with a scraped knee.

For me, sex hormones and falling in love share an entwined history. In addition to my kinks, which grew from day 1, ever since puberty hit, so did the BigFeel capacity. The hardest part is there’s not a lot of support for it. Generally, if you talk about intense feelings of yearning for another human, everyone treats it like an obsessive thing you are choosing to do. Instead, as I experience it, it’s an involuntary WHOMP of an attachment. It’s the closest brush I can get to vanilla, in so much that there’s a tiny window my sexuality will be present without a mountain of kink between me and them.

It’s like those various brain integrated glands got the instructions to lay down the pre-framework, long before I dropped my first egg, and decided to say: “Hello, Miss Pearl (aged 12)! In addition to a single orgasm this year, and some now functionally vestigial parts that will ripen up over the next half decade, your already awkward ability to bond onto others will be amped up to 11. The only saving grace is that you will be completely frustrated in realizing these wants most of the time, thus safe from a lot of dumb follow up behaviour.“

This nonsense was probably made worse by the fact that there’s a cultural assumption that pushes eros into any male/female relationship. When I was younger, I preferred the company of boys for reasons of shared nerdy interests. I liked the company of girls before that- I am lucky I never internalized the sexism of assuming girls were inherently no fun. However, I followed my interests, and the kinds of games that could be played, which meant little in the way of female companionship. As a result, at the best of times, when I was way too young for it, adults were already imposing dating expectations onto my male friendships. But, inversely, even in these erotypical scripts, I had no tools to help me navigate having an Olympic level firework display going on in the brain of a child and young adult. Indeed, most people generally denied it could be happening to me, and further romanticized it as an experience we would be lucky to have once in a lifetime.

(There’s an additional hypothesis one might have about my capacities: there is actually a deeper form of Eros I have yet to experience. If everything to this point was a “crush”, I will end up in a psyche ward when it happens, because this is already pretty all consuming.)

For the lack of support I grew up with, I blame abstinence only education, which depends very much on the idea of rare, monogamous and consistent attachments and no alternatives. It’s much easier to enforce a compulsory, marriage focused heterosexuality when you believe in abstract concepts like a single shot of “True Love” to save you purity for. And yet, when I dug further, past pop culture, much as most research on love is almost laughably primitive. Like sex, people have thought about it a bunch and made more art than a million humans could consume in one lifetime. And yet, the psychology is still in the classification stage. Limerance, the term for the intense attachment and search for connection, was a word only coined in 1979. University labs pair college students in research to see if sharing prolonged eye contact and facts about the self correlate to an increased chance of a relationship forming.

So, you have a paradox. Love, in the broad sense, is a big label. It’s been contemplated forever, and generally serious classifications start with mentioning it’s broken down into sub types to distinguish sexual passion (Eros) from friendship (Philia) or a bond with a family member (Storge), and so forth. Unfortunately, this also hints that a lot of the thinking about it hasn’t really advanced, like we were still using the Aristotelian concept of the atom to try to do physics.

Setting off to navigate the conversations around the asexual spectrum, by the way, is a further challenge of everyone having a different perception of love. All humans don’t have the same capacities or experience, but this is never discussed. So, the other half of the expectation around my experience is that it is on the one hand very rare, but on the other, universally possible. Much is said about “True Love” in art, but while you can find out the wavelength of the colour orange, try to measure dopamine and so forth in new parents, or calculate the age of the galaxy relative to its neighbours, love just seems to be. People expect it to happen, to the point that aromantic folk have to make it clear they are a distinct identity, including having to emphasize that it’s not the same as asexuality. (Though the whole Ace thing clearly has a bit of an umbrella label effect, due to the path of collective discovery).

I can’t know if you, the reader, experiences love like I do.

Moving away from the people who don’t love, or love as much, but further from the Greeks, trying to explain what is going on might be further clarified philosophical observation about love from the late 1820s, of something called Crystallization. That’s the process your entire brain gets melted and leaks out your ears, and in the process, elevates the object of your fixation. In my case, barring rare moments, I am about as attracted to the act of non-kinked sex with another human about as much as humans typically find upholstery, garden ponds, or fruit bowls erotic. If Love wanders in, then these parts actually work.

Moving through the timeline of people writing about love, in the second half of the last century you will find neologisms like limerence. The experience of the early stages, for me, is something I only semi facetiously call a “temporary manic episode”. The first burst of falling in love brings euphoria, dropped sleep needs, and a magnetic inspiration that slams whatever poor bastard I have bonded onto into a muse. It also has a regrettable history of encouraging me to be a pest, though at least my gender flipped pigtail pulling could be tempered by maturity.

But just as nature abhors a vacuum, I am not permitted to walk without attachment. A cozy monogamous(ish) relationship that meets my emotional and sexual needs is the only thing that turns it off. Elsewise, I don’t have it in me to be the bed hopping, casual sex loving slut I wished to be. I was born to burn for desire for one person at at time. More frustratingly, though this limerence allows a brief ability to have a more vanilla sex, trapped in a relationship without kink, my romantic attachment fizzles.

What dignity I have today, in love, is hard won.

I am not the hot mess I once was. I mean, I hope so, as I think I’m in the “middle aged” territory of womanhood now, pre-menopausal, but definitely not young. And yet, the insensity has never wavered. All that coudl happen is I got good at controlling my behaviour. That’s no thanks to pop culture, which excuses the theoretical actions of women in love only a little bit less than the carte blanche it gives a guy with the same thing. Fiction isn’t even really sure that dying for your passion is a bad thing, even if Romeo and Juliet has an aspect that’s a cautionary tale. Cathy might crash her immune system yearning in the moors in her nighty, but we are meant to see her passion for Heathcliff at least understandable and inevitable. Of course, luckily for me, love largely just gave me an opportunity to act like an embarrassing git. My teenage years are, lest you think otherwise, a cringe factory that I survive remembering only through accepting my own sincerity at the time.

Middle school (Junior High for Americans) passed in an unfortunate series of stupidities, to be met with an excess of eagerness in High School. While the adults assumed I was on drugs based on my general behaviour (lol, nope), and shook their heads at my sexual precocity, over 50% of the time such passions were unrequited. That is for the best, and it was only through this experience that a modicum of a clue and a shred of pattern recognition started to assert itself. I lived in an area where all the small town nonsense of the early 2000s was in full swing. It was the era of Purity Rings and second virginity, and I was a baby pervert who wanted to do BDSM. I had the internet, and bonded awkwardly on similarly aged folks there too.

I learned the triggers tended to be creating the fiction I craved together. Not every person, but outside of my first times, where mere positive attention seemed enough to turn me into a giddy idiot, it was a common denominator. I’m super lucky, by the way, that Silver’s sexuality is more primarily mapped on making “story” too. Unfortunately, I also learned a pattern that for most people I fell for, they would play out such creativity with me during a crush on me, and than put that away like some sort of courtship only thing.

Nonetheless, I eventually learned to handle it. It doesn’t force me to pursue a single goal, rather while I can’t temper the intensity, I can find appropriate outlets. It also doesn’t completely suspend my judgement. As an older teenager, I was already able to tell if something wasn’t going to work if we tried a relationship. Gradually I managed to shunt all that enthusiasm and energy away from the people and into writing projects and so forth.

Kink mismatches, and other hazards of love

This does give me a little perspective on the situation of the tale as old as time: the kinky person married (or as good as married for their socio-economic status) to someone mismatched in libido or what they want to do in their sex life.

I am generally on the side of telling people in monogamous, but kink free or dead bedroom relationships not to cheat. Divorce and seperations are economically and emotionally hard, but at least they are legally possible. However, I am a little more sympathetic in how a kinked person stumbles into a union with a vanilla person. Not only is their precious little information about kink, to help one make that self discovery, but circumstances like mine show how one might have a brief window where things could work without kink. Nonetheless, my self knowledge means I have to front load any courtship with what I am into.

Nonetheless, I have had variable luck. In the first place, one of the harder lessons in being kinky is that just because they technically have your fetish doesn’t mean you share it compatibility. Nowhere is this illustrated than among balloon fetishists, where popping/not popping is a deep schism. but even in BDSM and further sub divided into femdom, you can come from two wildly different places. It’s been the end of more than one relationship for me, and painful, at that.

I cannot, however, have much spite for the incompatibility. I did have one party claim to be more kinky than they were, but the delusion there seemed to be wishful thinking. Nonetheless, when things are kink-functioning, I am a very sexual person. That’s an irony for me, lacking all the typical attractions, but unable to sustain the head-load of romantic attachments if we aren’t regularly doing some sort of intercourse. I worry , these days, as menopause is about a decade or two at most away, if my libido will sputter out, changing the picture entirely. But, past evidence shows that even when brain meds tanked things, there was some sort of connection still there.

Silver linings

I think, however, there is one blessing. I have, more often than not, found adult me’s passions reciprocated. Even in my youth, I turned down one budding relationship because I knew were wouldn’t be kink compatible, but the poor person, at least, matched me for the gooey-glue of our wants. And I suspect I owe that to the fact that I love openly and well.

Silver, for example, says he likes the surety and openness of my feelings. I was many months ahead of him for the “I love you”. For him, it was a much more cautious conclusion. But I cannot help feeling that my quick heart probably helped me signal to solidify the relationship that makes me very happy. And, I also noticed, though my looks are often remarked on, I have never been courted because of them. My personality, my creativity and so forth have always been someone’s motive- even as I find my aesthetics are a bonus. That too, I think is related to my loving openess.

I think it is easier to fall for the “personality” of a person when they unspool themselves like I do. I might love immensely, deeply, but it does seem I have been loved deeply, a lot, as well.

Practical Rambling Life Updates Post Migraine

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Oh dear. Lots of promises and then intermittent hiatuses. Bang out something- an article or some such, and then vanish again, after making hopeful plans for more. A therapist, a neurologist, an OT, a GP and the hapless bastard over in insurance land who had to navigate this further works on trying to get me functional. Now is the winter of my body’s health, made glorious by spring. Trying something new, the old way I used to write, churning out posts via stream of consciousness, not structure or schedules.

The femdom blog goes on

In December of last year, a friend helped me rescue the site from its state being hammered by all manner of bot based attacks. WordPress is old bones, as we have well crawled from this sort of site model. The cool kids are all off doing video in walled gardens. I maintain this outpost here that isn’t perpetually fearing being banned, blocked or deplatformed at the cost of relative obscurity. Blogging is a dead art, like speaking Latin it’s a cool trick that no longer sits at the center of the internet. These days if I tell people I am a blogger, the younger ones may ask what that is.

The day web bots learn to parse the audio of all the video content enough to make that viable for search, and I suspect the nail’s in the coffin for this artform too, sure as magazines. Nevermind, it was only being economically sustained on an advertising model that depended on a trick of how search bots worked in the first place.

I have three different SEO marketers asking me if I can do a “guest post”, fresh in my inbox. They want a link or two so a robot can be tricked to think a human would care to connect with their commercial endeavor: brothels in Australia, sex toys around the world. Periodically, a company in China still valiantly tries to offer me a load for “review” to coax the same links to appear. I should say yes to the former and toss prices at them. You, reader, would get some erotica out of it. That’s my strict policy, no glowing random announcements that you absolutely need whatever, just to segue the link into post.

I have a nice relationship with my submissive, and it’s serious

It’s 5:30 in the morning, and he’s still asleep. I crashed out early last night, going from flaunting in a latex cat suit to a migraine with enough intensity that I had to fall onto my talent for radical acceptance for the three or so hours until I could go unconscious. Such is the current situation of my life, with my poor flesh, intermittently functional and then dashed down by one thing or another. The seasonal allergies(?) are still there, though also a lingering fear that it’s a garden variety summer cold I am spreading. My breasts have decided to be huge and plump, the latest experience in pandemic weight gain shooting me to something in the flavour of a 32D. When I put my laptop against my solar plexus to type, their swell rest against my arms. It reminds me of trying to do things while holding a baby or a cat.

I am drinking tea out of a mug with a linocut style octopus, a gift from Silver, who saw me crooning over the display of different animals. He likes to do the little gifts like that, or surprise me with something pretty to wear. This week we poked about neighbourhoods and apartments, trying to square the circle around the problem of geography.

I am a Canadian citizen, and he, American. We can each spend half the year in each other’s realm, true, but the legal technicality that is a problem is that neither of us is supposed to work. Contrary to the people telling you to become “Digital Nomads”, even remote work, abroad, is illegal. Those people enjoying Thai beaches while doing some sort of web marketing or contract programming scheme enjoy the privilege of their citizenships that being an ex pat means local laws telling them to not be doing that are unlikely to be enforced. Immigration is a mess that way, everywhere. Specifically, the time to process a spouse visa means a good year in limbo, deliberately overstaying the visitor level. Were I to marry Silver, and all paperwork filed like good upper middle class people, I would be out of the work force entirely for a year, cooling my heels, legally allowed to own businesses but not work in them.

Needless to say, it’s a law everyone expects to be broken, and then uses to cudgel those who have other reasons to make good scapegoats. Were I wealthy, I would hop into some sort of education, while other visas processed. Easier to take some intensive classes on that kind of visa, or find one of those money-for-graduate-degree schemes to anchor one. (I mean, when you hit fuck you money levels, you don’t even need to do that, you can just anchor yourself based on being able to invest stupid levels of money into a country, because there is one law for man, and another for the gods…) All that digression into unsexy politics to say we are stymied by one thing that would be sensible- the ritual of living together BEFORE making it “permanent”.

I now laugh at my somewhat naïve suppose, when Wildcard and I parted ways in the romantic sense. Divorce decimates the finances of women more so than men, statistically. Both take a hit, one does not recover the same. Rebuying what you need for a second house over and over and over again adds up. I told myself mayhap that I wouldn’t cohabit again until I was sure enough to marry. The romantic notion of not living together until after a marriage appealed to my whimsy.

Reader, be careful what you daydream. Your 2017 fantasy of independence and sluttery to cool the sting of domestic failure may manifest four years later. Nonetheless, it’s not the worst problem to have. At least the somebody, Silver, is worth making squinty faces at immigration law and fussing about demo apartments in Washington satellite towns.

Femdom Writing?

Periodically people still ask me if I will pick up what is apparently my best literary achievement and finish the planned trilogy. The Pet Gentleman still sells a few copies- though my sales stats tell me that I never breached 500 editions in ebook or print. I always have that following me around like the alleged slaves who whispered in Emperor’s ears’ they were merely mortal. Truth is, I am not sure can write that well anymore.

Something scratched out desperately in a dying (abusive) relationship while I worked in a call center might be my best work, at least as far as artistic talent and uniqueness intersecting with something people crave. These days when I fiction, things go very rambly and plot heavy. My writing’s been infected with run on sentences and passive voice. I still write, but I notice that the erotic is a lot more padded these days, and the odds of a happy ending a lot more probable.

Maybe I am being self conscious. A decent editing can make my prose a lot less recursive and rambly. In my bleakest I worry various health issues fried my brain and reduced it to pudding. Maybe I will write something that “good” again, but I try not to feed my perfectionism. And… So it goes.

Water, Hay Fever, Cum, Bodies and Breath Play

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Allergies boil my head, but his body is an aesthetic dream. My twitter feed’s a minutiae of trying to clear my head of goo, unerotic except to that one person with a histamine fetish (I mean there must be?).

Silver has the gift of most smaller men, proportion easy, then honed with dedication at a gym. He refused to admit he is muscular, calling it into question because his shoulders and arms don’t stay swollen like frozen hams when they are not flexed. He was also incredulous when I pointed out we should probably size up in condoms, because I had to fight to get the standard size down his dick at the last inch.

Even now, the Magnums, with their bold branding, actually the middle not the extreme, from the drug store’s offerings, create a sort of self conscious cringe. Neither he, nor I find much pleasure in harping on imaginary inadequacy. We never developed a taste for the male sub standard of claiming your partner doesn’t do it for you and attaches a certain self defeating aura to the dominant. No knock to your own kinks, but if I am going to own someone I want to think they aren’t a sexual imposition.

I began the weekend by offering him the chance to come, right then, or be denied on my terms as per usual. He picked the latter, of course, for fun in teasing. My god, he’s pretty and I’m horny. My botched IUD install and its correction is wearing off and I get wet easy. But, it’s not his tight little body I adore, by itself. Aesthetically, yes, it’s nice, but subtract my love and the possibility of control and certain tensions and I would have an immunity.

I skim the sex scenes in novels, not repulsed, but bored, often preferring “fade to black”. The intensity *to* bed can do it for me. And yet, now, with him, even writing this, the texture of his flesh when I squeeze it is an alluring sense memory.

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Confessions of a Sadistic Femdom

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sadistic femdom sex graph

All my pain games with my partners, my denial, teasing and so forth are pursuing a very particular outcome. Because it turns me on and makes me feel deeply connected to my so called victim. It is not a script- the means and confirmation of the goal is subjective; psychologically intimate; and physically impossible to clone beyond that creative moment, together. For me, my sadism is an intersection with my empathy with their suffering, and that sense of lost of will and control I perceive from them.

My biggest challenge in partners is that I need them to be aroused by what I am doing. I cannot do pain just as a power trip, no matter the consent offered. The desire can be after, or in a complex way, but broader experience has taught me that there is a scope of sensation and framing here I need to have echoed back.

As a submissive, Silver answers with joy to being called a “slutty little masochist”. I could not have it any other way, but if I thought about anything in sincere terms of being blessed, his welcome and obvious lust at my sadistic femdom cravings would go high up on that list. Torment him and I am riding a buzz. And, hilariously, we always end with being surprised to be getting a thank you from each other after. Each thinks the acts of the other are a gift.

Hurting Silver, last night

The rubber band snaps and he gives a yelp that is closer to a sob. Silver is in latex, transparent gloves and corseted leggings. We have explored with the potential of the tens unit I got him for his birthday last year, and of rope. A Lithuanian supplied, Soviet army surplus rubber gas mask gives him an oddly cute look, the old fashioned metal circles of the goggles amplifying the size of his pretty eyes. It was a a Christmas gift for him this year and I am very pleased with it.

When I want, I can put my hand over the air flow, instant easy breath play. The shape is snouted, adding an unexpected stubby cuteness. For fun I put him on all fours and reach forward to put my finger over the air intake while I slide his cock down my throat. It’s intense for me, and I feel him brush against my teeth, playing the game, no air for you, no air for me. When he is settled in place, it’s a rare moment where he doesn’t essentially freeze up in obedient attention, his cock begins to pump in and out in my throat. Yes. Fuck me. No concern for himself and being proper, mindless thrusting into that still unfamiliar wetness with the threatening edges of the possible sharp bites I could give.

I am in black latex, cat suit, neck to toes. The sweat pools at my hip level, mingling with the wetness of my arousal. I feel squeezed but not restrained, after a struggle to get it settled just so. I under lubricate my latex, I don’t like slime on my skin. And, even if it hurts a bit I like that rubber grip tugging where it touches.

The rubber bands for his cock and balls started for my hair to help it stick out the ports of my own latex hood. That garment is now discarded, and when the tens unit got its tour, after brief session wrenching his traps, I went after his cock. The pads weren’t interested in sticking- it didn’t like his skin very much in general, but I m a clumsy improviser, the drunken boxer of kinky sex. Elastics made the pads into proper contacts for the prickles of the electricity, to tease his erection.

Only a tease, though.

It was an interesting sensation, but even on high it didn’t hurt him significantly. I needed him to suffer, this wouldn’t do! When it forced the big muscles on his back to shudder and twitch that was, at least a delight as far as the look of disquiet and pressure on his face and the aesthetic forced flexing. So, this toy was put aside for other games.

And yet in my check a single black rubber band was left on the mid length of his cock. There are the thin kind, designed to be invisible in my dark hair, not thread or cloth wrapped. It looked like it was meant to be there, with all the latex.

I played at bondage, earlier, capping the tops of his opera length gloves in a way that let me pull his arms behind his back. I put him in a web, with that grey rope, to admire the warm swell of skin. Now he’s free of ties, except for that thin black line. I go to take it off, and then playfully pull and let it snap back.

It hurts. Its sharp, even against the mid length of him. SNAP. Again and again, alternating targets and sides. I move it about, finding misery in the thin band just below the head. And of course his balls. SNAP.

Those are even worse. Some cosmic jester decided, in protection of the species that cocks were made to take a beating, dumb things that they are, for all the hold nerve rich promise of an orgasm. But, break your balls, and all bets are off. SNAP.

I can’t do serious harm with a cheap elastic. After four or five pulls it is starting to permanently stretch out, losing bite. I smile, drawn in by his whimpers. He does not like this. Like virtually everyone I have played with, Silver prefers thud over sting. Masochists are descriptive connoisseurs, communicating their feelings in a million ways. I think that’s how they know they need to seduce us, if we can’t feel what they feel secondhand, what are we dominants to do?

I fetch two more elastics and make free with him. I am being intentionally nasty, putting on the bully voice. It’s a bit meta, acknowledging the ridiculousness of all this. If a cat could speak while it made a game of the mouse, this is how I imagine it would sound. Predatory violence, not reactive, joyful not terrified.

Its already a mind fuck to grapple that he can barely stand a rubber band or two popping him in the balls. Little pinpoint, plum bruises make stars where I have snapped. And I keep asking, “oh, what’s wrong, does it hurt?”

Edge play now.

I keep asking him if he thinks he wants to stop. Every so often he needs a break and then says he can continue. His erection hasn’t left us, maybe because of the beautiful trap of his latex fetish and my clear enjoyment. If he went soft I would stop. I wonder if he knows that. I know he can take more, its abrupt and awful, but not like being burned or similar past human sensibility ways to make a point.

Overthinking the thoughtless part

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