Je te rievens / I come back to you

Whoops, this sat in drafts as the remainder of August and the first half of September into real life obligations and migraines. Here’s the yearning horny, albeit a bit belated!

My body wakes me up at 3AM for its own reasons and I seek his warmth and scent. I find him gone, and I am in my own bed, feeling his absence as a sense-ghost in my memory.

I think about the history he told me, discovering his submission online. Of his eager acceptance of what I say when I assert this or that in my tinkering with the comforts of life. I think about one, then two fingers sliding into his ass, my tugging, pinching and hurting him, and the interplay of our desires through his pain. Of the texture of his hard cock in my mouth, just slight slicked with the oil from the flavourless silicone we use.

I think about how odd it feels to spend two weeks where my sadism can uncoil itself without ceremony, whenever, however. Limits of reason are not something I care to exceed, so I am truly free to do as I wish. It really feels like a visceral thing in my chest, stuffed away behind my breasts. Tonight, at 3 AM in the dark, these ache. 

With him, cruelty happens as easily as a fresh cup of tea, his skin blooming in whatever the latest thing I do. The marks flare bright and usually fade in less than an hour.

I consider you, I consider you… 

The lyrics bounce about in my head, Anges Obel’s Beast. I have run my mile like the stanzas suggest, appreciating this wholeness with him. For the first time in a long time I felt fully unfolded, imagination painting me as something monstrous that usually keeps itself shrunk down. Something with long claws, like hooks, and a flexible body.

He is so small in my arms when I wrap around him. He who is three inches taller, and who I strain to reach when we kneel together to fuck him from behind.

I slap, strike, spank. He fast colours and fast fades, my hands marking for an hour, excepting a few bruises. I bend my mind around his circumstantial masochism, understanding the pain that is good pain, and the bad pain that is very wanted. It took me a few goes to understand that gentleness with fucking his ass was not needed, unlearming the chiding “ouch” from past partners and best practices, to trade for vigorous violation.

After we play particularly hard, perhaps an hour later, when my need to know overturns my commitment to the quieter moment, I watch his eyes and almost hear a click, as he tries to make the experience of me on him into words. It doesn’t come easy, but he knows I need him to articulate the nuances. I am oddly particular about his motives, for all that I glory in my sadism’s freedom.

My mind is a strange time traveller

All the time I visited him, I struggled with a blog post that put to words the sensation of having my mind focus on what’s next, beyond my visit. Now that it is past, I find myself, instead returning to the time before. Of all things, the memory of his smell leaves the strongest means to travel back.

It’s ironic because he is not particularly pungent. He has switched, recently, to some spice and old leather soaps, but it’s not those, as nice as they are, that places him so intensely he is a taste in my tongue and sinuses. 

When we fuck, the ghosts of us bloom beyond our bodies. If my sadism is something in my chest, our sex scents, older than the species, are a warmth of considerable comfort that emerge from us both to soothe. I wondered out loud at that, if others might sense him on me and react, if, in the way of humans it would turn men away or drive them more intrigued.

Perhaps nobody could tell, but where we fucked and laid together, we became overlapped, and myself wearing his scent like his arms about me.

The morning when I left, I didn’t shower, nor the night before, jealously keeping him on my body. But, by the afternoon, settling back into Vancouver, hot water and an engulfing robe gave me comfort. And still it is like I remember the scent now and that becomes enough.

Grey morning,  

It’s now morning as I write this, and the city is ghost calm, the only noise the compressor of the fridge and the hum of the furnace. His bedroom is quite noisy. You wouldn’t think thus, for he would swear to you he prefers suburban calm, but the condos of the area have pushed the density considerably. Things whine and woosh on the road, mumbles travel up from below and yells make their way from outside.

I want to hear his voice: the rumble hinting the bottom depths of it, the slight lisp when he is tired or the plastic braces that keep his teeth straight while he sleeps are snapped in place. The way he finally became less self conscious and let himself sing along a bit to music. The working from home professional voice, listened to while I poke at my laptop and appropriate the sex wedge as a back rest.

Just before I left, I asked a bit about his past, the before me. He was precisely honest in a way that brought out details from memory, but also sparse in some things. I am not the first woman he has submitted to, taking on the mutual self discovery with a long term online friend.

He is careful, understandably, as any man would be when their partner says “tell me about your ex”, but for me it is more a comforting sequence of knowing not precisely the erotic details, but how he made his way into understanding what we do. I am fishing, not for comparison, but to find what part might be submerged, mapping out a depth.

I think that I am largely open about myself. Too open, by most standards: sex blogger, sharer of feelings and criticisms, quick to say what I think. I want to be recorded, understood, and, I guess, accepted. I know the latter two are unlikely, but I am shockingly good at getting myself heard. Silver? I watch him manage to make small talk that is warm, friendly and doesn’t even reveal an opinion on a sports team, much less politics, even casual hobbies. He’s as hard to grasp as a breeze.

Strangers on the internet know I still suck my thumb in my sleep sometimes, and that I repeatedly miss shaving a few of the hairs on my ankles until I start to resemble a clydesdale. Silver, meanwhile, is the first person I met to whom “still waters run deep” is actually true. I used to think a core part of loving someone completely was knowing them with the same thoroughness, now I come to discover it’s more like a compulsive need to explore until I do.

I could dig for a long time before I’ve mapped (mined?) all of Silver.

This is also the first relationship I have been in that I put myself utterly first. This sounds luxurious, but actually it’s painful and often very bruising to my ego. You see that means a lot of addressing my self protective crazy. It makes my critical of past loves, as something I am unsure about is at what point did perfectionism in muffling my distress become dishonesty and at what point was it a boundary?

There now, reader, I have contradicted myself. An open book who somehow always shocked her exes with the depth of her dissatisfaction with tthem. An honest speaker of her thoughts who uses the needs of others to not think too hard about what she wants.

With Silver, from day one, I placed my standards higher. I extended my desires, and treated my wants like needs. He meets them. Oh my goodness does he meet them.

I am all aflutter with terror because I want him so very badly. This in turn makes an insecurity that the needy anchor seeker in me will terrorize him into trying to protect me by pulling back. I am trusting he won’t, thus far he isn’t.

I am cared for.

He drives me back to Vancouver, so I can walk the park length left to the border and cross back. On the way, he thoughtfully pulls into the little lighthouse Starbucks of a small town just before things shade from the poverty sprawl of Northern Washington to the wealth of south eastern suburban Greater Vancouver. 

Although most of what we just drove through was industrial boxes, here it’s a picturesque core of a small town. Autumn is hinting, a stroke of orange or a bloom of the first hint of red in some of the leaves, and a grey, chilly mist whispering that maybe the angry scourge of summer heat is done. Autumn is a weakness that turns me into romantic mush.

Masts from a marina peeping below the parking lot. I don’t want to leave him. I imagine a half dozen perfect maybe somedays as I steal what kisses I can. We reach the parking lot of the peace arch and he walks me to the border, where I will cross.

He likes a long, lips pressed kiss best. His kisses fascinate me, like nobody else. His cock settles in my body more easily than any other. He has the darkest blue eyes I have ever seen.

I am full to bursting with “what’s next, now!?”

What’s next? Here I am in Canada, first day back, I am considering my balcony garden and what parts survived my absence. Inexplicably the tender first zucchini that died in the heat wave came back robust, maybe there will be a crop. I regret only the goth cherry tomatoes, tenderly nurtured into bushy green from scant seeds from etsy. 

Life will continue. Delta will do its thing, in theory at some point in September he will make an expensive trip to see me. But, we will be apart, for now and wait to see what will come next.

Excuse Our Dust (From Seattle)

A visit to Silver in Seattle

Oh whoopsies, broke a few things on the site there, didn’t I? Hopefully the new template tweaks are working nice and smooth in your browser. Feel free to leave a comment if they are not! Otherwise, it’s been busy these last few weeks, but up until last week, maybe not so exciting.

What have I been up to this summer?

No sooner did I get into doing live streams, but an amazingly awful blanket of heat waves hit my province, turning my possible filming space into a sauna. I do not like it when my gloomy, damp home turns into a place where the weather is literally “firestorm”. Still, all wasn’t bleak, despite having to resort to covering my windows in tinfoil like I was a conspiracy theorist doing interior design. During the truly medically terrifying heat wave, Silver gifted me with a few nights in hotel, coming to the rescue with his very typical eagerness. He is good to me that way. This was also a pretty major milestone for me to trust someone enough to let them give me something at that cost.

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The 5,525 Mile Club

Conjugal Tents was not a phrase I expected to learn, much less use. The border remains sensibly sealed to the majority of traffic, though Silver is twice vaccinated, and I the Canadian once. At current suspicion that might be done at the end of the summer, with the start of the tentative discovery of metrics that will make it possible to lever our two countries open to each other.

I am late, this time, to the park. Usually I beat him by ten to thirty minutes and take up a book on a picnic bench in front of the US parking area. They do not want me there or inside the cars, though they tolerate me assisting carrying things about. But the park rangers have created a merciful compromise. No tents in the broad lawns or where the weddings happen at a steady clip as soon as the weather warms. But, in the more wooded far edge overlooking the road that splits the park from Canada proper, nylon mushrooms of various sizes sprout up.

It’s a proper field of desires.

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8 Things He Does When He’s Only Ever Been With Pro Dommes Before You

spotting the former client of a prodomme

Sex work is normal, and more than normal, healthy.

It’s important any piece about sex work acknowledge this fact explicitly: remuneration for the erotic is a perfectly reasonable thing. It might take many forms, and you, the reader, even if you are a lifestyle only domme, probably consume some manner of product of the larger industry. Perhaps you stick to erotica, or buying gear inspired by the things popularized in porn. Perhaps you, yourself like to enjoy the performance of a stripper or you are a client of someone yourself.

Nonetheless, when you are a lifestyle femdom, you will find yourself in the curious situation that not only are most resources for straight women tailored under the expectation of copying the pro experience, but a significant number of your partners will, up until you, have only ever experienced submission in the context of a professional, and it shows.

Take this not at an accusation of the evil fakery of the Pro, but as a certain pattern that I just keep seeing pop up over and over again.

1) Kneeling and wanking on a towel to finish is normal to him. 

These days there’s a well needed thaw on “dommes don’t fuck/BDSM is not sexual” by default. (And thank goodness!) But, quite reliably, if your partner wants to get off to femdom and it’s been pros only until this point, they don’t think it will be with any contact or physical assistance from you.

This is largely due to the letter, rather than the spirit of anti-sexwork laws being obeyed, but people who have only experienced being clients also expect a certain physical distance as part of emotional boundaries. So, knees on the floor, towel down and several feet away, a supervised wank has an odd habit of being how he expects things to wrap up. Can it be hot? Sure, but like the particular patterns in sex based on what looks good on camera trickle from porn to regular bedrooms, this one is a very strong tell.

2) Being *wildly* grateful. 

The thank yous don’t stop, from when you first agree to play to days after. It’s nice to be appreciated and infinitely reassuring if you are worried that he might not want a second time, or you need a little aftercare. Still to the point you start feeling slightly concerned they think this was a lot closer to helping them move a couch than mind blowing sex for you.

It’s not that you were “better” than his past experiences (although if he likes a lot of emotional intimacy it might necessarily have been). But, while kink, at the best of times, is vulnerable, the environment that makes sex work the only easy to find outlet tends to feed the idea this was being dooted by a unicorn. So many check-ins to say thank you again. So. Many. @_@

3) Reflexively calling play time “sessions”

Lifestyle BDSM is less likely to use this to describe a hookup, whether alone or at a play party. That’s not to say that one never does, but the framing of taking a private lesson or some sort of treatment or luxury spa time can bleed into both the approach he takes to it, but also how he talks about it before and after. The kink scene at large tends to pick up on it, as well, but it’s been my experience that M/f tends to frame it in terms of a scene. Again, it’s not bad, but it is a very philosophically different position to be in.

4) He gets weirdly anxious you are not being properly compensated. 

This doesn’t necessarily mean money, but there remains the perception that some sort of payment/service always has to go with the kink play out of “fairness” to you. In any relationship, gifts and acts of service make up 2/5 of the love languages people might approach relationships with. In professional domination, there is Often he’s quite free with the gifts or nurturing, and gets emotional gratification from doing so even independently of whatever other BDSM activities you do together. This is a bit of a chicken and egg thing, since if you don’t find paying for something very personal gratifying you aren’t going to be as likely to seek out a professional dominant.

5) Extremely healthy attitude about sex work as work, which generally extends into respecting women’s time and labour.  

Maybe it’s a selection bias to the guys I date too, but I find frequenting sex workers actually tends to have a certain awareness of how much femininity is performance. I can’t speak to every client ever, but it is very refreshing to be free of the guys who go out of their way to tell you you are prettier without makeup, or who expect a medal for preferring a less mainstream body type.

6) His mind is blown by very cuddly aftercare, possessive intimacy, or sex that blends into BDSM and back out again.  

See towel wanking for the other symptom of very hands off BDSM. Nobody is touching these boys in anything other than a controlled fashion, so expect a really big eyed paralyzed reaction the first time play ends with significant snuggles or involves climbing on top and biting. Mix stroking, petting and massage into play and they practically have some sort of temporary tour of nirvana… alongside the most bewildered faces this side of an Organic Chemistry class. 

7) Has trouble understanding you are getting anything out of this, though more than happy to do things your way even if it isn’t his fetish. 

Even when you just had a loud, sloppy orgasm. Even when he just spent the last hour falling all over himself trying to please whatever arbitrary kinks and preferences the fetish fairies gave you. In addition to feeling you need to be paid, your fellow may even need constant reassurance not the standard “did ya come/was it good for you?” but “That wasn’t *too* much of an imposition, was it?”

8) Usually able to clearly articulate his desires and separate how he thinks something will feel versus how it actually feels. 

Your average former client had a past partner who is very used to extracting actionable activities out of the often incoherent and oneiric space of fantasy. Can the traditions and practical parts of pro-work lead to some very unusual behaviour? Sure! But, for all of that, there’s a certain requirement to tease out what he wants from the vague flappy sea of human guessing and fretting. A professional session is not cheap, and professionals who thrive also have a particular knack for extracting want from “um, ah… I have this fantasy…”

As a bonus: You also have an accidental screening for the maybe-masochists who are more attracted to the idea of bottoming than receiving.

6 Femdom Highlights of 2020

Castlevania Season 3 = Femdom x 9000

It’s hard to believe that this dropped in March 2020. Just as North America became aware this Covid issue wasn’t someone else’s problem, we got ALL undead femdom.

Between bondage Alucard and Hector/Lenore, there’s nothing at all left in subtext and fan fic writers and femdom enthusiasts the world over are now waiting on baited breath to see if the F/m couple of our cartoon vampire dreams gets some sort of non-tragic ending.

So many online kink classes!

Probably the one benefit to the pandemic was that we were all forced to find new ways to run our kink communities. The educational component, previously locked to physical spaces, became unmoored from geography. It’s suddenly become possible to attend classes anywhere in the world

My highlights include several hypnosis workshops, and decided I particularly like The Eulenspiegel Society (TES, of New York) and via classes hosted by Dating Kinky.

Meanwhile the Ritual Chamber in Toronto has weekly options as a great way to keep the space available while most pro-dommes have taken a break in the name of public health. Likewise Ruby Ryder is running a rotating series on how to peg, for both beginners and advanced players.

That sexy tease of a poster

Earlier last year, the film “Cordelia” shared an elegant image of implied female dominance with a great aesthetic. something about her long dress and his high collar hinted at a historical romp- which given the target market of the typical costume drama, was particularly exciting. For a couple of weeks, we all lost our minds hoping it was the must needed femdom historical.

Unfortunately it wasn’t. A psychological thriller about the mental health of half a set of twins wasn’t what we are into at all, so we decided we needed “Regency Femdom Week“.

Ferns Started Offering Audio Stories

Launched through her Patreon, long term author of Domme Chronicles, Ferns, took her occasional presence on podcasts and went one step further. Erotica in a sexy Australian accent from the queen of lifestyle femdom blogging? You most certainly should take a listen.

I am told her book is also due to become an audio book too, soon!

Silver Became My Property

femdom latex sleep sack

You may or may not have noticed a bit of a content renaissance here and to be honest a significant portion can be blamed on acquiring a muse. Starting an Owner/property relationship back in January has been delightful.

As well as new femdom stories, you have probably been both following along with my real life write ups, or at least enjoying the occasional illustration, often directly inspired by my escapades. Oh, and sonnets.

And there’s almost certainly more to come- see the illustration on the left for an example.

(You can find posts pertaining particularly to him under the Silver tag)

Satanatrix and Empress Ming Caused an International Incident

Shooting a femdom film, with a priest in a Catholic Church was a risky move, but completely delightful. Unfortunately everyone got nailed with a public obscenity charge, but not only do I strongly feel it doesn’t meet the criteria (locked church after hours isn’t public), the clear intended blasphemy is both drenched in artistic merit and given the long term hegemony of the Catholic Church… not exactly punching down.

Although many people were SHOCKED such an indecent act might occur and the altar ritually burned, I donated to Ming’s Go Fund Me, since booting the hornet’s nest of the faithful can mean dealing with getting loudly and publicly outed, and then a mountain of abuse.

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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