Confessions of a Sadistic Femdom

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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February 2022 Femdom Projects And Updates

Flowers from my submissive
Flowers From Silver. They smell wonderful.

Oh my goodness, we are already one month into 2022, and it feels like time has started to fly again. Happy Year of the Tiger to all people who celebrate this particular holiday- and to me, because I am a Fire Tiger. Mow!

I already told you Silver and I were looking into the gradual merging of households process. Because of that pesky two nationalities problem this is a slightly more complex process, but ironically achieving that is stepping up my writing and content game. Thanks to being able to travel by car now, January had not one but two chances to see my submissive!

Covid willing, I will see Silver around Valentine’s day. I got to see him in person in January twice, so that’s nice. My Pisces is having a birthday, and I am trying to come up with the best gift for a man who has everything other than making him a carrot cake, which I am excited to do, but is just the start. No spoilers of what I got him for Valentine’s day, but I already had it arrive from Europe and wrapped it. You never can tell with shipping.

I am having a bad couple of migraine months, but seasonal transitions do that. Don’t worry, collectively that disability scenario I mentioned is sloooowly getting better.

Vote My Book For An Award For Taboo Erotica

CORPORATE CONDITIONING VOTING BANNER

I got nominated for a 2021 Golden Pigtail Award for CORPORATE CONDITIONING (over 10x!), and you should vote for it here in the semi-finals. This part of the competition is going to run until February 14th, 2022 and I really, really want to win entirely for ego reasons. Also because with all the real life US political hellscape business, taboo erotica like mind control are under siege. I had a literal dream I won, and I really appreciate Alexa Sommers giving me a reason to feel competitive and excited.

More Femdom Writing for Everyone

My Patrons have decided on the topic for the next Friday Femdom Fiction, and it’s going to be “Sacrifice“. I am excited, and in the mood to write something about psychological dominance. I would like to at least release two short stories for the general readers, so we’ll see where my brain is at for the other one.

Someone got me a copy of “Yes, Roya” via my Throne Wishlist, and it’s a love letter to midcentury fetish art. It’s next on my review docket, although I have a couple of other books like “Enough to Make You Blush” and “Femdom For Nice Girls” also on my shelf waiting for their own posts. If you think a work deserves to be put on there for review, feel free to suggest it.

I am WAY overdue to write something about all the Korean female gaze femdom comics. I will be focusing primarily on Tapas and Tappytoon. Titles like Sadistic Beauty, I Fell Into A Reverse Harem Game, Roxana, A Harem for My Empress, the King and the Paladin, etc… all provide a refreshing alternative source of contemporary things for dommes.

My fun writing project is 14504 words and counting of romantic femdom fantasy. It’s whimsical, very cottage core/dark academia and probably can be released as a straight romance because while the femdom is VERY present and smutty, the tale of a sorceress on her rabbit familiar is putting as much emphasis on the service as it is the sex. This pleases me.

(Other Places to Find Miss Pearl)

As you can probably tell by the sidebar if you are visiting this site by browser, I have been way more active on Femdom Instagram, so go ahead and give that a follow. I get asked this repeatedly, no I am not switching over into modelling or having an OnlyFans, etc… as the effort/risk to reward just isn’t there.

I do have a kink youtube and am hoping to go back to livestreaming soon. Check out back issued videos, and you know, like, comment and subscribe because if I am putting amateur hour full face vids out there this is my consolation. I do not have a Tiktok because I am old and don’t think I am a good comedic actress … intentionally.

I spend too much time on reddit and assist with moderating r/femdom and r/femdomcommunity.

Kink Twitter is probably open on my phone too much. That’s probably where you will see the most stream of consciousness rambling and arguing with other people. Do follow!

My Sub In Rope and Dreams in Vancouver

It can’t be helped that in my site’s long period of malfunction, various writing got caught in the delay. This was started months earlier this year, but I suppose its better shared here than put into the delete pile. It’s got a certain timelessness to it.

When I entered the kink community, rope topping was very much a boy space.

I took this to flatter him, not me because male bondage doesn't do enough for the female gaze

I am occasionally shy to talk about my bondage because I told myself I am bad at it. I am not, and tying up Silver in a Vancouver hotel room was the kind of meta empowering I know is going to stick with me until I am old.

I took a lot of pictured for posterity, even filmed us playing by carefully setting my phone on a tripod. When we watched the clip together later, you could hear me saying over and over again: pretty, pretty, pretty.

I was savoring his body, marveling that he could be wholly there for my consumption.

The pictures that include me, and indeed the angle I captured my own use of him, both didn’t care how I looked. He was the prize, I the winner. I take a good enough selfie and know where I sit on the matter of the artifice of performed beauty. The ability to put him as the object, in rope of my design made me the victor.

I doubt he knew he was going into the moment with me with a metamour of ten years of pent up irritation at how kink, as a community, treats my sexuality, but this was a rare moment in which I was able to see this creature and step on its throat.

In the late aughts, all of the BDSM world was obsessed with the shibari master/rope bottom dynamic. even vanilla fashion was deeply influenced by the endless pictures of diamond pattern body harnesses, posted by fancy male photographers and exhibitionists- the strappy elastic body harnesses that are still worn today are its descendant. The ability to string a flexible young woman up was a mark of prestige for men and women alike. Events were happy to have one or more “bunnies” artfully suspended as the centerpiece. Big to dos, like LordMorpheous‘s thing in Toronto, wedged a shoulder into the Overton window and created a space to be kinky that both challenged everything, but was not so unfamiliar as to upend any hegemonies that would make it impossible.

Women being tied to things for pleasure, being excused as art has always been a wedge issue for erotic content, since long before The Perils of Pauline bound a woman to train tracks, a sawmill, and any other excuse that has let kinky content squeak through. The self identified bunnies and edgy topping-as-art tie boys were the good kind of pioneer, don’t get me wrong. It also was a rising tide that profoundly didn’t float my boat.

So, let me continue, I do have a lot to say.

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A Little Bit of Good This Christmas

I am extremely happy to say the site, with the help of a technically skilled person, has been returned to functionality with a full, clean re-install. After 10 years, it was apparently full of ghosts and accidental messes, as well as bits and pieces that were leftover from past projects. The theme is readable and responsive, enough to serve you the femdom stories that remain the primary draw, without tying you to a particular device.

I am writing this as I delay making gingerbread cookies (to sit in the fridge overnight). Tomorrow Silver is going to drive up to haul me off to Washington, the theory being that if we are going to weather a complete holiday shut down, doing so in each other’s company is less unpleasant than apart. Although they haven’t hurt the borders yet, its been threatened, and I’d hate to do another 6 months, not knowing when we might be reunited. Behind me, a muffled YouTube playlist of vintage Christmas carols, artfully distorted to sound played on a record player in the next room adds a degree of festive feeling to a pretty grey time. It’s not so bleak, I suppose, as it might have been same time last year, when I cancelled seeing Silver, as covid rates inevitably spiked. That year, flying was the only option and going through air travel seemed a high risk activity on top of border hopping.

We are also coming in on our two year anniversary, if you back date things, or a year and a half if you count from formal negotiation of “dating”, which came after D/s. That’s us, backwards from lust into something deepening out. It feels odd, because it fits so perfectly well, that moment when you look at something on the rack “nah nice, but an impulse buy! Never going to fit me!” But try it on anyway and you don’t need to think of even tailoring it. Occasionally I wonder at how well he suits, in that way where I pay a therapist $150 an hour to convince me I deserve nice things.

More or less at this time, I went to an event in the social orbit of Seattle so I could hook up with him. And I did, and after, I told myself that if I wasn’t going to accept his extended kindness, what was the point even? So I did, and fell in love with him.

Today Silver dealt with various fuss around car maintenance, winding up into an increasing frazzle as he tried to make pieces fit to pick me up. He doesn’t like me having to take an Uber to the border, and doesn’t like me having to pay the expense of the ride and have me walk over. He will swab himself and wait 24 hours for his test results, to shuttle me up and back, three to four hours drive. My scumbag brain tries to come up with a reason this is an inadequacy on my part, because apparently it doesn’t want to admit someone can just care about me that much. Enough to spare me $60 and a 40 minute car ride and 20 minutes of ridiculous security theatre.

An old friend, one of those humans you find is relentlessly good to you, helped me fix the gnarled up back end of my website. Every step of the way she apologized for giving me good advice. For imposing with her help. The site is now clean and crisp and no longer fighting against posting things or going down every thirty minutes. Then she trusted me to give her a name for a project she is working on, and my scumbag brain told me asking me was a favour to me.

Silver just about apologized for not being better at the back end of websites. As if it were his job to be all thing to me, as if it were a lack on his part. I understand that urge powerfully, I don’t think it is submissive thing. I think it is the complex tangle of how humans love.

If his apartment wasn’t so small as to probably drive us crazy, if I didn’t need $600 of Botox stabbed into my head every three months, and business with OTs and so forth, it would be tempting to just weather the current spike of plague nestled up in his home.

There, this stream of consciousness is written and I have taken a tranquillizer to prevent the excitement of tomorrow and a thread of anxiety from throwing me off my sleep. There’s disks of gingerbread dough in the fridge and when I made it I felt a little bit of Christmas, a pure bit of joy it would be ok. Tomorrow I have a handful of must do errands before I go, filling a prescription, rolling, cutting and baking cookies, and finishing a gift. I must settle on the things for my suitcase. There may be a family to meet: “Hi Mom, this is my domme!”

Ok, no, it’s that mutual thing where the leather fetish stories fall short as I make a presentation of myself that is not fake, it’s translated. And like any good translation, the meaning will not be lost though the context and language will adapt to the audience. I pack bright kelly green tights and a red plaid dress, and consider I have 12 days to fill otherwise. Latex, in crinkly paper. Twangy body harnesses, lingerie. Plain black cotton panties with lace edges to match. Black tights, opaque, worn in this style since high school, skirts. I seldom wear pants. Shoes must be picked carefully as even with a bigger bag they make bulk.

I am packing a jar of mincemeat. I expect to co-opt flour and butter and two knives to slice vigorously. This particular recipe takes forever to bake and makes my diners convert to pie. I don’t expect him to like the rich taste of peel, raisins and alcohol. But it is my Christmas to eat them. In our last video call before bed, a habit that’s turned into 3 or 4 calls a day, he showed me he picked me up some shortbread. He has put a box for me in his bathroom I can stash those things one makes a habit of- shampoo and conditioner and so forth. We are at the drawer-at-your-place stage in our relationship.

The orgasm denial is making him into a mess. Every time I see his cock, hard and erect I immediately get his with the scent memory of sex. We’ve passed pleasantly aroused and into needy, unable to shut down the drive to pursue and touch. Tomorrow he will be unable to stop touching me. I am sadistically winding him up until he can tell me he needs me. I am pushing his limits, my unstintingly giving man.

And perhaps I will let him come before New Years. It is, after all, Christmas.

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. @[email protected]

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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