Friday Femdom Fiction: A Domme’s Gratitude Journal

Gratitude is relevant to clinical psychology due to (a) strong explanatory power in understanding well-being, and (b) the potential of improving well-being through fostering gratitude with simple exercises

Alex M. Wood; Jeffrey J. Froh; Adam W.A. Geraghty; “Gratitude and well-being: A review and theoretical integration”; Clinical Psychology ReView; March 2010

November 1st

I am grateful for the morning, the warmth of the bed I don’t want to escape and the consolation of the coffee he brought to me.

November 2nd

I am grateful for the way he knelt down last night and kissed the toes of my boots all playful, until I swatted him away squawking he needed to wipe them down first.

November 3rd

I am grateful for the nudge of his hard cock against my ass, even if we are both too groggy from last night because of it. I get to have impromptu sex on a week night, when I want. Even if I am tired and hate everything right now.

November 4th

I am grateful for the three selfies he sent me of edging in the accessible/unisex single user bathroom at his work, and in knowing he wore the plug I hid in his glove box for four hours.

[ Entries missing and space covered with stickers.]

November 9th 

I am grateful for the way he looks in a collar, on all fours and for putting up with going out two nights out of three this weekend. Although I forgot to do my journal.

November 10th

I am grateful for the bagel with sesame and cream cheese, even if he forgot and apologized it wasn’t poppyseed because he couldn’t remember if it was sesame or poppyseed I prefer. It’s sesame. He called me on his break from work, just to apologize because he wasn’t sure.

November 11th

I am grateful for him being supportive about my step brother being gone, even if we weren’t really that close, and for understanding why I made us late by being on the phone with my mom all morning.

November 15th

I am grateful for him remembering to tell me I seemed loopy and asking if I had been taking my ADHD meds. I hadn’t. Whose bright idea was a disability that takes organization to keep up with, that makes you disorganized?

November 16th

I am grateful that he drew me a picture of my worst customer as a sulky troll and also that he doesn’t mind eating me out takes 20 minutes, and that even then sometimes I can’t get off.

November 17th

I am grateful for how fun it is to edge him over and over again. And the really good deal I got on bananas.

November 18th

I am grateful he got precum on my good work skirt and it came right out with a little water. Him being messy is sexy!

November 19th

I am grateful for him bringing me a Starbucks holiday cookie while I was doing cert practice exams and letting me use his testicles as a stress squeeze ball.

November 20th

I am grateful for him finding my gratitude journal behind the bed. And for not making me feel bad about being so upset it was missing. And being ok that I told him I wasn’t up to an elaborate scene tonight and then changing my mind and plugging him and keeping him in the sensory deprivation hood for an hour and a half while I hit him with a crop intermittently and played chinese opera through headphones in his ears.

November 21st

I am grateful for the fact that he managed to write “Take your Meds” on his ass, but he did it crooked so it says “Tak3 your m3dz”. And for alluringly mooning me for a spanking after serving breakfast in bed.

November 22nd

I am grateful he drew me a picture of Troll-Robert being hit by a palette of express shipped orders and being squashed flat and for letting me cradle his head lovingly and slap the shit out of him. And for reminding me to put the bananas in the freezer before they go bad.

November 23rd

I am grateful for KISSES.

November 24th

I am grateful for a really heartfelt letter about how proud of me he is doing certification AND working full time, and how he imagines what our future is going to me like and how my voice makes him drip.

November 25th

I am grateful for him helping my mom TS her computer because he knows I find trying to help her with stuff infuriating, and letting my Dad tell him how to deep fry a turkey and then helping stop my dad from starting a fire when he got distracted. And head in the car home.

November 26th

I am grateful for him catching my laptop when I accidentally kicked it off the bed. I HATE CERT PRACTICE EXAMS.

November 27th

I am grateful for that wet big eyed, helpless on his knees look he gives. And for the little grunt he makes every time I jerk the harness up.

November 28th

I am grateful for him freezing all the bananas I forgot to, and being able to make them into a breakfast smoothie so my adhd meds don’t give me a stomach ache.

November 29th

I am grateful for saying nothing, dropping to his knees and worshipping my pussy when he saw my face after I got home tonight. And telling me not to worry about Robert complaining to my boss again about the order.

November 30th

I am grateful for his submission and his love and getting me sushi to celebrate when I passed my MOTHERFUCKING CERTS. Also that he didn’t mind when I missed and hit his balls during spanking.


A note of real life femdom gratitude:

I would like to thank my supporters at Patreon and the unstintingly generous help of a reader for their technical support. The latter got my site operational again after something permissions related dramatically borked.

Becoming a patron helps me keep my content free, and means the world to me. And being the person who helps with my frantic AHHHHH emails after I fuck over something with a plugin/permission is it’s own great gift.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Edging Experiments in the Bedroom Lab

“No Nut November is a good enough reason to test this, isn’t it?” Her phone was open to a page on Amazon, looking at the selection of lab coats available. They were more expensive, in her opinion, than they had any business being.

“You are band wagoning.” He was naked, except for a t-shirt that was pulled off his neck but not his arms, and his socks, which they never seemed to remember to take off. Despite the bravado heavy sarcasm in his accusation, he was helpless, spread eagled in the white bed by straps taut, Velcro cuffs snuggle wrapped around his ankles and wrists.

“You are band wagoning, Doctor,” she corrected, emphasis on the last word. “For the duration of the month you are in this clinical trial and you will conform to every step on the protocol.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He cringed, meekly.

Ridiculous or not, anything said in a stern tone got him somewhere in the hind brain and delivered up that I’ve-been-slapped-please-do-it-again face. She smirked, feeling that flash of extra horny when she looked down on him. The heavy vibe-wand felt comfortingly official, with a turgid density that always reminded her of an erection. Or a weapon, as she felt you could do a reasonable amount of damage with a good clonk.

The buzz of the wand turning on sent tingles though her hand, down her arm. At its lowest setting, it was still enough to make him test the strength of the straps. Pressed to his cock and lazily inched along its length, he would move a little, realize he was denying himself the sensation he craved and then remember to hold still.

“The subject was introduced to the equipment for the test.” She purred, “and showed marked responsiveness. Further investigation found he was most sensitive on the ventral side, except directly below the head, and which point the sensitivity remained the same for dorsal and caudal contact.”

“Motion that was proximal or distal showed equal efficacy in introducing a response, and for consistency a gliding rather than rolling technique was used to establish moving stimulation. Pressure, of course, had a high variability.”

“Increasing the power of the vibrations and contact with the underside of the head of the subject’s cock produced similar non-verbal vocalizations. It will require further testing to determine if they are equivalent in the perception of the subject… or…” She bore down a little more, her grin going wide, “The subject is just being dramatic.”

“No, I’m not…” He shook his head. “That’s…”

She withdrew the wand sharply, and he heard the wine before the pop of electricity discharged into his thigh. He yelped. It was technically a cattle prod, even if she wasn’t sure how a hand-held device like that was used in a stock yard. But it did the job, warning with the pitch of a mosquito before the contact was made. Sometimes all it took was the noise itself to quell him perfect.

“I’m not being dramatic, Doctor!” The correction was blurted out a few seconds later.

“Better. I would rather think by your tone you are. I have seen you take more.”

“No, Doctor. It builds. But, over time I get more numb.”

“Yes, subject, that’s the point. If, by the end of the month you become immune to edging or not, and if you require significantly more stimuli or less, to respond.” To underline this, she nudged the wand back up against the root of his cock, tracing from his balls all the way over the head.

“But, all of November, Doctor?”

“Yes, the trial will run from November 4th to November 30th.” The dates alone weren’t a threat. “I know from the control month of Locktober you can handle no stimulation what so ever. Let’s see if the use of daily, escalating stimulation is any different, hmm?”

“Have you been planning this all along…” He paused, then remembered himself, pressing his hips up to chase more of the wand’s buzz. “Doctor?”

“Well, not really. Only since last week.”

The wand glided back down again, keeping a pattern. There was an interesting technical challenge for her, making torturing him almost meditative. Keep the motions similar, and not give into her own sadistic urge to go as hard as possible all at once.

Steady was its own reward. Despite how natural medical vocabulary came, she knew there was more wanton desire than meticulous art in her use of him. Something about his vulnerability inspired her to devour. She counted the strokes of the wand out loud. “…three, four, five…”

His eyes stayed fixed on her, not relaxing into surrender, but yielding with a focused attention.

“… Eight, nine, ten…” After a few more passes she pressed a little harder. There was that hip buck of his. “… thirteen, fourteen…” His fingers curled and uncurled. She decided not to give the wand more power, keeping it that way.

It took longer, but the edge arrived nonetheless. His belly contracted, as did his balls pulling closer to his body, his mouth making an o while his eyes squeezed shut. Incoherent words warned, no matter his sass, he was obedient to the fact that he was forbidden to come, always faithfully warning her.

She gambled, and gave it a few seconds longer. Another few more.

“Ah!” Only when that desperation started to truly look like he was bracing for an inevitable impact did she yank the wand back, leaving him gasping. 

Her grin would have done the Cheshire cat proud, carrying a buzz of her own between the technical satisfaction of the topping and that in her chest aroused joy of knowing he was completely in her power.

“There now. The Subject will tell the experimenter exactly how that made him feel.”

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.

Read more

Cold Confessions At the Peace Arch

peace arch lovers

The wind rips through hard, a roar of the arctic, cutting through layers of clothes. Silver and I huddle closer together. The warmth of his body puts me in a relaxed state where I am not particularly chatty, but I just want to stay nestled up.

We have made a spot in the park out of two blankets and a flocked back plastic tablecloth, plus pillows and it is almost comfortable. Each of us are well wrapped, and our coats never come off.

It’s there about -1 to -4 C before wind chill. That’s quoted as between -10 and -20 C. Much of the time, today, it’s only two pale faces in a swathe of layers. We must be in love to put up with this.

Somewhere a snowsuit and sweater fetishist must be having a moment, but we look so ridiculous it whips around back into the romance of deprivation. Under the blanket hands steal under clothes, secretive and private. We are sure to keep what kinks you can pass in the bitter winter to ourselves.

I want to go to sleep with him there. We repeat endlessly how much we want the luxury of a private bed. We imagine cabins, apartments, hotel rooms, hot baths. I imagine camping, that even this would go on and on, putting us back in time to where we can’t get more shelter but we won’t have to part. There is a sensuality, even in the plaintive lack of immediate comfort.

My Property and I, in love and unable to shelter together any other way than this.

It’s a patently ridiculous situation, hemmed in by the sort of NIMBY suburb so opposed to access the nearest bus is a 45 minute walk away. News articles write their increasingly impatient pleas to make this park loophole impossible too.

The media has gotten firmer about the the whole border thing, too. When we (Canada) realized various politicians were jetting off to the Carribean and Mexico, it caused a career ending scandal for a few people. Add discovering that people who can’t afford to skip the usual winters in Canda via Florida realized that some of the people who could weren’t going to stop, and restrictions ate getting stricter. More tests, ridiculous hotel confinements. All of course waived for “essential” travel, making me feel deeply uncomfortable with the use of the medical system to be punitive.

But this is it’s own thing. The park is the border, neutral ground neither over nor in.

In Canada, fear of the border makes a convenient scapegoat for a country that, if better than the US, plays acceptable math with community spread. Love and touch are luxuries right now. 

I write this expecting to be seen as a selfish villainess. Although I already mentioned I am not so inclined to risk traveling the air route because I might carry something over or back in the morass of travel, there is a risk in maintaining even this bubble. Even if we both work from home and live clipped lives of smallness, with minimal contact with others, I still worry about it.

And hey, I am not like the UK, which accidentally banned sex with people outside of your household.  My governments are sympathetic to the fact that a household to cram your loved ones and childcare together is an uneven privilege, even if having to make practical exceptions in their guidelines creates and ambiguous mess that is open to self serving rationalizations.

I fear I will hurt someone else. I get anxiety watching movies with crowd scenes where everyone is unmasked. I live in a cloud of guilt that a kiss I call a need could be deadly.

It probably won’t hurt anyone else. But because I am not supposed to, even if I am allowed to, I cannot cleanly cleave what is and isn’t ultimately ok. It’s the usual mix of “badness” in sex and love.

Certainly the vitriol I get can be unintentionally hilarious. A few months back, hearing I got Covid, someone wrote that I deserved it for “travelling to the US to do sex work”. When you are reminded that the average person can’t conceive of a domme doing it for her own gratification, slut shaming meets erasure meets just world fallacies. 

My covid was definitely community transmission back when it all started, but we want to believe that only bad people get it. We want to believe it’s a binary, not a nasty lottery with just enough human agency to fight over.

Is it better or worse to feel powerless about covid or to be angry, because control seems almost in your grasp?

I do also have a degree of self awareness here of my privilege. There’s thousands of couples like me, sincerely in love, who at current prediction will be separated between March 2020 and October 2021. Not everyone can manage 2 weeks of seclusion. And Covid is very real, as I know so from surviving it, as did Silver back when it first made landfall, both waiting out an illness like something out of an old novel. Bed bound, weak, lungs scorched like we had breathed in bleach.

But reading the news articles about the Peace Arch Park, with leading questions about crossing a border in a way that isn’t happening, and clumsy whining crop-quoted from Whiterock and the area otherwise around the park, is a reminder that some people already think you are scum.

In the neighbourhood around the park, they worry people visiting will “come into their community”, a laughable statement in the rows of houses without even a corner store. There is no local community to intrude into, just a nicely walled development of tidy little houses. And the residents are not thinking about the larger Surrey or even Greater Vancouver area, much less the province or country. Their community is a bubble, a fortress forty five minutes walk from the nearest public transit.

 For decades the locals of this neighbourhood have hopped the border for cheap gas and groceries, circumnavigating various taxes by living in close proximity to the US. Now the daily line of cars is gone, only a few essential travelers tick by, and there are six tents up in the little wooded area. I think to myself that this neighbourhood has gone out of it’s way to keep free from the transient population, cutting itself off from the rest of city and visible evidence of inequality, only to end up with the so called “conjugal tents” in no mans land here.

It’s not justice, but it is irony.

Lest you think the Peace Arch is a hive of the lovelorn only, it’s also still being used by locals.

From time to time a person walking a dog passes through, or similarly in and back out groups or singles to stretch their legs. Fury and fear of diseased outsiders doesn’t limit still using the green space, or maybe the sort of people who own dogs are not those who petition MLAs to shut this place down.

When the Canadian side closed they said it was pressure for the traffic, not fear of Covid. Every news article since then has emphasized there are no known transmissions from this spot. Now, of course it’s more emphasized the motive was a possible hazard.

A disguised vehicle with a border patrol person circulates on 0 ave, checking for the scourge of Amazon packages and car parts. On my return, this time, they decline to search me, though I suspect it’s an unwillingness of the officer to leave their cozy vehicle.

Border police are always brisk and unfriendly, holding you under scrutiny like every interaction is an examination of miserable underclass. They were like that when the border was open, but a kiss even in the before times costs a quick brush with an armed man who wields significant state power, every time.

I have no car parts, nor Amazon parcels. I did pass Silver two things his way, a body harness of handmade leather, and little bears made marzipan, carefully molded and assembled by me.

So, the border guard sends me on my way. I leave comfort with him to the warmth of home. I wish I was generally happy right now but I am not. Not (just) because we are parted, but because the whole stupid situation with the pandemic is treading water with little energy.

Will the virus mutate too fast and outstrip the vaccine? Will we be three years deep and still navigating barriers?

I miss him when I leave with an ache of frustration that comes from not knowing when this long limbo will end. I love him. 

On Having A Cross Border BDSM Relationship During Covid

There is a point of comparison between how the safe drama of BDSM and ,the shockingly intense effect a pandemic both weigh on a relationship. One comes from a place of fundamentally healthy intensity, the other forces you to find something to cling to that’s good feeling, just to stop the inherent emotions of a crisis from making you crack. Add the first burning flare of a new relationship and it’s been months of yearning. It’s been a year.

Oh my god, it’s been a year.

We’ve gone from from first kisses at midnight and taking travel for granted, to leaping through hoops to even get to hold hands. I’m writing this in the melancholy cloud of self pity that comes from not getting to spend our One Year Anniversary (TM) together in person. But there’s a certain awareness that at least I have the capacity, despite all this distance, despite getting my own go with Covid, to feel something close to blessed.

Blessed is an odd word, since how we casually use it mostly means fortunate. I don’t think there’s a deity giving out favours, but I can see how when things feel unfair in your favour it is more comforting to believe it. In our case, Silver and I are fortunate in two senses, that he is the one I get to miss so very painfully, and that I get to miss him like this. Not everyone gets even what we have.

Not that I expected it same time last year, but let’s do a retrospective of how we got here: From scratching an itch with a cute sub guy, to deciding there was a pretty good body of evidence this might be my Person.

I thought fretting if I was rebounding after a break up in 2019 was going to be my biggest pathos. I though Silver was Mr. What I Needed Right Now, and I’d work the rest out later. At the time, and you can see it documented month over month, I figured slow was better. At the best of times I am good at feeling things hard, and I wanted to be careful with my heart. I mapped out a month by month calendar of careful escalations. But, people plan, and God laughs, so the saying goes. My commitment to the Aesthetic has nothing on the adaptions we must put love to, to live in and with a pandemic.

And I think of the sentiment, the impacts we put of old concepts: Dating. Courting. Love letters. Shame. Adventure. Simplicity.

I already mentioned that Covid had a sort of time machine effect on relationships, so I suppose I expand on that point. For good or for ill, this has been a ridiculously romantic situation. I don’t mean to say that the sufferings of billions is my immature backdrop. This is no renting an antebellum plantation so the columns will look good in your wedding photos.

This is romantic in the sense that the obstacles add a conflict you have to face together. Where everything is a monumental struggle, so the least bit of your efforts to reach each other has all the more impact. And it’s a lot of yearning, and time to think about missing them.

On Romance

I wish I had saved the origin, but in the ship wars that spill over into Twitter, a fragment of an argument slipped past: Romantic, in fiction, isn’t actually the model of what a relationship should be, it’s drama. Drama necessarily mean a certain degree of angst, discomfort and pathos. Stick “Grand” in front of the word “Romance” and you probably can guarantee deadly peril too.

In this pandemic, everyone flails around for a story to make sense of it. The Spanish Flu and the Blitz are popular. Sometimes we trot out war metaphors from other conflicts. I see the point, to a degree. I had not expected food shortages, sheltering in place or blocked travel would be part of my adulthood. I hadn’t expected to get sick in a pandemic, though I suppose I assumed there would eventually be some acute calamity or another. I just thought it was going to be a natural disaster or a personal crisis. My imagination stretching to earth quakes and car crashes, not long, long months of nothing to do while everything happened.

Covid, ultimately, is going to be Covid, in the stories after this. We’re nowhere near out, with it’s long tail aftershocks on the economy predeicted to last long after we are all hopefully stabbed twice and set back out into the working world. But, for now it’s the older meaning of the term “romance” we seek comfort in, meaning a story, often grand in scope.

I am sure it wasn’t Tolkien’s Hobbit that made participating-under-protest Bilbo the first hero self aware of the unpleasantness of the practical details of adventure. Nonetheless, the Hobbit and it’s titular species are the lives of most of us. Sure we have personal pains, but most of us go out of our way to avoid anything epic, because we are not self destructive.

And yet, in the awful can we farm a lot of just plain awe.

We are all aware of the fact that bad things breed good chemistry. The shared experience of suffering, even ritual and light suffering, bonds you to new friends and compatriots fast. Much has been said of the addictive nature of rollercoaster relationships, no matter how much they tend to behave a lot more like steamrollers to our lives and real happiness. So, what about the inherent drama of kink?

I believe that one facet of BDSM’s appeal is putting that lightening in a bottle. Like taking up sword fencing or tae kwan do, or immersing yourself in a nice novel, you get all the advantages and high energy of what would be bad otherwise, and none of the messes. A beating ends with check ins and aftercare. A scene almost always begins with both parties having the understanding of the ride the are on and where it is going. BDSM relationships really don’t get much worse than vanilla ones can, but can have a significant uplift than the alternative.

Perversity breeds a language for obsession, foreplay for days, and investment. I know a lot more kinky folks who are REALLY into their partners and the relationship itself, than vanilla couples. (I think people who are living a $Religion Lifestyle are the only ones I see otherwise so reliably obsessed in building a big thing off being together)

Now try being kinky, dating with a lot of firsts that are symbolic even for vanilla folks, and then have a pandemic crash through your world.

Let us be clear, in these times I exist in a position of relative safety and advantage. I survived Covid with only mild respiratory damage. Silver and I work from home, and live a not unreasonable commute from the only easy to reach neutral ground between our nations in the world. We even managed a visit in October, because I could afford a $250 flight and a $60 uber, where I plucked his technical virginity.

After, I confided that I had not expected it to impact me as much, to feel so bonded. I had lost my own technical virginity with the speed and enthusiasm of a teen breaking in her first pair of Doc Martens. Literally. I snapped my hyman like I was trying to make something transform from painful and chafing, to the badge of experience and the power I wanted fucking to symbolize. Control. Freedom. Artificially extended childhood through “purity”, as the larger body of adults recommended, constricted.

So it was bewildering to feel something a little more real just from popping a little rubber bag on his cock and making him ejaculate inside me. And it was reassuring to be told that he also felt like something relevant had passed between us. Uh, did True Love really wait? Snrk.

I love him, rather intensely. Did I mention that?

In November, after passing quarantine confinement for the first part, we made a last pilgrimage to the Peace Arch. The sky, which had turned Cascadia grey by my return home from Washington and dumped water daily, gave us a break for one perfect Friday afternoon.

Understand, of course that this park meeting would be unthinkable if we didn’t lead very constricted lives. Numbers of infections are watched in British Columbia and Washington. Even so, this was the tail of the year, with few leaves in the trees and the earth even more muddy than our first May meeting. And the park had only a few well swaddled few, more border guards than guests.

These days, there’s a significant pressure, and for good reason, to be as good as possible. The intimacies of my picnics feel as daring as the carnality of my sex life, if not more so. I worry that I made my calculations wrong. I worry that if I tell you, even here in a fairly shielded sex blog I will end up earning some sort of scarlet C. And guilt too, because some people don’t have a means to see the one they love at all. And woven into this shame, is a sort of awareness of the larger struggles from time past.

So much hope and want, all poured into one thermos!

I made oxtail soup from scratch in my roomate’s instant pot. Simple, carrots, celery and onion, the latter diced nice and fine, and a little tomato paste and herbs from the last on my balcony. I wrapped the thermoses in a pretty tea towel, making the most simple thing we were stuck with as special as I could. He brought pumpkin pies capped with Chantilly cream, rich and perfect. After the bandstand proved occupied by one of the few other people (the seemed to be doing some sort of group therapy), we stole away to make a plastic tablecloth and blanket nest at the door of the little building that serves as a kitchen-for-rent in better days.

I wish I could tell you of some great erotic secret game we played, but the truth was I had a migraine that made me ache until he began to stroke along my back and neck. Though there was more than captured kisses, there wasn’t the full lavished torments to the degree we sometimes do.

The truth is that I’d seen that arch that’s a monument to our respective nation’s diplomatic peace a good dozen times now, and until now I though it was trite and over stated. It’s League of Nations styled optimism that the First World war got it out of our system at long last, refreshed just this year with new white paint on a hulking structure that’s too public to pretend its a lost gate to Narnia, or some such. But there, framed by trees shedding their last leaves, and cuddled close against the wind, the fact that the gate was essentially closed hurt. It was a family heirloom you took for granted as “that old thing” now pawned, or lost in a fire.

Here we were, almost quaint enough to make the most Family Values oriented elder cluck indulgently at us. This picnic was all we had. Sure, I wanted him back in a rubber bondage sack with his hard cock peeping, and every fiber of his being focused on what I might do next, but it’s going to take either great age or a traumatic brain injury to make me forget that afternoon.

The soup arrived still so hot it burnt my tongue, but I want to make it again. And I can’t tell you if the pumpkin tarts were the best I have ever had, or if that was the moment’s energy giving them the flavour, but ultimately, if my meat prison is giving me intense happiness in a pile of things I would have previously thought were mundane, I will take it.

We hoped hard, in a few weeks, things might stay as easy as they had in October and maybe, just maybe, one more meeting to end the year. One more hand on throat, midnight kiss to seal 2020 with the same hope we entered it with.

And after.

The panedemic got worse, of course. We know, you’re reading it with me. The optimism that I had thought perhaps to risk an imprudent NYE rendez vous all abated. I MISS HIM. I won’t see him or hold him or pin him in place and hurt him for months.

The park’s awash in the sky’s further blessings: wet snow, and here I am making a tearful record. I shan’t fill his ass with anything, but toys at my direction. I have to reassure my beautiful, perfect man that my crying isn’t some ill he did me, but the awareness of wanting.

And the pictures we send back, well, his pale face and perfect dark blue eyes have a little sad. The hair he grew out long enough to yank will have its trim. I suspect he just packed the bounty of gifts he wanted to get me into a big box an freighted it to me, instead of getting to watch as I blushed redder and redder at each unwrapping and put kisses on his neck to hide my face.

There’s a rubber armbinder still in tissue, waiting for me to join him and strap him in. There’s promise unrealized, things I hope for. Even our relationship, at one year at the end of the month, has crazy holes we will have to wait to back fill. We have spent barely three days together in a row, and still need to determine if four is too much. I have to let time keep going forward to get there.

I will comfort myself. I make the effort to dress and pretty up as if the pandemic barrier might drop at any minute and I would need to drop everything to see him. (with laws in place, I doubt it will go that fast). After January, I will buy a short whip, and take it to the nearest park to learn to aim it, so the next time we are alone, even if he’s stolen from me again, I can send him back with welts.

I will progress as best I can with what we have for now. And it will be some comfort that although hot soup and a picnic are now the height of decadent luxury, they feel like much, much more.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Acting Cagey At the Grocery

“Darling, what has gotten into you?”

She was pivoted to take a picture of the large display of autumnal gourds in the giant bin in front of the grocery store and he, under the guise of a particularly passionate hug, pressed himself closer. There was always a way men changed their posture when they did that, imperceptible if you looked, but with a tilted tension that made you aware of their body line and the pull of their groin. And a scent that had no scent, that, in only a little bit of shared warmth, drew out the tight yet melting sensation of her own arousal.

Only this time there was the hard little nub of plastic poking, nudging up against her too.

“Aww, you are pretty desperate, aren’t you?” She cooed, letting her hand caress the side of her hip, even as a slight shift of her own pose made the contact with his caged cock deliberate. “What day is it?”

“It’s October 9th, Mistress.” He swallowed.

“How many days until the end of the month?”

There was a pause of mental math. “22, not counting today, Mistress.”

Her finger teased the ribbon peeking out of the collar of her sweater. She could feel the key, warmed against her skin, slide a little. “That’s a lot of time. What has you so het up?”

“I want you, Mistress.” There was both a smallness of vulnerability in the confession, but also a matter of hopefulness, as if this longing was a gift in itself. “The cage hurts. I need to edge.”

“Aww… Well, we still have to finish grocery shopping.”

He pulled away, husbanding his willpower. She smirked, aware that he was still reacting to the way she had chosen to dress on the expedition. True, she was draped in a cozy sweater, but below it, the dull shine of leather, skin tight, clinging, skirt hugging her to mid thigh, where it met a band of bare skin before her stocking tops resumed a more autumnal practicality.

“Mistress…”

“Yes, Puppy?”

“Nothing, Mistress.”

She thought for a moment, then began to pull the key over her head, handing it over. “I’ll tell you what. The grocery store has a single stall public unisex washroom by the deli. It’s pretty private. Go there and use your phone to film yourself edging, then cage back up, all on camera. You have until I am done shopping to meet me by the cash.”

He nodded took the key, and giving her one last lingering look, dashed off to complete the task, while she found and wrangled a cart.

The fresh smell of the bakery and the produce hit her nose and she began to shop. A picture hit her phone, him kneeling on tile, having placed down a couple of pieces of paper towel under his knees. She grinned. His eyes were very big, and his face flushed and embarrassed.

She let the aroused heat she felt in response suffuse her for a moment, before giggling and going back to selecting apples.

As she did the sweep of the dairy section, she glanced back at the Deli and smirked again. Not done yet. No time.

She went the rest of her zig-zag serpentine. Crackers; tea; canned goods; nutmeg; backtrack and get chicken stock; flour, nutmeg, pasta, hamburger and a lamb, sale; browsed the greeting cards; impulse bought a bulk pack of batteries; and rounded through frozen foods with peas, perogies and a pint of vanilla ice cream.

The line up wasn’t too bad, but all the queues were pretty much the same. She took one at random and let herself be carried by people momentum. He wasn’t back yet.

She shook her head. The line went at its own pace, items on the belt, scanned, points card, paid. Just before that process she texted him. “I’m leaving without you.”

She did not, in fact, do so, but lingered past the door with the cart, enjoying the string of panicked texts, before he appeared, wild eyed and spattered down with water.

“I couldn’t get it back on!” He made a gesture at his groin, helplessly. “It wouldn’t go down enough to force it.”

She chuckled. “Well, I can think of a lot of ways to punish you when we get home.”

Happy Locktober, readers. Did you know I now have a patreon? You should consider signing up, I have a tier as low as $3 a month!

Friday Femdom Fiction: Personal Sex Doll

A yup, sponsored story posts help pay for the cost of hosting. This time it’s SexDolls.com helping pay for all the porn you folks love and enjoy.

I want a coin operated boy.“Don’t move except when I move you, don’t speak.” She held a finger to his lips, looked into his eyes.

They were sitting on the edge of her bed, double sized, blankets tucked and made, just enough room for two. She smiled, a little unsure at first of her idea, but with anticipation of getting what she wanted.

He didn’t nod, just immediately complied, putting away words and letting himself take a blank affect when she started to strip him. She admired his unresistant weight in her hands, twisting and pulling, shirt off, pants off with a bit of rolling and pulling, socks, boxers. He neither helped nor hindered, letting her decide where this was going.

When they were done, and she was clothed and he was naked, she fussed about a bit, deciding to tie a thick blue ribbon about his neck, reminiscenct of kittens and puppies, gentler than a collar and pleasant against the cream of his skin and the blond shine of his hair. Things to play with and cuddle, but helpless things, to be trained.

When she kissed him, he almost kissed back, but caught his own twitch of the lips. Instead her tongue darted out in a lick against his and her fingers stroked along his leg, keeping him seated while she explored along his jaw and nipped his ear. Still, he held fast.

She remembered her awakenings, slow, stories, the Steadfast Tin Soldier, dedicated to death to his Ballerina, the Ken dolls that found their way into the old budgie cage she was let to play with when she visited her grandmother. She imagined puppets and marionettes and porcelain mask faces.

And then she took both shoulders and pushed him onto his back, swinging her leg over. Her fingers dug in and her confidence in control grew, a lightness and a sense of connection deeper than she ever found in conversation. Hers. Hers. All hers.

The very subtle reaction to her weight straddling him, and the effort to keep his face composed, at her order. Nonetheless there were all the hall marks of arousal in the warming of his skin and the slight tautness in the line of his throat, surely and out of his control as a clockwork wind up. She grinned with full teeth and ground against him.

She knew that maneuver often drew protest from the pushing, but this time he was stoic and inscrutable, as she ground her crotch to him, ending up pressed to his thigh as her cunt told her that it had taken a hint from the images in her mind and the intimacy of the moment.

She put her hand on his cock, pulling and tugging what was half hard into the shape she wanted to use, getting her tights and panties off, but not bothering to get the rest of the way undressed. Her other hand cupped her own breast, thinking more of her pleasure than his. If he was finding something erotic from the view, she didn’t particularly care, finding her fantasy in seeing him purely as her fuck doll.

She nudged and eased him inside her, enjoying that he still obeyed, not moving, although she knew taking at her pace was maddening to him and all to often, in their coupling, he set the rhythms to satisfy the hunger of his cock. Now, engulfing him to the root, she tilted her hips just so and rode him like a dildo.

“Ah. Fuck!” the utterance wasn’t for his benefit, the sex much quieter when is was an act of personal gratification. As she did with her toys, she pressed at her clit until the orgasm she wanted was on the cusp of happening and then let the unconsciousness release happen, groan from her throat and gush.

She drenched him, and he didn’t move a muscle. instead she waited a few moments to let the wild pounding in her chest recede and roll-dismounted to the bed next to him. A heavy sigh escaped her chest on impact. “Ohhhfff.”

He was still unmoving. She smiled, not cuddling him in the heat of afterglow, but letting the back of her hand stroke over his chest. “Good boy.”

Friday Femdom Fiction: Toys For Good Boys

sex toys for boys are the best“It’s too hot to fuck.” She was clad only in panties, sprawled so they just touched, arm to arm and her ankle layered over his. In her perception is body was radiating heat, and she’d broken off their kissing to escape it.

His boxers were covering about 3/4 of an erection, enough to keep her interested, predatory and playful, while the cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles held him, immobilized and spread, on display.  She had planned it out differently, tease herself and him until he was full-hard, then ride him, but three minutes of making out had put an end to that. Summer was getting in her way.

He looked disappointed, but not like he disagreed with her logic.  “Ok, Miss…”

“Hmmm.” Although the fun of denial had its merits, it wasn’t what she wanted this time. She screwed up her face, setting herself to a new course of action. “Do exactly what I say, and don’t move.”

She stooped over him, pulling the velcro loose from his right wrist, safety first. “Stay.”

She left the room knowing he was safe, getting herself a tall glass of ice water, adding a straw with a sense of whimsy. As her demand, when she returned, he was still lying in place, band of the cuff still neat under his wrist. She smirked, refastening him. “Good boy.”

A moment later an the toy box was dragged from beneath the bed. “I was thinking I was going to make you into my fuck toy, but instead I think I’ll fuck you with some toys instead.”

There was what she needed, and more she didn’t inside. The cuffs and straps always lived on the bed for when she wanted him bound, but the rest was a buffet she lingered over, picking just the right accessories: the lube in its plain packaging, the plug, tapering from blunt point to fat flare and then its skinny neck and second wide ring, all silicone, and the canister with its supple sleeve lining the barrel. There really wasn’t a good name for it. Pocket pussy, onnacup, fliphole. Flesh Light. This one was an offbrand, bought at a sex shop, plain white plastic outside, pale beige inside.

When she’d picked it out, she’d tested it with her finger, penetrating it, and imagining what it might feel like. It was so soft, yet the pliant sleeve inside had a strength she looked forward to testing.

He got a glance at what she’d picked, and lifted his shoulders a little off the bed, stretching to try to see more.

“Hey!”

He let his shoulders fall, looked guilty.

“I should punish you, I never said you could move.” She took a sip over her water. “Be good.”

“Sorry Mi…”

Casually she dripped her fingers into her water and flicked them at his torso, startling him with the sudden motion. He flinched. She grinned.

“Ha.”  She fished an ice cube from her drink and looked over her target. His skin was pale, blotched pink at the least pressure, his chest and stomach marked but not hidden by hair.  The line of his collarbone made an excellent target, playful, leaving a melt trail as she pressed it to his flesh and slid the ice along.

He gave a little sigh as she circled the ice around his chest, around and then the lightest nudge against his nipples.

“That’s better you’re staying put now.”

He was biting his lip, curious to see where she went next. The ice went quick, melted down into almost nothing and she flicked her tongue across the melt-trail, tasting salt and feeling the contrast of hot and cool skin. He whimpered.

“More?” Her other hand cupped his groin through the fabric over them, then tugged at the elastic, sliding them off his hips, only to realize her mistake.

She made a tsking noise at herself, stopped from further undressing him by his bound legs. “Ha. Didn’t plan everything.”

A quick rip noise and she freed his leg long enough to get him completely naked. “You’re in for a treat, slut. I want you full.”

Even in the summer heat the slick, clear lube was cool on her fingers, glossy and viscous. She squeezed the bottle to ease out a little more, then set it aside.

Her fingers hooked in a come-hither motion, the longest one pressing and coaxing him to relax, spreading the lube and pushing it inside him, then caressing the plug, rolling it in her hand to coat it. She didn’t force, instead using an insistent pressure to push it, until he yielded, swallowing it up, first the tip and then the widest point.

As the swell of it slipped inside him he gave a grunt of accommodation, and that yielding gave her a little thrill that traveled from her cunt up her core. “Do you know what happens next, slut?”

She’d played with him, with the toy before, but it was still a novelty for both of them as she popped the cap off the cup, feeling the petal softness of the inner sleeve before filling it with a generous helping of lube. With the same casual ownership she handled the toys she grabbed around the root of his cock, pumping her lube slick hand up and down, once, twice, three times, before guiding the head of his cock into the narrow constriction of the sleeve.

His reaction was instant, a sort of tension that jerked his hips up at the first hilting slide and squared his shoulders. At first she took her time, hearing the wet, sucking sounds as the sleeve-and-cup did its work, nubs and ribs hidden from view but teasing the length of his cock. “Just right, hm? Tight but not too tight so you can’t feel it?”

As he always did during sex he had gone almost non-verbal, but he managed a quick nod, albeit a little shakey.

“Well look at that,” she purred, enjoying the perspective that let her watch as she engulfed him again and again. “You get that extra kick of hard when I use this, don’t you? But the best part is that it stays.”

He had his eyes closed, but his hips were making little thrusts from below. To punish him, she lifted her arm up a little, pulling the strokes back out of his control, while her palm rested on his stomach. “Nope, you will come when I want you to.”

He made another moan, but she took her time, building and reducing, until she could smell the mix of sweat and lust in the humid air. “Ready?”

A slight twist, skillful and a speed up were all it took to finish building. With a certain degree of satisfaction in her craft, she saw his breath catch and his balls tighten, getting him just about to the point of no return before her verbal consent sent him over.

“UNGH.”

She gave a chuckle. The sheets were soaked and his hair was glued to his forehead. Even the exertion of working the toy had left her fanning herself in the aftermath. He panted, open mouth, at the last little spasm.

“Shower time. Then my turn.”


 

Once again, a friendly fan offered to support a post to make sure that you guys get some extra smut. I’m usually overly busy on stuff that pays the bills,  but they meet all the criteria for a good relationship. In this case they are purveyors of blowjob machines, and I think I’ve been pretty upfront about how much I support men getting to enjoy sex toys.

Me, I took the time to write something as realistic as it was erotic. There’s not enough examples of normal people sex, with those pauses, unplanned oops and extra details like lubing it up or rolling on a condom.

The Crown & Home Cooking

It was a Tuesday, but not a #PunishTuesday.

I came home and I don’t think he’d left the bed since I went to work that morning. It’s his vacation and I want him to rest, but like many humans with a streak of perfectionism, idleness is deleterious to his emotional well being. As a person with a chronic physical ailment, not having the energy to do things is an all too common experience for him.

For myself, my mood has slipped a notch since the last week of October. What is generally the favourite part of the year for me has been marred by a heavy measure of frustration, anxiety and sadness over various things. It’s given me less time to notice that Wildcard’s been a bit droopy too.
He’s not been on the outs, health wise, but my persistent battery at the norms of looking the other way in the Montreal BDSM scene when someone is (allegedly, always ALLEDGEDLY) sexually assaulted has been his burden to carry as well as mine. It’s really hard, you push and push and people call you a hysteric, a liar and a monster.

I mad November about inaction and self care.  If he was too under the weather too cook I’d let him rest. I’d bought piles of vegetables the night before and went about sorting out the long skinny egg plants, enoki mushrooms, bright crisp carrots and all the appropriate other things for putting together a stir fry. By the time I was sectioning the eggplant into neat diagonals, he’d rallied.

I still helped him, asking questions every step of the way, while he added other things to the process, mincing and mashing garlic, creating two bowls of fresh and savoury vegetables and tofu on rice.

Afterwards, we cuddled up on the couch for Netflix & “The Crown”

I’ve been watching The Crown, and intensely self-indulgent Netflix series about the early reign of Queen Elizabeth II. It is of course, very obviously one of those made-by-math stories, like House of Cards was a product of looking at how popular Kevin Spacey and the original series was. I am being pandered to with lush, vintage sets and darling but relatable female characters.
Someone crunched the numbers regarding who was spending their time on The Kings Speech and Downton Abby, and decided that what we needed was to feel intimately the challenges of a woman who wears fabulous clothes, is waited on hand and foot and wants her husband to kneel to her.

I do not mind. It is good to be pandered to.

I think that the series occasionally suffers from attempting to worship everything it touches with a reverence that occasionally shades to the absurd. I also feel a little odd being presented with a real (living) person’s life, as an object of objectified and packaged desire. But there hasn’t been any sharp notes from the Queen’s press office about depicting her husband as a fuck object, so I can assume she is unruffled by this love letter to the monarchy even if the Royal Consort’s body is being showcased as a perk of the job.

It is not a femdom story with whips and chains and beatings. But it is a meaningful examination of women and power, and this is something missing from contemporary femdom. Everyine talks about making your sub happy, but very little time is taken to look at a femdom’s personal complexities and vulnerabilities.
That night’s episode was about feeling empowered and rife with little femdom hat tips and jokes, as we watch the new Queen get a measure of control in her intimate life and the subtle yet central role she plays in sustaining her government. For a while we forgot our respective black moods, and the post show cuddling turned to kissing and giggling.

Femdom life is like that. I don’t know anyone who really has orderly protocol 24/7. I know FLRs where she has ultimate say, but even so, there is more of moody cooking and cuddles on the couch than titles and slave positions.

It’s a good life, if you can find it.