loving couple

On Having A Cross Border BDSM Relationship During Covid

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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

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“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.”

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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

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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

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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

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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.

A Sex Shop Date With Wildcard

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sushiLast Saturday, Wildcard identified my doldrums as needing fixing, s we went out to watch Dr. Strange and then gorge on sushi, the latter activity almost  meaning a visit to the nearby sex shop, called “Romance“.

Every relationship has its rituals. I have an undying love for salmon, particularly raw or smoked. Wildcard has a tradition of eating his feelings in delicious all you can eat buffet omnoms. Having a favourite fishing hole, and being fond of me, he shared the location and now we make monthly pilgrimages. Faces get stuffed, then we invariably go sex toy shopping.

At first the shopping trips were an accidental extension of geography. The store just happens to be between us and where we always park. Honestly, showing up there started with very little expectation other than having a giggle at the hilari-bad porn DVDs.

This branch is open absurdly late, which was probably the first draw.  Plus, in addition to the breast shaped macaroni and strawberry flavoured lube (euch), they have an upstairs BDSM and fetish section. It’s an Adult Novelty style shop, but it is more than dick hats and copies of Pink Eye 2.

Still, why pay the markup?

You might wonder our motive for being there. After all, it is never going to be as cheap as shopping online. No brick and mortar store is going to beat a fresh-from-the-warehouse site like pinkcherry.ca in cost. If I want a bouquet of a half dozen riding crops,  I will never argue meatspace is cheaper.

I keep going back to Romance, because they beat even my favourite online retailers in immediate customer engagement. The staff cares about and is knowledgeable about all their stock. And, while online sites offer reviews, at a certain point you can’t beat actually touching the merchandise.

Going Hands On

Does it bounce well in the hand with a fleshy weight? How strong are the stitches in the leather? Can you slap it against your thigh to feel the thud or the sting? How does it stand up to my personal tastes? You can tell right away what will and won’t work for you.

For example, this time I wanted a cock ring for Wildcard. We’ve basically maxed out on vibes and insertables, but I wanted to take my teasing game a little further and make his erections more persistent.

Sure cock rings are a cheap grab. They seldom cost more than $20, unless you are moving into the territory of elaborate gilded ornaments. Still, I could have bought multiples online for the price of the one I got.  I paid the store markup because I wanted to actually handle the products properly, and get Wildcard’s immediate feedback. After all it was his penis about to be cinched.

At Romance, anything is available for reasonable in store testing, and I had six or so different sizes and models to play with and figure out which was best. Otherwise, I would either need to borrow a friend’s personal items (assuming I knew someone who did have one), or try my luck with buying before I try. Why gamble and create waste?

Curation Matters

Romance doesn’t stock the super high end, gold plated luxury brands, and while they have a few of the lower quality toys, they are carefully screened for skin safe material. The quality and price point runs a range, but nothing will cause a rash. They have recognizable brands, like Tantus, and various versions of the standards in less recognized brands: glass, masturbation sleeves, bullet vibes, etc… Nonetheless they have their share of the cheap quality stuff.

However, what makes me trust in the quality of their offerings are how they handle duds and poor purchases and how they constantly make purchasing a conversation.

corsetback

For example last shopping trip, I impulse bought a Music Legs branded corset back fishnet tights set. That’s not a band I’d expect much from, but even so, the quality was terrible, neither matching the claimed colours on the package, nor coming laced. Indeed the wretched things gave you your lace as a single length of uncut ribbon- unacceptable for an item fragile enough that the first wearing was likely the last.

Online shopping, you write an irate review, and maybe process a return with shipping at your own expense. The smaller ones have time to address you complaints, but there’s a lot more time and distance involved. Here, you get the immediate feedback and from the staff, checking if it was a one off and pulling the defective product, as well as making a note to discuss the problem with the supplier.

And their relationship building also works in the opposite direction. I admit a certain degree of entertainment in getting a post purchase inquiry into the effectiveness of other toys. As much as they are ready to take unsolicited feedback, when you shop they ask questions- and if they know you bought something in the past, they ask you about what your experience was.

So in all, I might buy most of my toys online or seek out pervertables from cooking supply and hardware stores, but the post sushi sex shop date isn’t going to stop any time soon.

Disclosure: I affiliated with pinkcherry after I realized I was giving them a bunch of business from simply bulk ordering cheapo toys and talking about it. Romance and Priape offer no compensation for being mentioned. The sushi pic is free stock photography from clker.com

 

Friday Femdom Fiction: Her Hooded Fuck Toy

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Fuck me.

There was an intense urgency to her command that carried through his hood. He could not see her body, couldn’t smell or taste her, and all sound was filtered through the leather.  He was laced in and then the D rings at the back of his head had been locked together with little padlocks. There was no way he was getting out unless someone else undid things for him or he somehow found a knife and slit it off.

But he could feel her. His hands were unbound and he located her legs and the smooth squish of the warm skin, felt the chill of her foot brush against him, before blindman groping his way between her thighs. She was slick enough the coarse curls were soaked, the lips feeling like little folded tongues as lined himself up.

His cock was erect at her command. In the hood he had nothing to do but kneel on the cushion and edge, feeling the plug lodged against his prostate, and keeping himself on a cycle of sensitivity. when she left him like that he lost track of time, lost track even of how many times he’d had to hold off short and get his breathing under control.

The room was very cool, almost uncomfortably so, to make prolonged hooding bearable. Even so it was almost too stifling to be covered like this and do his best to breath through the mesh of pinholes over hid mouth and nose.

She helped him get properly lined up and in- even voraciously aroused her cunt constricted. Dutifully, desperately, he made pumping thrusts. He hoped she didn’t ask for more as between the edging and the plug he wasn’t sure how much he could hold off. Of course this was no barrier to her. Her fingers tug into the muscle of his butt and she repeated herself again.

Fuck me.

She looked up at the almost featureless hood, seeing the sweat bead on his skin. The mask had a slight protrusion over his nose, while the regular pattern of tiny breathing holes gave him a permanent look of blind surprise. Without her ability to see him, he was no longer her boyfriend with the sun spatter of freckles and the dark coiled up hair that always tangled if it got longer than an inch, just the pumping engine for the cock that she’d engulfed.

She grabbed him, inside, with her thighs, fingers scoring his bare back,”Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

His chest pulled up away from her even as his hips ground against hers. She was always so shy about her desires until the hood went on and the locks snapped shut. Earlier, when they were shy new lovers, she had baffled him that someone so outspoken in their faily life needed the lights off, and kept so quiet in bed. But now, in control, the lights were blaring bright, letting her admire the long lined of his body- crevice, muscle, vein, dark, but not as dark as the black leather of the hood.

With a guttural noise, she spurred him harder, with the casual lack of care she’d switch her vibrator to a higher session. Let him worry about holding off orgasm, all she wanted was the spasms of coming around him over and over again.

By the third time she came, and she knew that even through the hood, he heard her screaming, he was fighting her, fighting to stop before the building tension sent him past the point of no return. But it was too late and a spatter of warm and wet burst free just as he struggled out of her cunt, hitting in a messy clump on her lap. She laughed. “Ooops.”

I have more free femdom stories here, link keeps you on the site. Lots of loving couple stories, with a few harder tales of harsher domination!

 

Busting the Burglar

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It was (punish) Tuesday again, and I’ve been itching to try something. Usually, I’ve taken these preplanned interludes to practice my topping skills. They end with Wildcard in shuddering convulsions, the sign he’s taken his limit of cruel, hard hits. It’s very rewarding in its own way, the warm up, the steady pattern of ever increasing intensity and then finally the painful pulverization. He always asks to have his wrists bound and I tease my masochist when I check in, to see where he’s at, asking “more weight“, the defiant last words of the only sane man in Salem.

But it wasn’t a night for that. I could read, mostly from his desultory masturbation, that his stamina was limited. I had a long day too, and after spilling my guts at a therapist was in no mood to build a carefully accommodating psychological trap to compliment whatever implement I was going to pulverize his butt with.

I got him to put on all his clothes- he has starting in just a shirt. He didn’t know what to expect, although he knew I was taking control.

Then I ordered him to pick up his laptop and stand by the window, as if trying to escape.

While he had dressed I’d found a plastic water pistol, the safe, orange kind designed to not fool passerbys into a panic, and armed myself to defend against the “home invader”. I held him at gunpoint and berated.

He took a moment to understand, looking puzzled, but back in the day he was captain of his college improv club, and we met at a LARP, so he’s a quick study. Honestly narration comes easier than dialog- I’m impressed with myself too. I took the lead and he fed off my “reactions”, making himself into the scared thief I wanted.

I threatened to shoot him and made him put the stolen computer on the bed. Considering my prey, my talking turned from briskly intimidating to giving him glimpse of hope. By appeasing me and stripping, I made him feel he could escape the police or worse, a bullet. He was forced to accept my examination and fondling, play with himself until he was hard enough to meet my satisfaction.

I pushed him up against the wall by his throat and nudged his balls with the muzzle. I told him about my neighbours who would love to take advantage of a naked man in this bad, bad neighbourhood. I bent him over the bed and bare handed spanked him. Whenever he started to lose the least little focus, the gun was there as a reminder, pushing him into compliance. I needed to believe that I could scare him enough to make his strength stay suppressed.

In the two years since we started dating, Wildcard has put on muscle and confidence. I’m a good girlfriend and a good dom- campsite rules apply, and he’s better than when I found him- although I admit the work has been his and I’ve merely made a supportive environment for him to grow into. The change is that the man I’m dating now is not the sick, skinny and shaken person I could pin and lift and beat in a physical fight. I no longer have to worry I will steamroll him by simply expressing myself. Hence the orange plastic gun is a fig leaf, a symbol of the sincere submission and surrender he is giving, and I hold it in my hand with a great deal of joy.

I threaten him, pushing him all the way into the vestibule until he’s close enough to the smoked glass to see through the fog and pick out details on the street. He’s just a little terrified, like a roller coaster makes you think you’ll fall, he’s able to see the risk of being shoved out the door for everyone to see his nakedness, and feel like it’s real.

I talk up the risk. Through my words he knows that there is an involved, aggressive “sorority” down the street, an invention based on the female neighbours in my own past college residence, who reacted to a real, harassing flasher by rising together to prepare for battle. I’m keeping things light even as I talk about killing him, layering on the erotic with an eye to how his fetish for exposure gives me leverage.

There’s two tracks of dominance- one where there’s an angry woman blackmailing a burglar, and one where Miss Pearl knows every one of Wildcard’s buttons and just how to push them.

Bu the time the scene ends, and I give him only his shirt back, to cover himself in a clutched grip before banishing him to whatever fate awaits him on the street, he’s full of happy energy. In the vestibule, freed, he picks me up and bumps his crotch to mine, both of us giggling as he almost tipped over and dropped me on the floor. This is love.

A Perfect #PunishTuesday Spoon Spanking Session

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Seventy-Three Demerits. He’d earned them over the course of the week, fifty from an orgasm sans permission (it might have been a forced orgasm on my part, but I’m a cruel, capricious Mistress when I want to be). The rest are for little misdeeds: broken rules and bratty behavior. And ok, after a major flu that left me poached and miserably stuffy, this wasn’t *actually* the right day, but the health related rain check. #PunishTuesday is the concept I hold to, no matter if “Wednesday” is the actual word on the back of my cute days of the week panties that evening.

With the heath related holiday, when the actual day came around, he was already excited. Blame it on days of teasing, and reminding him about his mounting sins and the punishment he was due for them. Even so, I sent him out of the room to get into the right head state.

Getting Ready & Setting The Scene

While he was gone, I took the time to prepare my space by cleaning. True, dozens and dozens of sub people will blow raspberries here- he was off relaxing and I was corralling the forest of water glasses and tea mugs that accumulate in the bedroom, stuffing the loose laundry into the hamper and making the bed. I know this is not the standard BDSM fantasy. I know someone is already typing up “but a TRUE sub would…” Nonesense. I like the control it gives me to clean and make a space orderly. It’s meditative and it makes me feel like all the parts of the space are ready to respond to my needs. And I wanted to get my head right too.

I don’t believe dominance is a put on, or a fake thing. But, for most of us, the so called lifestyle is not a 24/7 all on all the time experience. 50% of the population is kinky, but we hardly all build our relationships around that one facet. Sure, I need Wildcard to be into kinky sex to make things work, but it’s just as important he can empathize and enjoy the other things I value. And for us, as with most couples, there are hard boundaries on where my power eclipses his. This is how we take two separate, independent people and put my power over his.

I make the bedroom look how I wish, getting the covers smoothed flat; checking the ready to go restraints; plugging in the pretty fairy lights that serve as a lamp; and putting out toys on the bedside table. Then prepare myself. I take off my clothes and step into white heels from my collection, glossy, with a platform in the toe that makes me taller. Indoors they don’t feel like hobbles, they feel like power, nor is my nudity a vulnerable exposure.

I do my eyes with a stroke of black and my lips in a bold matte red. As a last touch, (because if you can’t be yourself in the boundaries of you sex life, where can you?) I dash off a little heart on my left cheek.

It begins.

He is naked, except for the brown stripe of collar around his neck, already sporting a swinging erection. His ‘preparation’ was clearly touching himself and I take advantage of that, leaving the overhead light on to catch every bit of an intense self edging session on camera. Only when he’s so intensely close to exploding his face is in a rictus of intensity do I let him ease off, but the video goes in my little library, to be enjoyed at my leisure.

“Do you think you deserve to be tied up?”

It’s important for me to get him to state preferences. I don’t like black hole or starfish subs, who passively flop into the scene and expect this to do down like I’m some sort of housekeeper cleaning a particularly warm carpet.

I also make him ask for the cuffs that extend from under the mattress, holding him around the wrist, face down. It’s just your basic under bed system by Sports Sheets, versatile, safe and above all idiot proof, but once the velcro hooks he’s no more going to go anywhere than if I used locks and buckles. I like the medical/mundane nature of it, just like how washable my strapon harness is, all nylon and straps. It’s better than half assing it- that’s the problem a lot of the fetish stuff has, trying to take you into another sort of world with hints of high end fetish wear, and all you get is cracking, fraying pleather or whips that shed their caps on one hit.

This is real, and he’s about to feel real pain, so he gets a warm up. I’d made him ask for that too, escalating a patter of hits to rise the blood in the firm rounds of his ass. He’s very male, furred without vanishing into the pelt, coloured a little golden, like wheat seeds. He loves the cuffs on his wrists, and I can feel that they are bringing him into a state of accepting relaxation (dare I invoke “surrender?” or is that too cliche?) even as I pick out the wooden spoon.

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Femdom Life: Getting What I Want

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Dear reader, tonight was Punish Tuesday, our pre-organized kinky sex night, and I just got my brains fucked out.

I also did what I have never done before. And it wasn’t something you would easily guess. No, seriously!

One hour of foreplay for me. It sounds so improbably vanilla, right? The sad truth is that life isn’t like those bdsm stories where the dominant always gets her needs met. The reality is that either sex has worked for me or it hasn’t. Now Strong could be a generous enough lover, but we had so little time as a couple that he can be considered out of the discussion.

But it is almost embarassing that I’m almost a month shy of my 30th birthday and I’ve gotten so used to compromising what I needed that for all I can beat a man purple or tease his cock for an hour, asking for turn around physical attention was a taboo fetish.

So I stripped him and he and I cuddled up on the couch. One set timer later and he went to work with my body all lips and tongue and touching

Somewhere along the way, long before I appeared on the scene, Wildcard learned to work a woman’s body, with the same studious and attentive perfectionism and passion he puts into his cooking. But instead of rendering the fat of the roast chicken he’s salted and dismembered, he’s finding little spots between my fingers to nibble and zones on the back of my thighs to stroke.

And then as everything in me opened, he liesurely fucked me while I took that delicious sensitivity into an orgasm so loud I suspect the neighbours heard it through his desperate muffling hand. Apartment life.

Afterwards, with his erection lingering and my cunt having none of the freight train he likes to pretend is his penis, I filled his ass and gave him a slippey hand job – it mus have been intense because he was practically flapping his unrestrained arms.