Your Pleasure Doesn’t Matter

your pleasure doesn't matter

It’s a cliché of femdom porn, but many cliches endure because they work. It is also the antithesis of how I (usually) operate and it’s been a trust fall-esque exercise since our first hookup when my train was late so he drove me 3 hours home (and 3 hours back alone). It’s so hard to let myself relax and enjoy someone’s giving.

This one is both a soft limit, and the kink that I am exploring right now: being inconsiderate.

The vulnerability of being dominant is ultimately part of being a half of a whole. In power exchange you get things back, in the meta of D/s, you put a lot of vulnerability in the ability to have expectations for someone else that, more often than not, fetishize the unreasonable.

As such, I recoil at the masochists who do it just to please you, even as my own self thrills to see pain in the face of my lover. I needed Silver to be the slutty little masochist I discovered him to be, because my dominance has always had a generative more so than a consumptive aspect.  

I told him early on his fetishes belonged to me, the control panel of his sexuality. I want to be powerfully and compellingly desired. I glow to command attention, and have to tame very petty jealousy when someone is more important or better at something than me shows up. 

I can see how, of course, the inverse is true. Silver smiles more happily than anything else every time he is reminded I also actually share his fetishes, particularly latex. I think he feels about that the way I feel such delight in his craving to hurt.  

Pretty, perfect, driven, wired boy. It’s funny to use the diminutive on someone both older and having more of his shit together in many respects than me (we are about 8 years apart in age, and I often appreciate feeling it as much as it makes me insecure). But, “boy” comes easy. Maybe it’s the big blue eyes and sandy blond hair? Maybe it’s the painting in his attic, unweathered pale skin. I couldn’t place it.

Telling him his pleasure doesn’t matter did not come easily to me, but I am using it now.

There are a few things that come forth from Silver’s sexuality, fed from his desires and quirks. The masochism. The rubber. The hypnosis. The self initiated urge to please via “surprises”, and the surprisingly hard limits around long term rules via contracts. He has, historically, pleased me by trusting that I will treasure who he is. I prefer it when he is active, not passive, to please me.

And in intimate talk, to each other, those words tripped out of him “my pleasure doesn’t matter”.

At the time I corrected him. His pleasure, like his fetishes, are tools of my control. I was feasting on his enjoyment of this as a significant platform of my sense of power but also, my sense of security. 

In every person there is this being you can dredge up in psychology as an “inner child”. You use it in thought exercises to teach yourself to shed that raiment of self loathing many of us use to gird ourselves against things that are good for us.  

My child-self saw some shit, and often fantasised about folded down into nothingness, not a burden to any adult. I craved to be needless and giving, conceived of myself as selfish. Trauma didn’t make me dominant, but it probably influences my perception of love.  

In the hindsight of adult maturity, I can realise, alongside the pile of  other abuse I experienced, I was a victim of emotional incest. We should not ask children to provide for adults as I was. 

Unfortunately, knowing why I am fucked up doesn’t fix being fucked up.

Silver is perfectly willing to be patient with that warzone aftermath, but ultimately there is a piece of me that stays alert to danger when most would melt into an embrace.  You want to know how meta this is, I am anxious to write this in case he worries he is too much of a nuisance. 

So big breath, relax: Your pleasure doesn’t matter.

When I say it, he reacts with that sort of erotic, wide eyed cringe that makes my heart sing and my core tighten. It’s the same shudder of found out desire he gave when I discovered “whore” or “slut” and even more so “bitch” are sharp yanks on the leash on his soul. The same caught breath and big eyes, but relaxed body, as when I physically pull his cock between his legs in a controlling fashion. 

Trick is, I can’t just say things to indulge him. I have never been the sort of domme who could do things I wasn’t into, just cuz. The latex I wear is my fetish. The pain I give him, my desire first. To work for me (and for him), I had to take that phrase, understand it and use it as it means to me rather than just wave it about ineptly. I have to believe it, not put it on like an ill fitted costume.

In the spirit of the phrase, it’s been a defining thread in our relationship, to trust his giving. The first time I leaned in, it was a dark and rainy night, much like the Pacific North West weather of the last 2 months. He offered a big favour, and I stepped out into uncertain ground and said yes. I knew, over a year ago now, that letting him drive me back to Canada was a huge imposition. But that he offered because he meant it. So big breath, trust, say yes. And it worked. Every extension, every tentative query that my whole self might be wanted, has received an affirmation. Now I try it more consciously, with that phrase.

Let his pleasure not matter. Let myself enjoy. Let me trust to use him and be sure this is as it is supposed to be.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Licking Her Sweat; Loving Her Feet

FRIDAY_Sweatstoryart[Coming home soon. Prep for me.]

The text hit his phone while he was still lazing in the sheets of their bed, pillow wedged into the small of his back, while he played with his cock without any serious plans. She wouldn’t let him come anyway, but she liked it when he teased himself. He’d woken up when she did, an hour ago, early before the summer made the outside untenable. But while she laced on trainers, he settled back down to doze and from there into a little bit of porn and self love.

Now, with her warning, he stretched and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Pausing to flatten the covers into some semblance of tidy, he headed down the hall to the kitchen. He knew what she’d need, and without being told, he took down one of the big water glasses from the cupboard, filling it with water and a handful of ice. After an exploratory flick of his tongue in his mouth and he left the water on the counter for a minute, while his teeth got a quick brush.

Minty mouthed, he rushed back to the hall and took his place in front of the main door, holding the glass of water in both hands as an offering. He heard the stairs, then the pause where he knew, on the other side of the door, while she unclipped her key from the strap of her sports bra. The door opened and he drew in a breath of air in anticipation.

She was dressed in brief shorts that failed to contain her fullness, and the solid squeeze of the spandex gripping and holding her chest. She had both hands full, one with the key, the other clutching her cell phone. Her dark hair was pulling a curl from the humidity and her own heat and dampness, while her cheeks carried the blush of fading exertion.

As she always did, she paused to admire the view. He felt a rush of pleasure at being able to make her happy.

“Hey there, cutie.” She took the glass and gulped greedily, a little exceeding the containment of her lips. With the water drained, she set it on the hall end table next to the mail basket and put her key back on its peg.

“Did you have a good run, Mistress?”

She smiled and pointed, with a nod. “Phew, yeah. Undress me. I need a shower.”

He slid from his knees to all fours and hand walked to her, keeping his head down. She had slim, long legs, white with tapered ankles and creamy thighs. She liked to lace her trainers on tight, pulling each cross of cord snug before tying them in a neat bow. Now he kissed the tops of her feet, before prising at the knots.

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30 Days Of Kink: The Whys, The Whats and the Maybes

Day 13: Explain as best you can what the appeal of kink/BDSM is to you?  Why are you drawn to what you’re drawn to?

It’s my sexuality, and I find myself repeating this a lot. That being said, kink-as-a-set-of-expectations provides a codified structure to try to qualify and quantify and abstract emotional concept and a bunch of loosely connected fetishes. Human sexuality is squishy and determinded by the individual- this is a way of trying to characterize it so I can talk about what gets me off with other people.

As for the whys- if I knew I’d be an award winning, possibly noble prize worthy discoveries for achievements in psychology and human motivation studies. There’s lots of theories, some of them absurd (my favourite stupid idea being that spanking is just some sort of pre-species throw back for red behinds). I still go with the idea that human sexuality depends heavily on whatever symbols and social patterns that gelled with us whether you are ostensibly vanilla or kinked, and there really isn’t a ‘normal’ that people are born with that is perverted, just infinite shades of perversion.

Day 14: How would you say real life BDSM/kink varies from fantasy BDSM/kink?  If you haven’t experienced real life BDSM/kink how do you think it might differ?

Fantasy kink tends not to take real life into consideration, while amping up the petty and awesome as high as they go. Thus in fantasy, all the doms are super competent, all the subs complacent into the role, or if unwilling, unwilling in a way that is not simply truculent. Everyone is gorgeous and wealthy- typically old money or steeped in whatever the writer considers markers of high class. Everyone does whatever the person likes best as a normal thing, say if there thing is cuckolding and latex, hotwives and body condoms are what femdom is.

This sets up unrealistic expectations of good looks and easy dynamics that I’ve never seen happen in practice, with kink parties not being stocked with model hot millionaires. Meanwhile kink activities and needs, are, as I mentioned, much more about what a bunch of individuals are trying to do in a barely functional consensus.

Beyond that, probably the biggest fantasy/reality conflict is the expectation that just being whatever you are will cause what you want to happen. The inherent vulnerability of having to ask someone to submit to you is routinely glossed over- stories giving you things like infinite amounts of money or a pre-existing position of power over the sub, or just the fictional magic dom aura sucking in subs through their desire.

Day 15: Post a BDSM/kink activity you’re curious about and would like to try.

I’d like to try a more prolonged D/s dynamic, and I’d like to explore service a bit more, the latter as a matter of personal development and exploration.

Although Strong and I did owner/property in a way that was technically 24/7, distance and practicality put limits on things. Meanwhile most of my other experience is scene only. I’ve also never found a service oriented person I clicked with- it all felt like too much and too overwhelming to my personal boundaries.

I’m not sure how realistic a prolonged power thingy is. Wildcard and I have been glommed onto each other for a bit shy of a year, and formally hooked up only since January. One of the things I learned with Strong is that it’s hard to try to run a lot of things concurrently in the same dynamic- we flamed bright, but burned out fast and it didn’t survive having to accommodate being human.

Meanwhile as far as prolonged power experiments, I can’t say it’s gone as well as I’d like- the Ex constantly attempted to delegate personal responsibility for various things onto me, for example trying to give me control over his diet so he’d stop binging unhealthily or motivating him to exercise. This would last for about a day before he’d decide he didn’t actually care or want it. I’m going to chalk Strong and I’d thing up to one of those deeply meaningful short term things that wasn’t built to last.

But, as I mentioned, in fantasy, dominance is supposed to basically work like mind control and bring about exactly the results I want to achieve, and somehow make them fit well for the sub. In real life, humans are crap at habits and rules. What I can do is always deeply effected by what my partner can consent and conceivably do, and that’s a big part of the secret vulnerability of dominance. You say ‘Do X’ and it doesn’t happen.

With Wildcard, what we do together is also strongly influenced by his self exploration. Up until recently much of this was confined to the realm of improbable fantasy for him. Like many people he’d assumed that dominant women were so scarce that meeting one was a lottery win on its own.. This has meant a very odd scenario where I am both in a position of power in so far as my position of guidance, but also restraint, since realistically it’s hard to consent to big things when you are learning your limits. So what we’ve done in the direction of more prolonged dynamics is developing rituals and habits- Tuesday “Punishment” is certainly doing a wonderful job. That sense of constancy is definitely something that works for me.

He’s been a pretty good sport for someone who spends a lot of time exploring the upper edges of their comfort zone- and I’d have to describe myself at impressed with his courage about a lot of this stuff. Especially the really hard, ego destroying stuff where you have to admit you’re not up to doing what you actually kinda want. Add a sincere desire to make me happy and I really couldn’t ask for a better person to try to muck about with.

But on the side of my limits, I don’t know when or how I’ll experiment with the service thing and that’s definitely me baggage. For example one of the biggest barriers to enjoying service is the sensation of helplessness at having other people do stuff for me. I also don’t like the controlled, free lunch approach a lot of service subs take- I think this is more me being gunshy than them necessarily being wrong- but, it occurs to me that at this juncture in my life I’m feeling a little more comfortable with ordering someone to do for me.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Sweat & Service

She took the stairs slowly, feeling the burn in her thighs and up into her hips. Her chest felt the press of the sprints she’d just completed, and shook her head, letting her loose, long hair sway, trying to cool herself, holding the elastic she’d pulled from her sleep and sweat tangled hair and the coiled up cord of her headphones.

First the front steps, up a story, the door, with it’s glass panels, and the inside steps, all the way up again, to the inner door. She was tired.

He was waiting there, at the top of the steps, his legs folded under him in a prayer pose, head bowwed and palms flat on the floor, long arms a little forward, as if in supplication.

The slight askewness in the way he was kneeling that said he had heard her coming at the first rattle of the door and got into position. She guessed rushing from the bedroom, or maybe he’d lumbered from his bed as far as the kitchen.

“Mistress!”

She smiled, stopped and rested her hand on the wall, plucking her phone from the taut pocket made by the tight grip of her sports bra and dropping it, keys, cord and elastic onto the hall stand.

His fingers went for the laces of her shoes, sensible trainers with white, honeycomb mesh and big white soft plastic, like rubber and panels of bright colours in purple and neon and reflective grey. She always put a double knot in the bow and laced her feet in tight, like it was a corset.

He kissed her then, on the crossed lace strip of her right instep, peeling her shoes off to reveal the padded grey ankle socks she was wearing underneath. Her feet were damp, clean sweat, fresh, and she smiled as he hooked a finger into the band of her socks and peeled them off, feeling him lifter her foot to kiss at her soles and then her calf and thigh.

He tasted salt, tongue darting our, delicately, seeking up the creamy inside of her leg until her hand pushed him away. “Fetch me a glass of water. No ice”

When he got up, she followed him into the kitchen, where he took a glass from the shelf and ran the tap for a moment to be sure the temperature was cool. She finished it in big gulps, plunking the spent vessel on the counter and lazily making her order an announcement- “Undress me.”

He knelt again, to pull down her brief shorts, black knit, drawstring drawn all ruffled to sit on her narrow waist but stretch fabric filled by the swell of her wide hips. She stretched, pointing her toes as she stepped free of the discarded garment, and he saw the jut of her hip bones beneath the thin fabric of her cotton panties, and the dark shadow of her groin.

He kissed and licked her pale belly, tongue making a trace to her rib flare, where his lips nipped at the bone, before moving behind her. The sports bra was a tight stretch of black elastic, pressing her small breasts, tight as he pulled it up, and she indulgently let her arms move up, making it easy. He got a rich waft of her smell from her smell, intoxicating, pheromone laden.

“Touch me.”

She didn’t need to explain what she meant, caressing her body, around to cup her bared breasts, kissing the back of her neck, and reaching around, palm sliding down her stomach and finger finding the furred fold of her labia, playing, getting a wriggle and then a pleased noise. Her hand crept behind her, making explorations of her own. “Serve me.’

His mouth traced from neck to shoulder, even as his fingers returned to her back, finding all the placed he knew she liked to feel him press, then cleaving to her sinking lower, back down to kneeling as he nuzzled the fullness of her ass. Hand and mouth, and then she let a giggle escape as his impish nature tempted him too much to nip at one perfect rounded cheek.

“Bad boy, serve your Mistress and go set up a shower.”