My Kind of Femdom Romance

Tuesday: I walk home in the light drizzle of the late evening, stress of the day like a pack of rocks on my shoulders. I think bad, self pitying thoughts, feeling bereft, ignored and insignificant. My phone is an insistent white glare in my hand, as I truly to sort out someone’s problem for them. Up the front steps and into the entrance hall, the smell that envelopes me is warm and savoury. In the kitchen I hear a small thump, turn and see that he’s kneeling.

He’s naked on the tile, tawny and lean and male. I feel a little clutch of guilt, because I seem to enjoy poisoning my own happiness. I tell him I’m not that hungry- I ate earlier. I warn him I’m stressed, he might not get beaten. He takes it, accepting, pets me. I peel off down to my panties, white with rutching at the hips and tight little black bows, find something at fault with my body in the mirror and push aside my current obsession with the girth of my hips to put my attention back on him.

A flop heavy into the rumpled blankets into the bed. He makes me smile with his patience, makes up a plate of his own dinner and coaxes me to try some sweet potato from his fingers. Delicious. He talks self consciously about the sugar content, talking about his cooking knowledge. I steal another piece from his fork as he brings it to his mouth, walk to the kitchen and try little bites of the leftovers.

He finishes his meal and I push him back into the pillows, hands to his wrists. I ask him how he’s feeling.

He confesses his fantasies, describing how he’d thought about being left in a stand up cage, blindfolded, for any woman to enjoy. My voice becomes a lure and a lead, taking this thread and winding it about him. Very soon his eyes are covered and my hangs are roaming, pinching and exploring as I make the fantasy as real as possible.

My hand smacks almond shaped hand prints into the cheeks of his ass, and his cock is massive, head beaded with precum. I leave him blindfolded and tell him about how one of the women would tug him to the bars and pull his hard cock through the gap, as I take him into my mouth.

He wants to come. I make him edge for me instead, until I’m sure he can’t get any harder, until he’s panting with desperation. When he was blindfolded I already saw him writhing about, now his hang is gripping my soft thigh, hard.

Just before he comes I tell him “if you do I get to do whatever I want to you”. I like that extra little jolt of fear- he’s not sure if he’s heard me, but its past the point of no return.

His come ends up in my mouth, down my throat, and he’s already screaming before the spurting starts. He’s past coherence, past profanity, even sounding pained. Post orgasm, he’s a stunned mess.

The gusset of my panties is wet, soaked through. After he recovers he wants me to come, and uses his hands and his voice to help me. We have sex this way a lot- its very intimate, lots of touching and lots of control for me. When I come we end up tangled into a perfect cuddle.

I’m at peace, all the stress of the day washed away, wanting nothing more than to hold and be held by what’s mine.

Wildcard’s Submission: A History

So a couple of days ago Wildcard suggested that he was warming up to the idea of being my part time submissive. Our relationship has always not quite fit into people’s expectations of me, and for us, something that I’m okay with, but leads to no end of boggling on the part of people who think in terms of binaries and hierarchies. I spend a lot of time correcting people who ask “so he’s your sub…?” or lifting the jaws off of floors of people who see him in dom mode after seeing him as naked vulnerable man because a surprising quantity of people don’t believe in switches.

Wildcard¬†broached the subject of a power dynamic when we first became a couple, as an assumption that he had that it was a requirement. Obviously *the* Miss Pearl needs a sub to be happy, right? And if he wanted to be a fixture in my life that was required and no asking for what he wanted either (because topping from the bottom!). I did the sensible thing and took him on a crash course on enthusiastic consent, veto-ing the whole no limits thing before it started. In the manner of pansexual people explaining their interests, I don’t fall in love with sexual orientations, I fall in love with people.

Some of his assumptions were understandable. Prior to me, while he was awash in submissive leaning ladies flirting at him, femdoms appear to be a coy bunch and the sum total of his experience was a professional dominant who did a bang up job of introducing him to impact play, but obviously couldn’t be expected to do more than that.

After a rough couple of weeks in that period, when I was caressing and holding him him after an evening of caretaking, he softly piped up that being my pet, you know… didn’t sound that bad. For me this wasn’t quite good enough.¬†I like fake non-con, struggling, etc… but I sure as heck cannot handle real reluctance and told him that much. Actually I did the wibbly lower lip thing and sniffled, but you can pretend I had a non-emotional, frank and considerate discussion on power exchange like people seem to imagine I have.

Wildcard is happy in scene based, limited power exchange, and that’s been that. He made a few attempts to dom me and I utterly failed to to respond in a way he could work with, and the longer we’ve been together the more he’s had to admit that he just can’t see me as that sort of role. For me its surprisingly hard to give up a part of him, even the dominant part that I’m only dog in the mangering. Call it my control freak nature- I don’t provide that outet but it feels like a loss for me to not have access to it. But, for him he’s admitted that I make him feel submissive in a way nobody else does.

But of his own volition he’s now expressed an interest in more formalized submission in his life- still not 24/7, but certainly ever encroaching into what we do together. We shall see what will become of this.

Myself, and Moving On

Pretty, pretty...

Let’s talk about my love life, these days, shall we?

My nails bite into his back, but he takes them, sharp as they are, and he is unbreakable. His skin in thick, the muscle underneath taut to the point of hardness. I stab and press and nothing makes him yield, but gradually, with my strength into it, I feel the start of a pliancy. He’s tough, and there’s a challenge there, beyond simply getting a reaction, to help melt away the wiry solidity into something completely supple.

I’m white as a snowdrop against the sallow-sand colour of his skin, my body soft where he is hard and rough. Our bodies slide together in a way that meets and balances, although he is taller, I can lift him without excessive effort, not just because of his lightness but because I’ve always been fairly strong for a woman. My head fits well against his chest, nestled against his shoulder, and my arms around him, seatbelt-safe. His hands, casually playing around my waist, find the exact place on my spine where the muscles and bone carry things too heavily, pressing until the always-ache I’ve learned to ignore lets go.

I lean over the foot of his bed, stretching, and watch his slender, straight legs, upside down. I like to look at the ratio between the spareness of his body and the breadth of his shoulders. I like the way his eyes are hooded and long lashed, and the delicate sculpting of his nose. I like the gravel in his voice, and the way he looks at me, sometimes wanting, sometimes with a hesitant vulnerability like he’s not sure quite what he’s doing, but most times just hard to read as he’s usually pretty closed off. That, in itself, is a challenge, since I’m used to being the one knocking reactions out of people.

We try little bedroom games, what works and what doesn’t, but just as much, we talk about all the things that tell who you are, a few pieces every time, and twine up together, in a lock-knot of limbs.

I am happy, although it’s very much a situation built on shifting silt, as mercurial as one might expect given the circumstances. It’s not a safe and stable meeting, and I don’t feel sure footed with him, at once sharing myself with as much flayed honesty as I can and on the other hand, keeping some restrictions on the impulsivity and carnal impishness that defines me. We are not sure what we are doing, not sure what I am, other than that I am there and present at this moment, where I can help.

So I make myself into the safe, accepting stillness that I learned how to be a long time ago, and I tell him that for now, I’m in charge, until the storm has passed us by. On the balance, the trade off is knowing him with nothing in the way of illusions, in the rawness of a crisis, and finding nothing lacking in him or his response to it. So there’s that.