I’ve made up my mind.

I haven’t heard from him. He gave a shit, beige-colored farewell – if I squint at it really hard.

It has become so easy: this man has not earned me.

Byeeee.
February Photofest

My gut said No.

I am not a good listener

when she says no

Twisting, turning, trying so hard

to be polite ohhhh

I must be mistaken, sure, yes, ok

until the sun rises on tangled hair and

deflated balloons and

whisker rash and

an urge to go home

Then the sun rises again

and she hears it true

No, no thank you

that won’t do

It’s you, it’s you, it’s you

We did not meet today.

 

 

February Photofest

I am not an object.

One of the biggest hurdles in my search for a submissive partner is that I am ultimately a non-person to him.  I am a means to an end to fulfill his fantasy of being dominated.  My personhood is irrelevant; I just need to be willing and able and breathing and he’s good to go.

What I need out of the dynamic isn’t of interest to him, he assumes that what he gets off on I am the natural compliment to it.  He’s into CFNM¹?  Then I must love it, too.  He likes to be choked?  Then I must be looking for every opportunity to grab his throat.  He wants to be powerless?  Then I love making every decision.  He is a kamikaze fly looking for any web he can find.

He feels such freedom from the pressures of performance that it is lost on him that now I am pressured to perform for him.  It’s exhausting and bossy and narrow minded and it turns me right the fuck off.  It makes me pissy and resentful and is typically how most first emails go.

cruelty is kindness Greetings for the day goddess the slave kneels with its head bowed down and looking to serve and suffer for u. Wish u don’t mind in making the slave suffer. It knows nothing comes for free and it is not a freebie and won’t waste ur time goddess. wish to be owned and onctolled [sic] like a tpe [sic] slave online

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock/

Hi Miss, are you interested in training an online sub from the Netherlands to follow your instructions and complete tasks to amuse you?/p – slave jack/p

good evening from Germany may this tall slave serve you well? with all my respects paul

Everyone wants something from a Domme.  It’s basically novel to approach her as if she were an actual woman, and my profiles are all very specific and have a small task buried in the text to weed out those who’d otherwise ignore my wishes.  I tell everyone exactly how to treat me.  If he doesn’t do it, I don’t respond.  And yet…

I also am very clear on not calling me an honorific, but since these men aren’t here for me they do what they like because, after all, it’s actually all about them.  They love the idea of being submissive and calling a strange, attractive woman Ma’am or Mistress, or Miss.  What do you think happens to me?  Yep: I get turned the fuck off.

My web is set, it’s beautiful and sparkles, but dandelions and leaves keep blowing onto the threads.

Looking back on our dynamic I realize now that The Neighbor was an alpha type who liked to get me to dominate him on occasion. When I bossed him around and tied up his raging erections and took his sight away with a sash, it was always on his terms.  He was ultimately in control of when we got to play that way, not me.  His game, his rules.  I was just a rube along for the ride with her heart on her sleeve.

Today I am not interested in being used like that.  I want my needs as a Domme to be equal to those of my submissive.  If I want him to undress in front of me it will be because I feel like being fucked, but can’t be bothered to undress all the way.  If I want to throttle my hot and heaving lover as I impale myself on him, then that is my prerogative and he will be thrilled to feel my fingers wrap around his neck.  If I know what I’d like to do, then I will share it.  But none of those things should happen unless they come to me naturally and in my own time.

I am not a puppet for his pleasure any more than he is mine.  We are a team, yin and yang, night and day.  We cannot truly shine without the other.

What I am distressed to find again and again are men whose own desires for sexual domination far over shadow their need to be my kind of submissive.

My experience on Friday left me feeling largely invisible.  I know he enjoyed himself – he was in suckling, choking, little bitch heaven – but I never got to my happy femdomme place.  I was being directed every step of the way on how to make him feel submissive.  I was not encouraged — or allowed — to dominate him in my own way.

It’s the difference between instructing someone on how to make your favorite meal and enjoying a delicious meal of their own choosing cooked for you by a talented chef.

But I’m thinking that it was a first date and I wasn’t planning on being intimate — it just happened — and maybe it’d be better for me in a different setting and maybe he’ll be different and we’ll be different and and and…

Hy:
I have a little fantasy that you come over before you leave and I can really experiment with our chemistry in the comfort of my own bedroom with all the things I love
Him:
When would that happen
I could come to your office for a lunch exam² tomorrow
What would you do to me in your bedroom?
Hy:
In my fantasy? Kinda late on Monday, like 10 or something. I have a brutally long day and in that fantasy is my need for releasing on someone. But it’s a fantasy. This isn’t some backhanded way of me asking you. I’m not actually sure I’d have it in me…
I am so slammed tomorrow. If we met midday, which I would enjoy regardless of what we do, I’d want you to fuck me and make me cum. You’d have a job to do. I wouldn’t overtly top you other than having you come to take care of me lol
Him:
I think I understand you
I might be able to do that
Hy:
I have a break at 3
Him:
Could maybe do 3pm
I have a fantasy of you making me get undressed in front of you while you are clothed
Also having you grab me by the throat, push me against the wall, grabbing me by the balls with your other hand and asking who they belong to wouldn’t suck either ;)
Hy:
lol
Duly noted
Him:
If I can’t tell you who can I tell?
Hy:
This is true
I’ll catalog it 😉

I toyed with several responses before I landed on “This is true; I’ll catalog it /winkyface.”  The first thing that came to mind was irritation, then distaste, and finally resentment.  I had just told him what I wanted to happen.  I’m glad I went with vague acceptance with a smiley face instead.  I prefer to remain apart and not vulnerable.

I had high hopes for the two of us and feeling invisible wasn’t one of them.  I am forever waiting for the right one to fly into my pretty little web.  I guess I’ll just admire the garden a while longer.

 

I am not an object.

 

¹: Clothed Female Naked Male

²: By “exam” he means a fantasy of his to be examined by his Domme to see if he passes muster.  This is not an interest of mine.

 

February Photofest

I am a fantasy.

I gripped his throat as I bore down on him, clawed at his chest and pinched and twisted his nipples.  My hair hung about my shoulders wild and messy, and my breasts bounced as I rode him until I wore myself out, slumped down by his side and sunk into the mattress and an alcohol-laced sleep.

In the early dawn light his hips pulsed slowly against my rump and I sighed.  I was tired — but he persisted and so I engaged.

I played with his fat morning wood not absentmindedly until he asked that I climb back on top of him.  I obliged.  Tore open the condom, rolled it on.  “Guide you in,” I told him as he lay below me with his arms above his head.

What had been wet had dried and the push in was yummy.  I rocked and he guided my hand back to his throat.  I guided his hands to my breasts.

I worked on him, gently crushing his throat with my hand and rocking my hips, punishing his little nipples.  I filled his greedy mouth with my breasts and he suckled as he curved up inside of me again and again.

I rode him until I exhausted myself and slumped down by his side, deja vu. He began to pulse against me again.  I lifted my legs over his hip and he pushed back inside of me and curled around to my breast and latched on.

Later, as he jerked himself off beside me, he whispered that he wanted me to make him my bitch, code to grab his throat again.  I looked into his eyes and felt a million miles away.  I pinched his nipples and scratched his abs, whispered to him that his jizz was mine.

He came in a tumble and soiled my hand and filled his belly button.

I dozed for a little while, spooning him.  He pulled me closer into his back and seemed to fall asleep.  My alarm went off, the sun had crested and the room was bright, the sky a light grey.  I quickly and quietly dressed as my phone chimed with my ride’s arrival.

He stirred and rolled over, sat up for a peck and a hug and I left, exhausted.  I’m not sure I like fulfilling fantasies.

You don’t know me.
February Photofest

Finding a D/s dance partner is one long and lonely night.

I have always known why I want to dominate.

It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge.  It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.

I want to dominate so I may trust.

A year ago I met Nate.  I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings.  He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers.  I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.

He found me on CollarSpace.  Approached me like a normal man, but respectful.  Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique.  Simpmanding.  Demanpering?

We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine.  His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table.  We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.

He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties.  He was usually dominant he said.  He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax.  I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.

At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces.  His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes.  “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.

We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going.  He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs.  At 3 am we were virtually alone.

He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business.  His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated.  He wanted the freedom of no control.

He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me.  When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.

We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out.  He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain.  “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.

“Nope.  Not at all,” I laughed.

Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives.  The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage.  His eyes bugged when I opened the door.  The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.

For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie.  A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.

I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold.  And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.

Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me.  I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.

My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly.  His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience.  Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.

I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air.  He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.

Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies.  It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate.  I wanted to trust him.  I wanted to trust him so badly. 

My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans.  We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate.  He was eager, willing, and listened to me.  I felt heard.

The very last time we were together things felt a little off.  He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space.  I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.

I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders.  His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.

I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon.  He was so open to me, waiting, trusting.  I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.

The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined.  A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have.  The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me.  I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure.  I shook with the effort to  take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!

“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest.  “You have to stop pushing on me.  You’re about to fling me right off.”  We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.

He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock.  It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.

He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles.  He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.

I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom.  He was embarrassed there may be a mess.  I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.

We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened.  As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside.  I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window.  My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.

He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony.  He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour.  I’d needed more time to come back into myself.  He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.

We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings.  We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting.  I felt good about the chat, so did he.  And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.

He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us.  I wished him well and accepted my fate.  We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat.  He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.

Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more.  My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.

Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out.  Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it.  It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist.  It’s not all a complete loss, though.

Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me.  I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.

And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.

He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting.  Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March.  I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me.  Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term.  I seem to be really good at that.

This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate.  There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master.  My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world.  Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing.  I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high.  It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.

I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.

I’m afraid of jinxing it.

I’m afraid of jinxing it, but I am bursting with words.  I have been hiding from the blog for fear that if I lay letters down here my men will whittle away with each click.  I don’t want them to disappear.  Not yet.  I’m not finished with any of them — there are possibly more lurking that I will continue to keep close to my breast.  I don’t want to lose any of them.

::

My thighs cradled him as he pumped deeply into me, his kisses deep and fervent.  Somehow he managed to hold himself up and reach around my bottom, shift my flesh and slip a strong finger into my asshole.  I cried out and ground down hard on him, clutched at every sinewy, flexing muscle I could.  He growled in my ear.

His room was dark, no nerdy light show this time, and my body fell into a black abyss of sensation which centered on me, like an undulating chocolate fountain, never ending.

His finger remained lodged in me, his cock a hard, fleshy piston, my body a reactive live wire.  I came hard and melted beneath him.

He freed his hand and slammed into me but with a strange cadence.  “No,” I pleaded, “Don’t stop there.  More.  All the way.”  He plunged in deeply now again and again.  Then stopped short again, seemingly oblivious.  “NOOOOO,” I said again.  “All the way.  Please.”

Again he buried himself in me and I rewarded us both with a clawing, mewling climax.   “Thank you,” I breathed into his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

I caught my breath and rolled over onto all fours.  “Fuck me in my ass,” I said.  I arched my back and wagged my behind.  I imagined they looked like two pale moons  in the dim light.

He pet my sopping pussy and dragged its wetness to my other hole and pushed his meat in.  Slowly, naughtily.  Good girls don’t get fucked in the ass.  Or is it God girls?

He moved gingerly at first until it felt too good to hold back.  He gripped my hips like he meant it this time, nothing soft about his touch.  I didn’t cringe now like I did when he first touched me.  I can’t do light touch.  It makes me want to vomit and run and hide.  I didn’t want to hide now.

I came from just the thought of how filthy we were, how dirty.  Two otherwise upstanding citizens doing this disgusting thing.  I loved it.  And I loved hearing him unravel behind me.  He came for a second time.

Earlier in the night we’d met for dinner near his house.  It’s our 4th date this go around, the first go around having happened in 2015 followed by a two year gap.  We have a little script we follow now.  First drinks, then dinner, back to his place for a little more imbibing, then up to his room where our limbs entwine and he drives into my body.

I enjoy his company immensely: he’s smart, liberal, ridiculously complimentary, generous.  He takes me to the nicest restaurants and buys me stupid-fancy hipster cocktails.  He also plays with my asshole.  I dig him.

::

Hands bound above his head, blindfolded, he lay on his side.  The belt cracked on the bright pink X I had drawn on his right cheek.  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he gritted out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am.

I’d opened the door to this tall blond man wearing leather and a blast of cold air.  “Ignore the dog,” I said.  It came out throaty, bossy.

He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.  I raised up on my toes and put my arms around his neck and kissed his cold face.  He tasted faintly of tobacco.

I drew him with me as I fell against the wall behind the door and wrapped his hair in my fingers.  I pulled him off my lips and pushed him down to my breasts.  He dropped to his knees and peeled off my clothes, a cardigan, black velvet boy shorts and a black camisole.  I silently laughed how my thoughtful choice of clothing was not noticed.

He hunkered lower and latched on to my pussy, now eye-level.  I held on to the wall for support, and his chin-length hair.  I let my big lover worship me from his knees for a minute, two, before I pulled him up and undressed him, and led him into my room cast in a cool afternoon light.

I would tie him up, light a candle, draw on him, slip his tiny dark pink nipples between the tines of golden bobby pins, and straddle him as I rode him.  I’d push a pale pink butt plug into his tight little hole, then later my finger, and I’d slurp him up until he’d say, “I’m at a 7, Ma’am,” breathless and with some apprehension.  He was not allowed to cum and did not want to displease me.

Writhing on top of him like a wicked little girl on her wicked little pony I flicked his nipples and held on as he bucked his hips.  What a deliciously good boy he was.  As I drew closer to orgasm I flicked faster imagining the tip of his cock somewhere near my sternum; I was riding a bronco, not a pony.  My hands went numb and my scalp tingled.  It was time to burst through the surface of the water.

I pressed the Hitachi against us both and told him to hold still, to only twitch inside of me.  I felt the pressure swirl somewhere down low and begin to build, stars pressed against my eyes with each blink.  “Ok,” I whispered.  “You may cum now.”

He moved like a healed man on godly legs, wild and desperate.  I stared at his blindfolded face and the jagged grimace that told me he was completely in his body, in me, in us.  He told me he was going to cum peppered with random Ma’am’s and I told him I was cumming, too.  And then we cried out together and I gulped big gulps of air, desperate, dying, living.  He keened his pleasure then lay still, vibrating a little.

I kissed his lips and resituated his blindfold, traced the starbursts I’d drawn around his nipples, now plump and dark rose with life.  He hissed.  “Those are very sensitive, Ma’am.”

“Good.”  I flicked them both.

I came again, even bigger than the first, with him soft and spent in a little pile of flesh beneath me, still safely wrapped in the condom.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ejaculated he said.  I climbed off of him and investigated.  The condom was full.

“Wow,” he chuckled.  “It was an all-body orgasm; I couldn’t tell.”  I wondered silently if it could be said he just had a “female orgasm.”  I could hardly spell my name.

I remounted him, carefully, and removed the blindfold.  I felt shy.  This was the transition back to Hy and him.  Not Ma’am and him.  I talked him through my removal of the bobby pins and pressed firmly with my palm, told him to breathe.  Men are such babies, I thought.

I slowly untied the black neck tie from one of my blouses from around his neck, ceremoniously, and lay down in his crook.  We talked about what we’d just experienced like we were excited children after their first roller coaster ride.

I had to leave in 45 minutes to get my baby from school, he had to leave in 45 minutes to go to work.  “Let’s go sit on my couch,” I said.  I gathered my clothes from the pool of fabric by the front door and dressed.  He plopped down next to me and I put my feet in his lap.  “There’s lotion,” I motioned to the bottle I had ready on the table.

He massaged my feet until we had to go; we kissed and hugged at the door, told each other we looked forward to next time.  I dig him.

 

 

Anticipation.

I chose my outfit a day early: a black pencil skirt, a slip, a light pink lace bra which would show tastefully through my opaque white blouse.  My cuffs were black as was a strip of silk that I tied haphazardly below the highest button.

In the cool morning light my stomach fluttered as I dressed carefully; slipped on black lace panties, the short black slip, and the rest of the tantalizing draping.  Business appropriate, but with an ulterior motive.  That black silk that rested between my breasts all day will be wrapped around him once the moon rises.

9 o’clock.  Au naturale.  Nothing up his ass or around his cock.  Fresh underwear on if he wears some normally.  Stone sober.  I want him just as he is.

I have inventoried my new toys and laid them carefully on my white bed, their black shapes like a seedy jigsaw puzzle.  I have attached a silk loop at the center head of my bed to the steel frame for the cuffs to be attached to if I so choose to use them and looped two more silk ties in the upper corners to the wooden mattress slats if I eschew them.

I have condoms of all sizes and only a little lube.  I doubt I’ll need it.

My nose is powdered, my pussy spruced up.  I have placed a single hair tie on the coffee table beside a bottle of lotion.  When I am ready, he will tie his jaw-length hair back and my eyes will turn black with desire.  He will remove my black booties and socks and rub my aching feet, his hair tied back while I devour the length of his long body with my black eyes and imagine his heart beating against his muscular chest.

Candles are lit.  The house smells like tobacco and cinnamon.  A Led Zepplin record from my mother’s 1970s collection plays tantalizingly in the low light.

He called to say he ran out of time to buy wine, but he will be on time.  I bought red wine for us anyway.  I can’t stop my heart from beating wildly in my chest nor my pussy to stop thrumming intermittently when I think about his imminent arrival.

He will be here in 7 minutes.

Being assertive: How domination has taught me to stick up for myself in the vanilla world

The journey towards myself has been a journey of equal measure away from others.  Away from The Neighbor, away from my exhusband, away from my mother and father.  What do I need?  What do I want?  Who am I within those constructs??

As a woman I have been raised to acquiesce, to be demure, dainty, and gentle.  Imagine the struggle I had as a loud, bossy, effervescent, creative little girl who could never be pushed high enough on the swing or spun fast enough in a hug.  I always wanted more than I got and I wished every night to be like the little girls in my class with the perfect pigtails and clean dresses and neat handwriting, to be soft and quiet. But I was an athletic girl and competitive, driven to surprise people who thought my bright blonde hair and love of dresses meant I was afraid to get dirty.

That spirit saved me.  I loved being strong, fast, and impressing everyone — especially the boys — with my skills versus my sweetness, but still I figured out early on that I was a square peg and the world wanted a round one.  Despite abandoning the outward appearance of what was expected of me, I still fell prey to how I was expected to feel.

I was afraid to be angry, to demand to be treated in certain ways, to stand up for myself.  Those were not only unattractive traits, but completely unacceptable in both my world and family, and so I created a life for myself where on the one hand I was big and bold, but on the other meek and passive.  The life of the party and unafraid, yet a complete push-over who would accept any kind of treatment because she so badly didn’t want to be abandoned.

My parents rejected my pleas to be heard, my exhusband was incapable of mistakes, and my last love always had one foot out the door at the first hint of dissatisfaction.  But it was with him, The Neighbor, that the bold inner-side of me began to grow: he wanted me to dominate him.

TN and I never had an open discussion about his needs or wants regarding domination and submission.  From my perspective, one day he started agreeing to my outrageous demands to vacuum while in my panties.  I was confused and turned on all at once as I watched this densely muscled, hung young man push my vacuum cleaner around in my lace underwear.  He was acquiescent, boyish, happy and utterly exquisite.  It thrilled me.

Eventually we semi-formalized the exchange and I would tie a little black velvet ribbon around his neck and he’d kneel with his hands behind his back and wait for me to come home.  In the candle light I’d draw on his pale skin and finger fuck his tight little asshole while he was bound spread eagle to the bed.  His nipples were conduits to his cock and I’d eagerly pluck and suck on them until he writhed and begged me to stop and when I’d worked us both up into frothy messes I’d set him loose on me and cry big, fat tears of  release.  It was darkly beautiful, our little secret, and felt like I’d slipped into my real skin for the first time in my life.  He got me.

But then it went sideways.

He asked for tasks and wouldn’t do them.  He’d pick and choose when he would submit and for how long.  He’d create online profiles on D/s sites and keep them hidden from me.  I took aftercare seriously, but he would reject my advances to care for him.  He didn’t need me.  His submission seemed to be a limit to his sexuality, not a condition of it.  Submission was just a kink, not a state of mind.

I felt off-balance, weak, and used.

To assert demands which I had been taught my entire life were repulsive meant I crossed into treacherous territory, a landscape of power which was completely foreign to me, and he never joined me there.  He stayed on the sidelines and kept the gift of submission, his presence with me, to himself.  And it gutted me.

Standing in that spot alone, the only thing that could replace the energy lost to get there would have been his compliance, his submission.  Instead I was the asshole with my dick in my hand and he got to laugh all the way to wherever it was he wanted to go.  Without me.

Domination and submission are a symbiosis of energies, one does not exist without the other.  We can throw as many tricks into the ring as we want, but unless someone is there to witness them, to value them and hold them close, they’re useless and invisible and our energy is completely wasted.

That was me: a fool in the spotlight all alone. 

Our relationship failed for many reasons, least of which was his shadyness, but I didn’t limp away empty-handed.  As I’ve left my parents, my husband, and then TN, I have stood taller and understood better what it means to insist on something and through D/s I was given a glimpse — though a very tiny one — of how that could feel in real life.

It’s not enough to just be bold in life outside the walls of my home, I must be bold within them, as well.  If I don’t respond appropriately to bad behavior then I only have myself to blame and if the person behaving badly doesn’t have a reaction I like then that’s the correction point.  That’s the moment to assert myself.

Until recently I’d only dabbled in D/s much like a non-runner might commit to running at dawn each morning.  In other words: half-heartedly and not at all consistently.

I let my lovers toss me around and pull my hair and I tied up a lover, but I had’t invested myself in dominating anyone; it was far too demanding.  Men in general are scary, untrustworthy and dangerous.  It’s why I keep them safely on a shelf with just their hard cocks lined up like so many sausages on a conveyor belt.

Lately, though, a desire deep in my belly has grown to an incessant need: I need to dominate someone.  I need to use him to pleasure myself in an overt way, I want to own him and take care of him.  I want him to know what I’m doing and I want him to revel in it, to be my boy, my pet, mine.  More simply put, I want to state a need and have it met.  And so I have begun the search in earnest.

The wild little girl meets the woman who’s denied her inner self for most of her life and what I hope to happen is to find a partner who can meet me in that ring, to stand beside me and hold my hand even as he kneels beside me.  But this man has proven to be as elusive as any other unicorn.

Men in the D/s world who claim to be submissive, much like TN, seem to be more enthralled with the idea than the practice.  The low hoops I set for them to step through prove too much to bear and unlike the Hyacinth in the vanilla world, the Hyacinth in the D/s world does not allow for such mistakes or false claims.

Domme Hy asks that you reply to her messages in a timely manner.  If you don’t she politely reminds you of this requirement and gives you a chance to improve.  If you do not comply then she ends the connection, period.  She tells the man she has no time for games and is looking for someone who is serious about proving their submission even in small ways as they begin to get to know oneanother.

Domme Hy doesn’t accept ambiguous bullshit or bad behavior and the revelation that it’s not only ok to feel this way but also to to act upon it has stopped me cold in my tracks.  I hadn’t realized how hard I was still trying to fit into that round peg until I found a square hole.

And the light has been shed on all of my relationships.

Instead of telling others how I want to be treated and feeling as though my work is done I have come to understand to the fibers of my being that words really are meaningless.  As much as I love them, they’re literally worth the paper they’re printed on.

If I say I want to be treated a certain way and I am then treated in a different way the only reasonable response I have in the D/s world is to correct it and correct it immediately because that’s what a Domme does.  And what has become crushingly obvious to me over the summer is that’s what vanilla Hy needs to do, as well.

The veil of unattractiveness I have long associated with honesty regarding my feelings has been lifted and I am less afraid of someone abandoning me because I am displeased, angry, or unhappy.  Go, motherfucker.  Go.

Recently a beautiful submissive man hovered over me and sucked on my fingers.  His eyes were tightly shut and my free hand felt the muscles along his ribcage ripple.  “Cum for me, beautiful boy,” I said and his hand began to beat harder on his cock.  He moaned and jerked and I crooned to him, “My beautiful boy,” as hot globs of his subby jizz landed on my belly and breasts.

I pulled him down into my arms and stroked his temple until he fell asleep.  Our play had been very light, mostly vanilla by all rights, but I had bade him to spank my flank and fuck me and directed every candlelit movement.  He slept for a few hours and awoke stiff and awkward.  I released him to return home knowing something was wrong, but he was shut down.

The next afternoon I reached out and asked if he was ok.  He took many hours to respond and when he did he appeared still shut down.  I offered my support and told him he may be experiencing subdrop.  Three days later I still hadn’t heard from him so I asked for him to please let me know if he was ok.  He never responded.

Vanilla Hy would be mildly devastated, but Domme Hy recognizes with great clarity the limitations of her responsibility and energy required to resolve this.  I have done everything I can and he has gone to ground.  Whether that’s because it was the perfect night for him or the worst, I don’t know, but we had spoken for many hours about what we wanted and how we would proceed and as far as I was concerned I followed all of those rules.

If he ever reaches out to me again I will tell him I have no desire to interact with someone who is capable of mistreating someone like he mistreated me.  As Ferns has shared with me, many submissive males believe Dommes have no feelings and may be discarded like chewed gum.  Fantasy level: Achieved.  Next!  And it feels all too familiar.

It’s difficult to explain the long road to this place, the odd twists and turns I’ve experienced, but if I could shout to all the corners of the earth to everyone to be unafraid of their feelings and to express them freely and without fear I would every day for the rest of my life.  When you express a need, those worthy of you ask you how they may meet it.  Period.

Whether it’s a friend or parent, or a naked lover at my feet, the people I want to let into my life will accept me in my entirety or not at all and I can’t accept less than that.  I simply don’t need the inconvenience.  I deserve to be who I am — a woman with feelings and a woman with needs — and the people in my life deserve my honesty.

Fuck.

Fuck.

This is so important to who I want to be, I can feel it deep in my heart and I know it’s true because the tears in my eyes tell me so.  Ok, Hy.  You can do this.  Just be you.  It’s ok. 

 

 

 

He gets a [very lovely] punishment.

It’s been a few months now since The Neighbor and I entered into another layer of D/s and I became in control of his masturbation practices.

Our original foray into D/s was borne out of intense curiosity to see if it would fit us; he’d been spanking me for nearly a year and controlling our interactions, but I was miserable and he was a slippery little thing, perhaps miserable, too. That was definitely not working for us.

When I finally heard him, actually listened to his words about being submissive in the past — deliberately and with a real Domme — and how much he loved to vacuum for me bound in my skimpy lace panties, I opened a cupboard door into a part of me to which I hadn’t given any merit. And then it liberated us.

We dipped our toes into the power pool and suddenly we were both more relaxed, tall and serene. He still wasn’t committing to me or saying he loved me, but there was something else there, a stronger, newer connection that bound us even tighter. Roots were growing.

There have been mostly ups since we started this new side of us and I have learned mountains of information about the both of us: like how I am not a sadist, but I like welts, how I like having control over his pain because I can make it stop, how my position better allows me to express my needs from strength and not fear; and how he needs to feel trust and kind words during moments of consensual weakness, how he wants me to stand up for myself and keep him in line.

We fuck an average of a dozen times a month and 2-3 of those are me in total charge. Spankings, nipple clamps, him falling the fuck apart. The rest are laced with my domination and I top from the bottom with a big fat fucking smile on my face. And mostly all of our clothed sexual interactions are via D/s.

The innuendos, the spanks, the demands, the rules. So that means I also have had to come up with punishments. A real punishment, not something he would outrightly enjoy, though, that is how I prefer to deliver my blows.

He confessed to me the other day that he had masturbated without my permission. I thanked him for telling me, because I knew he was afraid, and we talked about why and I shelved it for later.

The next morning, I came up with a plan:

Ok, I’ve thought some more about you jerking off. I’m upset bc you didn’t send me a pic like I always say to do (& you broke your promise, but that can’t be helped now). So, to start over fresh, this is your punishment: you’re allowed to jerk off 3x bn now and next Tuesday but you must 1st ask my permission, 2nd, if it’s late and I don’t respond, then you must make a video of it, and 3rd, regardless of 1 or 2, you must take pics. So this means I expect 3 pics at least, if not some videos, of your gorgeous cock. You can also jerk off in front of me, too, thereby eliminating the need for pics :)

He said it was “tough, but fair.”

I said, “Good boy,” relieved to hear it, but knowing there was really nothing else he could say.

Thursday night, sick as a dog, I convinced him to jerkoff next to me. It was, quite literally, the highlight of my miserable day to watch his body tense and vibrate then jerk into his blurry hand, milky white jizz quickly mopped up by a tissue I had ready. I had three boxes of them littered about me, after all.

And this morning, this happened:

hyacinthjones_text_tits
The tits were for encouragement.

I’m not certain if he actually jerked off right then or of he was asking for his lunch break, but either way, I’m looking forward to the pics and I feel strong in my position yet again.

I never would have guessed how hot him asking me for permission could be — never — but goddamn. This punishment stuff sure does feel good. Almost as good as everything else with him does.

I beat his ass.

hyacinthjones_white_shift_belt
The morning after, no underwear.

“Take off your underwear,” he said smiling and with no fanfare.

I looked at him and burst into giggles.

We’d been laying on the bed talking and it’d come out of no where, well, if “no where” was laying in bed and lavishing attention on your man and there was a rule that he wasn’t allowed to wear pants in your bed.  Then, yes, it came out of no where.

I lifted my hips and removed my panties and he kneeled between my knees.  We both still had on our shirts.

He pressed into me and watched each other as he split me open and I gave way with a soft moan.  His eyes so blue, so intensely locked on mine.

His powerful hips began to move and instantly I felt a spark and arched.  I pulled him down to me and we kissed and kissed and kissed as our bodies gyrated onto one another, our breath sweet puffs of passion between our locked mouths.

His tempo increased, I lost my shit as my pussy gushed and my temperature rose.  I tossed my head from side to side and clung to him with my limbs, desperate to feel his cock deep in my throat from below.

When we were exhausted, he stopped and handed me my vibrator and played with my breasts and nipples, told me how hot I was and how beautiful as I sprang into an orgasm from the wand that ripped a scream from me.

I went limp and giggled.  He kissed me.

He left shortly after that, saying he had only stopped by for a quickie before he vacuumed.  When he returned later it was a surprise.  I wasn’t ready for him to clean, yet.  But he wanted to cuddle again and so we did and after laughing and talking for several minutes and me absentmindedly playing with his cock he said again, “Take off your underwear.”

I held still, a smile plastered on my face and a twinkle in my eye that matched his.  And so I lifted my hips and took off my panties once more.

And again he impaled me with his magical cock and we moved together, this time fully nude, and rocked against each other with all our mights.  I gripped the iron bars of my headboard and squealed each time I felt the tip of his cock nudge my heart.  I bloomed and blossomed and lost myself in little orgasms until, once again, we were exhausted and he flopped next to me, my Hitachi wand in his outstretched hand.

I took it, I died, I wept a little, but not too much, and I saw myself in bits of confetti that rained down around me.  His hand rested on my breast, his words of encouragement lingered on my ears.

He left again and we made plans for when I needed him to come over “for real” and vacuum.

When he returned he wore his little white briefs.  The thin cotton transparent enough that I could see his shadowy Caucasian skin piled behind it as he moved the vacuum cleaner about my apartment.

He picked up chairs and moved ottomans as I scurried around the house tidying up, lighting candles, making my bed.

Vacuuming is our chore-play, our gateway activity to the head space to play Dominant and submissive and I was roundly fucked and more than capable of focus.

When he was done he coiled the cord and stowed the vacuum away, came back to my room and looked at me expectantly.

“Good boy,” I purred and pet his red-bearded face.  The tables had turned.

His eyes were round and impossibly light blue, his bowed mouth slightly parted.  I caressed his shoulders, ran my fingers down his furry chest and grabbed his hardon beneath the fabric of his underpants and peeled him out of them.

“Wait here,” I said softly and grabbed a couple of things off the bedside table.  He looked at me inquisitively then with muted horror as I showed him two tiny hair clips, the kind a woman uses at her temples to stay fly-aways.  “Relax,” I said from my throat and kissed his warm lips.

He took a breath and let his arms hang at his sides as I clipped the hungry little beasts on his itsy bitsy nipples.  He cringed and winced and made a big production of it.  I scoffed at him and told him to knock it off.  “Bend over and assume the position,” I said.

There he was bathed in candlelight, in pain, back arched, bottom impossibly full and bare.  I swelled with lust, delight, and nerves.  The white shift I wore pulled taut across my breasts as I breathed in deeply the scent of his cologne and submission.

I reached for the brown leather belt that saves my weak little palm and lashed at him.  “Beg for mercy,” I hissed gently, “Beg.  But I will not stop.  You may writhe, you may cry, and you may beg, but don’t move away from me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said huskily and he held still, waiting.

I lashed and lashed at him then and he did cry and beg.  It was gorgeous and terrifying and infuriating all at once.

When the begging came in earnest I hit him some more and told him to stop telling me what to do.  “But you said –,” he began.

“It doesn’t matter what I said,” I told him.  “You can do this, but don’t tell me to stop, beg me to stop.”

He understood.

I picked up where I left off; I wanted to leave a mark on him.  So I hit and I hit and I panted and I writhed inside of myself as I watched him squirm and shiver and shout.

I was hurting the man I love.  This is wrong, I thought.  And then I kept on lashing and petting and reassuring.

I swayed beneath my gauzy slip, drunk on passion and power and I pressed my mound against his hip and stroked his hot back.  A welt was beginning to appear.

I told him to stand up and he was skittish, but stable.  I kissed his jaw and was careful not to bump the tiny clips clinging to his nipples.  And then I said, “Hold very, very still,” and his eyes widened as he saw me carefully remove one clip and then the other.  “Get back down,” I said.

I reared up again to my full height and concentrated on the belt cutting through the night air and landing exactly where I wanted it to.  Careful, deliberate, my nipples erect, my cunt warm, wet and buzzing, my eyes glazed with other worldly focus.

Slap!  Slap!  Slap!  Slap!

He trembled and shivered, but held himself in position.  He whimpered into the down comforter and gripped it with hands locked into fists.

The smack of leather on skin began to sound like a drum beat and I turned myself inside out, concentrated on my own voice which encouraged him to take more and praised him for his powerful, meaty, indisputable beauty.  I was him in that moment feeling my own hand on him, checking in and feeling around.

And then, I was suddenly done.

I was there, he was there.  There was nowhere else I wanted to go.  And I couldn’t take one more lick lest I burst into tears.

My hand stilled and he lay and panted in big, giant breaths splayed heavily in the middle of the bed now.  I moved closer to inspect my handiwork and gasped at the blister of color I’d caused.  It was beautiful and awful.

I kissed his ear and cheek, his face buried in the mattress, and told him to stay exactly like that while I ran and fetched some ice and a cloth.  I slipped the cool chunk over his scorched skin and blotted up the trickle with care.  He insisted he didn’t need it, the careless, needless submissive man that he is, but I ignored him feeling as though I knew better.  At the very least, I needed it after brutalizing the man I love for 20 minutes.

I cooled his cheeks, his crack and his hip and dipped my hand between the cleft of his backside and stroked his balls.  He lifted his hips for me and the arch and offer nearly made me grab my belt again, but instead I wrapped my hands around his chubby cock and played with the heavy bag behind them before returning to icing his welt.

He wasn’t able to hold a conversation and he giggled.  I swelled with pride and love and contentment.

When the ice had disappeared, he pulled me into his arms and kissed my temple.  I snuggled down into the warmest nook in the world and lazily stroked his growing erection, my lids heavy, my heart full, spent as fuck.    “Hey,” he said with a grin, “take off your underwear.”