Thar be dragons

There’s been some more hot sexxay between myself and Bran to write about but I haven’t been in the mood.

He took a picture of me from the back with my ass up in the air and my panties pulled down. I wore the black lace ones just for him. Also, rocking the velcro cuffs. I like it because you can’t see my face. But I still don’t think I’m going to post it. I don’t want this to turn into one of those blogs.

Scheduling incompatibilities mean that the new houseboy and I will not be meeting regularly. We had a sort of quasi-goodbye exchange of emails yesterday. I suppose the door is sort of open, but sort of not. In the long run, I think this is for the best. First, because having a servant can actually work as power exchange in reverse: you begin to depend on that other person to do the most basic chores. As a result, the house can get actually more messy in between visits. I’m feeling the need for self-sufficiency in that regard.

Also, dropping the houseboy is like dropping the last veil, closing the last escape hatch. Set course for the Isle of Monogamy. Thar be dragons.

And hot, kinky sex.

Top drop. Forgot about that

My head is still in a daze as I’m writing this. My houseboy came over and did some tidying for me. We really didn’t have enough time — ideally I like a good two to three hours of service and discipline at a time. The fault was all mine. I had a meeting downtown that ran longer than I thought it would and he could only stay until 3:30.

I had a huge long list of chores for him: vaccuuming, mopping, dishes, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning my closets. Of course he was only able to do a small amount of it. He does a very decent job in a very small amount of time, actually. I’m very pleased with the level of his service. And I’m even more pleased with how much pain he can take.

But I totally wasn’t prepared for how spaced out I would be right now. I’ve still got work to do, AND I’ve got evening plans I can’t cancel. This is why aftercare is so important. And I feel like an awful, awful top for sending him out into the world without giving him proper aftercare.

Or myself.

What does aftercare consist of exactly? And how does one do aftercare with someone one doesn’t want to touch? He was sweating like a pig, and the smell of him was extremely unpleasant. It reminded me, actually, of something that Kristen told me. She told me the worst part of being a professional dominatrix was the smell. The smell of men you’re not attracted to, their sweat. Their stink.

This houseboy is very nice. He’s a good boy. But he does stink. And when your houseboy is doing your housework, he is bound to schvitz. They can’t help it. So they smell.

Smell is such a subtle, important factor in attraction. I love the way Bran smells. Mostly he smells like clean laundry, but of course there’s his own scent which can’t really be described except to say that it smells like Bran. The other day, when we were having dirty, dirty sex during a heat wave, we both worked up such a sweat that it mingled between our bodies and lubricated our flesh as we slid against one another.

Bran’s sweat, his smell, I love. This houseboy’s sweat, his smell, not so much.

And I can’t help but wonder whether it’s selfish of me to keep a houseboy while my relationship with Bran deepens. Not because I’m being greedy now, but because… well, for two reasons. First, because I think there is a part of Bran who doesn’t want to share me, not even my dirty dishes and my cruelty. And second, because keeping a houseboy means maintaining a relationship. I was relieved when Chiquitita and I decided not to pursue a serious relationship because I felt stretched between her and Bran. A houseboy doesn’t require nearly the same kind of care and feeding as a lover, but Bran knows that there is a sexual element to it. He says he’s fine with it, but I wonder if that’s really how he feels. I wonder if that will change. I think, if he asked me to give him up, I would. But that’s what happens when I fall in love. I do things, give up things, that I never would have when I’m not in love. When I’m not in a mild state of insanity.

It’s pleasant state of insanity.

A relationship with a houseboy is not the same as any other kind of relationship. A houseboy is not a friend. He’s definitely not a lover. He is a servant. And servants require an entirely different kind of interaction. It’s important to stay in control, to underline the power exchange part of the agreement. Houseboy is very good at doing this. Mostly I’m good at giving orders and maintaining an aura of cool authority. Oftentimes I feel silly inside but sometimes I get drunk off the power, get into the role, inhabit it. I think that I would have been an excellent Duchess in a former life. Preferably a widowed Duchess. But I digress.

It’s a nice feeling to be served. I really like receiving good service, in all areas of my life. There’s nothing like being able to order someone around, someone who has agreed to give me his power for a short period of time. But I’ll settle for good table service at a restaurant.

What I got drunk off today, though, was not power. It was pain. Giving pain, and the enjoyment of giving pain. Submission and pain, and both in combination, can be incredibly intoxicating.

It’s a very scary feeling, actually. And what I am feeling now is the blowback from a really intense, heavy session of hitting a man. It didn’t feel like hard work, but I certainly did put my arm into it. There was an exchange not only of power, but of energy. Kinetic energy, and psychic energy.

Afterward, he mentioned that he had never really taken that much pain before, that it wasn’t the sort of play he’d done. See, this is hard for me to hear. I feel like… I can’t help but feel ashamed at how much pleasure I take in the groans when I come down really hard with the belt. But it’s what I like. It’s visceral, almost sexual. It’s…. drunk on power, drunk on pain.

“If it’s too much we don’t have to go that hard,” I said. And given my current state of mind, that’s probably not a bad idea — for myself, if not for him. He didn’t want to stop, though. He told me that he’d come to the edge of this kind of play before, but that the person topping him had backed off. “It wasn’t my choice,” he said.

And then he said something that made me very happy. He said, “I appreciate that you do it in such a safe way.”

It’s something I worry about constantly, actually. It’s what makes topping difficult: the responsibility that comes with power. Paying attention to how your bottom is doing. And I do pay attention.

Sigh. I think I’d better pay attention to myself for a little while, and rest before I go out this evening. Right after I do this one last thing for work…

Three things: servants, travel, transformation

So there were a few things I’ve been meaning to write about. I’ve just been a bit despondent lately, since no one has given me any feedback recently. I LURVE it when people comment in response to posts. Perhaps people aren’t responding because I moderate posts, or perhaps they’re just too shy. Regardless, feedback — connection — is one of the things that keeps me writing.

Maybe I just need to get over that.

Three things happened recently, and I don’t know which to tell you about first. I also want to tell you in the most scintillating prose EVAR, prose that will bring tears to your eyes or blood flow to your lower regions. But, of course, when I think about the results of what I say instead of just saying it, I get stuck with brain crack.

So, in chronological order:

1. Met my newest houseboy Tuesday last. I started a post about this, but it veered off in its own direction. In short, he has the makings of a great servant and pain slut. He’s not in the least attractive to me, which simplifies things a great deal.
2. Went to NYC this weekend and met Axe in person. In many ways, he was what I expected, and in many ways he was totally different. I love NYC, to visit about once or twice a year. Get my fix of beaux-arts architecture, true diversity, the streets of the Village, and the neighborhoods of Brooklyn. Then I came home to my own city, which looks so much more tiny and deserted by comparison.
3. I am falling in love with Bran. “Your readers are going to be so bored!” he said, as he put his clothes on last night (what happened before he put his clothes on deserves its very own post). “What, all five of them?” I replied. I don’t care. Love does that. It makes you not care. It’s terrifying. And I’m past caring. Love is more terrifying than anything I know. But as you ease into it, it takes away the terror. I still remember all the pain of falling out of love — it makes me tremble to think about it. But when the heart falls it falls. Love is worse than the harshest Dom. It rips you apart and puts you back together all different. And it makes you want to be ripped apart. It turns that agony into pleasure. It makes you want the agony, crave it. It rips you open, turns you around, transforms you completely. It’s been long enough since the last time I fell in love, long enough for my heart to mend and forget that awful sundering, at least forget the actual sensation of that pain. I’ll be turned inside out. I’ll surrender, again and again, to whatever the Universe, and love, will do to me.

If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

Bran isn’t crazy about polyamory. I’m not crazy about monogamy. Yes, I’m one of those bad bisexuals who actually DOES want to sleep with people of different genders. I know, I know, bisexuals are absolutely capable of monogamy–about as capable as anyone of any other sexual orientation. I’ve certainly been capable of monogamy for long stretches of time. Hell, I’ve been capable of not cheating on a partner who refused to have sex with me. I have my reasons for wanting a gate in my little picket fence, though. I’ll tell you all about them later.

There’s sex and then there’s sex, though. I know, I know, polyamory is about more than sex. But right now I’m talking about sex. Relationship-wise, I’m really at capacity. Things resolved with Chiquitita nicely in that respect: she balked at the prospect of getting the sexxay on, and I was relieved because I know exactly how much work women are. So does she. So we snuggled all night, slept over (something I have yet to do with Bran in spite of all our @w3$0me sexing), and now we talk about sex with boys. Which is easy and fun and relatively drama-free. I’ve reassured her that the not-calling-after-the-first-date thing is some sort of XY-chromosome-related phenomenon and nothing to do with her.

Bran has, however, said on more than one occasion, “you need a houseboy.” Which is promising and true. Especially since Bran clearly doesn’t enjoy the domestic stuff. In fact, he’s diagnosed my houseboyless state precisely on occasions when I’ve asked him to do domestic things for me. Like, say, lint-brush the cat hair off my black cardigan.

I do need a houseboy. And not just because I’d rather spend my money on something besides professional housecleaners. I can train a houseboy to clean AND tidy exactly the way I want. I can teach them how to fold and hang up the clothes that pile up in my bedroom — and know that they get a kick out of doing it because it’s such an intimate act. And I can do other stuff with a houseboy I’d never dream of doing with a professional housecleaner. Like, say, tell him to strip naked, throw his belt across the room, and make him crawl across the floor to me with it in his teeth. So I can beat him with it.

I’d pretty much given up on finding a new one, though. The last few prospects petered out — my so-promising young curious one just freaked out one day on his way over here and stood me up. The other prospect I’d been emailing with canceled on me at the last minute and then got snippy with me when I told him he wasn’t serious about meeting. Dynamics are important. I don’t need a brat. I need a good boy who knows how to clean. I recently got a message from someone on Fetlife who sounds very promising. But they all sound promising via email. The proof is in the pudding. Or the cleaning and the beating.

And it does have to be a boy. I’m sorry, but I like genderfuck. I like making a man do women’s work. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at my slovenly family of origin (I’d say it was my slovenly brother but really, Mom was just as bad). Maybe it’s my way of getting back at men in general. Fuckers with their baseball talk and their 30%-on-average higher salaries. Whatever it is, it’s my kink and I’m not apologizing for it. I mean, aside from apologizing for it at the beginning of this paragraph.

The problem, of course, is that my relationship with my houseboys is sexual. Even if I always keep my clothes on, it’s sexual. Once, I acted against my better instincts and let a married man come over and vacuum my floors in the early mornings. Married in the traditional sense. Vacuuming my floors was a sexual act for him. And for me. I felt horrible, because I knew there was a woman whom I’d never met whom I was helping to harm. Even if she never knew, I was harming her. And him. And, most importantly, myself. I had to stop. It was bad. I still feel bad. I’d never even mention this if you knew my name. It was the one thing I said I’d never do. I never had intercourse with him, but it was still sexual.

Part of my journey of accepting my kink has been acknowledging the sexual nature of domestic servitude. Honesty, dignity and respect. These are my baselines. I’m not comfortable with myself if I’m not honest with myself and others. This really sucks sometimes, because denial and lies are very convenient. But once I’ve acknowledged something I can’t lie about it.

Which may, in the long run, lead to some problems between myself and Bran. Or perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to help him feel special and valued. It would certainly relieve him (and me) of expectations for him to fulfill a role he’s not cut out for. Bran is not a houseboy, a true sub, or a pain slut. Submissive men are awesome. I love so many things about them. But in terms of the person who walks beside me, I need a different sort of power dynamic.

I want both. I need a lot of love, a lot of caretaking. I’m a big woman with big appetites. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.

How to find a submissive houseboy on teh Intarwebs (in 10 easy steps or less)

1. Spend at least half an hour writing a witty but firm advertisement for the appropriate section of the free online personals website of your choice. Briefly describe yourself without any overtly identifying characteristics. Specify that you are NOT a prodom. Explain that you are looking for a submissive man to come clean your house and then kneel naked on the floor while you beat his ass to a whimpering pulp. Specify that the lucky recipient of this honor should actually get off on it, as you will be getting off on (a) him cleaning your house for free and (b) beating him. A lot. With a riding crop. And his own belt. And your hands. And various other implements.
2. Specify that you are not interested in meeting anyone who isn’t single or didn’t get the go-ahead from their girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/german shepherd/it’s-complicated. Make sure to mention other qualities that would disqualify him for service. Such disqualifying attributes might include illiteracy, slovenliness, desire to wear your used panties, enclosure of a photograph of manjunk, or possession of a mullet.
3. Prepare yourself for one or more of the following kinds of responses:
   • One-word responses with blurry headshots, “headless horseman” shots, or photos of manjunk attached.
   • Bilious diatribes about what a manipulative, perverted, sick bitch you must be.
   • A counteroffer: “why don’t you come over to my apartment instead, wash my dishes, and suck my dick?” Attached photograph of manjunk is optional.
   • “Why don’t you just hire a service the way I do?” (Is there a service that offers brawny men who clean your whole place, then strip on command and crawl across the room with their own belt in their mouths? Where’s the website? I wonder if I can afford it!)
   • One, two, or possibly (possibly) more serious inquiries.
   • A notice that your ad has been flagged off for violation of the website’s Terms of Service (you’ve read them and are clearly NOT in violation. Not unless all those sick perverts mandoms looking for girls to spank are, too, and yet their ads seems to stay on for months at a time)
4. Ensure that you are using an anonymous (aka “slut”) email account to respond to the handful of serious inquiries you’ll receive. As comfort level increases, exchange given names, then photographs, discuss expectations and desires about the arrangements. I recommend limiting the email exchange portion of the screening to no more than one to two weeks (about 5-10 exchanges. And 10 is pushing it.) This helps you avoid the “face for radio” phenomenon. It also helps you screen out people who aren’t serious about meeting in person.
5. When in possession of the applicant’s first and last name, run a superficial background check via Google, Zabasearch, and the National Sex Offender Registry. Encourage the applicant to do the same with you. If any unexpected results come up, discuss with the applicant. Bear in mind that sex offender registries sometimes include the names of people convicted of questionable “offenses” like 18-year-olds making love with their 17-year-old sweethearts.
6. Pay attention to your gut. Pay attention to the wording of the applicant’s email. Read between the lines. Bear in mind that he doesn’t necessarily have to be a suave and well-written correspondent to get the job. But pay attention and trust that little inner voice. It doesn’t lie.
7. Arrange to meet your potential new houseboy in a public place, preferably for lunch on a Saturday. Why lunch? Who knows whether broad daylight makes things any safer, but it puts me at ease. It also removes the “date” energy and makes it more like a job interview. Why Saturday? Because if, after lunch, you decide this is a good fit, you can take him directly home for a trial task. I usually have him do the dishes or vaccuum a single room. This will give you a sense of whether he’s actually any good at housework — and of how quickly he works.Make sure you get his mobile number beforehand, in case you need to call to let him know you’re running late. You might be running late, but he should be on time.Be prepared for the possibility of being stood up. Poor submissive men–especially the sincerely submissive ones you want for this type of work and not the ones who still think it’s all about them — are bound to have mixed feelings about their sexuality. He may chicken out. If he does, don’t bother trying to make contact again. If he calls or emails, ignore it. He broke something that never be unbroken when he broke your date and there’s no way to salvage the dynamic.
8. If all goes well at lunch, invite him back for a tryout (see above). If you like him, offer him a little treat at the end. Like, say, having him get down on his hands and knees, putting your feet up on him, and lecturing him. Or make him kneel upright, grab him by the hair, and stand over him scolding him. You know, do what you do. That dom thing, which is why you’re reading this to begin with right? If you don’t know how to do this part, I’m surprised you made it past Step 1.
9. Make sure to treat your houseboy with respect, like a valuable new toy. Do all that stuff that good kinksters are supposed to do, like establishing consensus, using safewords, and making time for aftercare. Frame your time together appropriately, and you should be able to hold onto a good houseboy for quite some time. But bear in mind that this is a difficult kind of relationship to maintain over the long run unless he already has a primary partner elsewhere. I don’t recommend fucking the servants, but your houseboy is likely to have needs not directly related to service, submission, and titillation. Be prepared for the possibility that some stingy, demanding bitch will get her claws into him he will meet another dominant woman who wants to Own him. Try to keep the lines of communication open so that you can find yourself another one before he leaves your service.
10. Repeat ad nauseum. Or until you get disgusted with the process. Bitch about how hard it is to find good help these day to your friends, or to the Internet. Laugh at yourself a lot.

When in doubt, lists are good (restoring my freaky cred)

Bran says he’s boring my readers, because no one has commented on the last two posts. “I think they’re only interested when you’re branding me or something.”

Which I haven’t actually done, of course. Although I do have to admit that the idea is appealing, in an entirely fantasy-never-gonna-happen-story-of-O kind of way.

But just in case my last few posts have been too mushy and tame, I present to you the following pieces of evidence that I am still a huge freak.

1. I came on Bran’s face. I can’t entirely tell if he likes it, since there is usually some choking and coughing involved. I actually did this on our first date, and he told me via IM that he felt like we was drowning. The implication, however, was that it was not an unenjoyable experience.
2. Ace will be gratified (he would be more so, perhaps, if he were still in receipt of my attentions) that I’ve come to appreciate the joys of fucking a man up the ass with a strap-on. It’s true. I really do get into this place where I’m going buck-wild, and excited, and energized, and very very in-the-moment. I love not only the power of it but the sensual joy. Sure, it’s an act of giving. That’s why I’m picky about who gets to feel my cock up their ass. But it’s hott. With an extra T. For hottness. Because I can spell.

   All sorts of things I was sort of uncomfortable about before no longer seem to bother me with Bran. Probably because it’s completely reciprocal. And even though I do have a very strong streak of the femdom, there’s a reason why I go by the handle Omnivore. I like reciprocity. Reciprocity is hott, with two T’s. Another thing that happened on our first date is that he licked my little anus all around with that wicked tongue of his and made it feel AWESOME. He’s also mastered the art of fucking my various orifices with his tongue: mouth (which can be sort of creepy and yet turning-on-y at the same time), cunt (heaven), ass (gunh).

   I’ve learned a technique for assuaging my concerns about e-coli infection as relates to anal play. You sort of check out the region with your fingers and nose and eyes first. If it’s all clear, then you can use your tongue. If not, there’s always gloves, which I absolutely love for anal play because cleanup is a breeze (just pull off, and all incidental poop is contained nicely in an inverted latex package). And if you can’t deal with a little poop, as the Midwest Teen Sex Show points out so lucidly, you’re not ready for anal sex.

   Later, after all the sex and in an attempt to make our time together something other than just a booty call (he did arrive before the 9:00 pm this-is-definitely-just-a-booty-call cutoff time), we lay on the couch and watched some anime.

   “Heh,” I said. “You fucked me up the ass.”
   “I did,” he replied. “You begged me to do it.”

3. While I was fucking Bran up the ass with the littlest dildo from the Bend Over Beginner Kit, he said something that made me come all over his leg. I wish I could remember what it was. But coming while fucking him was pretty awesome.
4. Later, he made me come again by saying in that wonderful forceful way of his that he was fucking me while I was tied up. I know the latest magazine articles say that women don’t really make tons of noise when they come, that we’re all concentrating on the sensation of coming and that you can tell because of the tightening of our vaginal walls, but I am in fact a screamer. And I came. Noisily. Gushily. I’m glad one of the comforters was between me and the mattress because I’m out of upholstery cleaner.

   Bran is so shy about tying me up. I had to beg him to do it, and sort of helped him along. But it’s true what one of my subs from last year had to say about bondage. It does sort of intensify the feeling — of intercourse, of orgasm. An extra frisson, a tension between what you want and what you can have. And, I suppose, there’s some sort of Freudian thing about security and being held tightly. I always get excited in the middle of sex with bondage and scrabble to get the bonds off so I can touch the man (or woman) fucking me. This time, when I tried, he pushed my hand away. Which was even hotter. And when I finally did get one wrist free he just pushed me down with those wonderful strong arms of his.

5. He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so.
6. I’m still in need of a good houseboy. The one I’ve got actually canceled on me last-minute so he could go do something involving the earning of money. Really, now, where are the boy’s priorities? As we discussed over lunch last week, it’s clear that he’s not really kinky. And the important learning I’ve gotten from his service is that you can’t instill kink any more than you can iron it out. I think he’d make a great personal assistant, but it’ll only work if the payoff for him is sufficient. This is where sub men once again prove their worthiness: sexuality, especially of the unfulfilled variety, can be a powerful motivator for service. ViciousWishes asked me some questions about protocol related to the search for and screening of a good houseboy. I’ll share those in a separate post. Once I’ve got some applicants, I know what to do. But for the time being, I’m stymied as to how to find new applicants. Craigslist has been the best source so far for potentials, but someone on Craigslist has decided I’m either a spambot or a whore and flags my posts within minutes of publication. This really irks me because it is the sexual exchange I’m seeking. My posts don’t belong in erotic services, dammit! Men who clean my house really do make me hot. And I want a man who gets hot cleaning house for me. Who enjoys pain. Ah, well. In the meantime, I’ll soldier on as best I can. And perhaps consider reactivating my profiles on Collarme and Bondage.com. Yawn.
7. Chiquitita and I are still orbiting around one another. In an email this morning, she wrote “Rarely have I met someone whose every message to me would make me want to say ‘awwwww.’” Girls require more effort than boys, but the payoff is almost always worth it.

Hope springs eternal

I posted another ad for a houseboy in the Miscellaneous Romance section of Craigslist.

The last one got flagged off so fast only one serious response came through before it was gone. Some trick-ass bitch on Craigslist must really hate dominant women, or thinks that bona fide bitches who do it for the sexxay don’t really exist.

[EDIT: The post was up for all of five minutes before it got flagged again]

I was corresponding nicely with the one serious inquirer, but he balked when I asked for his first and last name. It’s just protocol, yo. You’re coming to my house, after all, touching all of my intimate things. Don’t I deserve to do a quick Google and sex offender registry search on you first?

I’m sure that you are all weeping for me in the face of my desperate plight, especially you poor submissive men in search of an owner. “Really, Omnivore,” you’re probably saying. “Aren’t you just a tad greedy? After all, you’ve got that delicious Bran playing puppy with you and fucking you hello, not to mention that young new boy who likes to kneel at your feet and sort your mail.”

To which I will reply, “Yes, that’s true. And I haven’t even told you about that sweet, curvy girl with the pixie haircut and the funky sense of style with whom I’ve only been on two dates.

“BUT!

“But,” I will say, “I am indeed a greedy bitch, and after 20 years of dating people, I’ve decided to stop feeling ashamed of asking for what I want. Bran’s too busy with grad school to clean and it’s not really his kink anyway. And while the sexxay is awesome, he’s not a pure submissive. The new houseboy shows promise in the personal secretary department but doesn’t really know how to vaccuum a room properly and doesn’t like pain. And Ace spoiled me forever in that department; I want another submissive boy with a high threshold for pain who will sweat and stretch and scrub until the place is spotless and then take off his clothes and kneel when I order him to. I want him to look up at me with that look, that look that maybe only Ace had but which I’m hoping to see on the face of another sub, a sort of dark and hooded and completely surrendered look that says I’m yours. Use me. Hurt me. I love it. And you love it. Please.

“I’m greedy enough to want two houseboys, not just one. AND a boyfriend. AND a girlfriend.”

Yeah. That’s what I want.

Is that so wrong?

It’s so hard to get good houseboys these days

So my longest-lasting houseboy (and arguably one of the reasons why I’ve come to terms with my bitchy pervert self) just canceled our arrangement last week. He “broke up” with me via email. Now this is where things get tricky, because we weren’t technically going out. No, we were not going out at all. He would come over to my house, change from his cashmere sweaters and wool slacks into a white T-shirt and black shorts, and take orders from me. He was a wonderful housekeeper, very thorough, left things spotless, and worked so hard he’d sweat (“Jewish boys really know how to clean,” said one of my Jewish friends as I was regaling her with tales of my sexxay life.) Then, after the house was clean, or clean enough for my tastes, I’d beat him. I’d scold him. I’d put my feet up on him. I’d tie him up and drip wax on him. I’d spank him, use my crop, use his belt.

It was heaven. For both of us. At the beginning, of course, I couldn’t deal with the way he’d moan when I came down hard on him with the crop. I couldn’t deal with the sexual thrill I’d feel from the sound of his moan, from his reaction to the pain. At first I told myself it was because I couldn’t deal with his getting turned on by it. But later I realized I couldn’t deal with my getting turned on by it. Sometimes I still can’t deal with it. It can’t help but feel wrong to get pleasure from other people’s pain. I try to justify it by saying that it really only turns me on if it turns on my sub, and it’s true that the feedback loop of lust and desire and sexxay and pain and hurt and intensity and release is what I like about sex — all kinds of sex, although all kinds of sex don’t involve pain. But the thrill I get out of causing someone pain makes me identify with all the villains in those evil interrogation scenes. That’s an uncomfortable place to be. To understand the thrill — visceral, sexual, in-the-head-ual — of imposing one’s will on another human being, seeing how much they can take, how far before they break. That’s a very uncomfortable thing to discover in oneself. It makes me wonder what I might have been capable of, who I might have become, in different circumstances.

A few months ago, I cooked him lunch, had a frank discussion with him about my own kinksexual awakening, and finally tied him to my bed with the 24′-length rope-under-the-bed system I’d had him bring me but had only used on other playmates. That afternoon, I had what most people would define as sex with him. There was no penetration — on either of our parts — but there was orgasm. There were genitals out there in the open air. And beatings. Lots of beatings. At one point, I was whaling on him with the end of the rope I’d used to tie his left wrist, and he called for Mercy (safeword), and it took a strenuous effort on my part to stop. He had marks afterward. We talked afterward. There was pillow talk. I remember him going on about one of his sons and reaching over to pinch his nipple, and then he just stopped in mid-sentence and went “unh.”

“You can keep talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“I know I can,” he said, “but there’s the question of whether I want to.”

Things were never the same after that. I don’t know if that old saw about not sleeping with your slaves is true in a houseboy-style relationship or if there were other factors at work, like incompatible schedules. We were never much of a personality match anyway. But when he emailed me to say

i have found a Woman to take an interest in owning me and we have decided to give it a try on an exclusive basis.

As such she has told me it is time to end my service to You as she will be using all of my efforts.

I was hurt. Blindsided. This is where kink and polyamory intersect, and I can see how demanding bitches dominant women might not be good at sharing. But ultimately, it was probably more about him than either of us. I could go into why that is, but I’m not getting paid enough to psychoanalyze him.

So the bad news is that I’m down one pain-slutty submissive with mad skillz with a broom. The good news is that at this very moment I’ve got a tender young thing who’s curious about kink emptying out my shredder and sorting through the mountain of paper on my desk. He’s not as good with the cleaning, but he’s very eager to please and willing to be trained. He told me he’s attracted to professional women and likes to kneel beside me while I work. I’ve put him to work as a sort of personal secretary, which gives me a mind-buzz-power-thrill that is really just too @\/\/3$0me for words (or 1337 speak). Too bad he doesn’t like pain.

I posted on Craigslist again for another boy and got one decent bite before the Mandom Nazis flagged my ad. We’ll see how that turns out. Hopefully he’s a pain slut. Bran and I play with pain, but it’s different with him. I guess it really is true that switching changes the dynamic of a relationship. Not that I’d give up the feel of him pressing my knees to my chest and pounding my cervix for all the clean, shiny floors in China.

We interrupt this philosophical discussion for more kink

I’ve been working on that godawful third part of my clever little essay for frickin’ ever.

In the meantime, may I present to you my morning:

5:45 am: Wake up. Kitty purring next to my face, sitting very patiently. Go back to sleep.

6:00 am: Progressive alarm clock starts chirping at me. Lay and listen to it for a few minute. Hit the snooze bar.

6:20 am: Alarm clock screams at me. Kitty purring politely butts her head to get under the covers with me.

6:45 am: I turn off the alarm. Kitty doing tap dances on my head. I contemplate getting up, then roll over onto my back in the exact center of my expensive, memory-foam, Queen-size bed. Overtaken by luxury, I close my eyes.

6:50 am: Swim up from half-sleep. Contemplate putting feet onto floor and kettle onto stove. Decide to wait until 7am.

7:00 am (precisely): Houseboy rings bell. I climb out of bed, pad downstairs in bare feet and pyjamas to let him in. Set him to work cleaning the bathroom. Put on the kettle and feed the cat.

7:30 am: After much stumbling around with frequent stops in to supervise houseboy, manage to get breakfast on table.

7:45 am: Houseboy tells me he is done with the bathroom. I tell him to wash the dishes in the sink. Write my morning pages, work on my interminable fourth step.

8:00 am: Houseboy finishes the dishes. I tell him to clear the table and wash up the breakfast dishes. Go get dressed. Choose the plaid skirt and brown tights that go so well with the high brown boots.

8:15 am: Hand houseboy my boots and tell him to go kneel in the living room. Wash my face and brush my hair in my sparkling clean bathroom.

8:20 am: Pull houseboy over my knees and give him the spanking of his life. Tell him it turns me on when I hurt him. Hand him my boots and have him put them on while I read him some poetry. He runs his hand up my calf before zipping them up, clearly not by accident.

“Are they clean enough?” I ask.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then clean them.”

This is the first time he’s licked my boots. He does an excellent job. It’s the best boot-licking I’ve had in years. Did you know that your boots actually do shine when someone licks them thoroughly and well? It’s better than polish. I walk around him to give him the best angle on all sides. The only thing that would make it sexier is if he were totally naked and on all fours under me. I pull my skirt aside to watch him. When he licks my instep, I feel that old familiar thrill, dulled through the shoe leather.

I have him get on his back, put the sole of my boot across his face. Press it against his solar plexus, tell him that if I bore down on him with all my weight I would probably break his ribs. Rub the sole of my boot across his hard-on. Lean over and spit on his face — with terrible aim, most of it ends up on the floor. Drink a glass of water and try again. Pull up his t-shirt and pinch his nipples, hard. Spit on his face some more, rub it in, slap him around a bit. Grab him by his hair and pull him to his knees, pressing his face into my belly.

Step away and tell him to get dressed.

I was supposed to drop him off at the T, but he gladly walks. I pack my lunch, send a few emails, and leave for work.

I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed on time. What a little gift of the universe to help me out of bed on a Friday.

Plus, shiny bathroom floor.

I am not your femdom whore, or service subs and why that’s hot

SubmissiveProud John sums up really well the creepiest thing about my experience in the search for good houseboys and sub playmates:

..most men who claim to be ’submissive’ aren’t. Many men professing a desire to surrender to strong women are little more than fantasists; turned on by the prospect of female-directed sex and an interlude of lost control. Let’s be fair, the stereotypical image of dominant women most men are exposed to – aggressively propagated by professional dominatrixes – is of leather clad, kink-oriented, female fantasy-fulfillment offered on an hourly basis and on male terms.

[...]
The true – and rare – submissive male is fulfilled by the prospect of pleasing his dominant partner on her terms; not his
(From Are [submissive] men worth the trouble?)

I hesitate whenever anyone prefixes the word “true” to a category, especially a category describing someone’s sexual predelictions. After all, I’ve been accused of not being a “true” lesbian. Which, depending on your definition of a lesbian, I’m not. After all, I’ve slept with men and enjoyed it. I even plan on doing it again (sooner rather than later, I hope, and look significantly in Ace’s direction.) I’ve also never been to Greece. No doubt, I’m also not a “true” comic book fan, since I’ve never actually masturbated while reading my comix. Um… most of them anyway.

But yes, I agree with John’s emphasis on the service aspect of submissiveness. Because there’s a difference between Domination/submission and topping/bottoming. The first is really about power exchange. The second is really about who’s doing more of the work. And this is where doing it for free really turns out to be teh r0xx0r. Because sluts don’t have to provide a service the way prodoms (of all genders) do. We just get to have fun. And dominant sluts get to choose their playmates. Me, I put an emphasis on the service aspects of submission right from the get-go. You want me to strap it on and fuck you up the ass? Fine. What are you going to do for me first? You may have awesome oral skillz, but I’ve also got a vibrator. How quickly can you wash my dishes? How well can you rub my feet, and how much are you going to enjoy it yourself?

I realize that this line of thought can quickly get me into dangerous territory, so let me backpedal a bit. Let me tell you a bit about the Omnivore (meaning, um, me, and I will now cease referring to myself in the third person, because that’s only slightly less creepy than strange men emailing me to request that I fuck them up the ass). I had a less than happy childhood. There was some violence. There was some neglect. My parents loved me both very much, but circumstances were less than ideal. Mistakes were made. Continents were crossed. Child support checks were bounced and discontinued. Dishes did not get washed.

My mother was sort of the anti-Martha Stewart. She collected newspapers until they were hip-high. She had temper tantrums. My way of dealing with her chaotic and unpredictable temperament was to try to keep the house clean. I have vivid memories of walking to the sink to do the dishes whenever a certain tone crept into her voice. Keeping things clean never kept her from making me cry, but it was the only thing I had even a distant sense of control over.

As a result, I like to keep a clean home. Luckily, I don’t have a couple of rug rats to feed and clothe. But between my power-suit job, my very active and non-sexxay social life, and my constant search for new victims occasional dates, I sometimes can’t keep it as clean as I’d like. I used to pay someone to come clean for me, and I used to take my laundry out. But in an effort to get myself out of debt sometime before I turn 70, I’ve had to cut those costs.

Submissive men, you should thank my creditors. Because my housecleaner’s loss is your gain. My early adventures in kink are directly related to making a man clean up for me. I love the genderfuck inherent in making a man do “women’s work,” and yes, I know Bitchy will not agree with me about this, but that’s okay because we have different arousal templates. My arousal template has always had to do with genderfuck. It’s why I have a thing for butch women. And until such time as hot, butch men regularly star in advertisements for Pine-Sol, Bitchy can have all the super-manly, well-muscled construction workers and she can send me all the men who are still manly enough to grow beards and have at least semi-well-defined triceps (when propping themselves up from missionary) but can also cook and clean and talk about their feelings and in general be more of a chick than I am. Everyone wins this way.

Not all my playmates have to clean, of course. Ace is adamantly undomesticated. But he has other talents that make up for this appalling shortcoming.

I used to have a sissy maid and a houseboy. The sissy maid, alas, has moved on to greener pastures. And my houseboy’s business has been preventing him from tending to my needs adequately (hee. I love the fact that a man who drives an Audi begs to come and clean my house). So I’ve got an opening in my household for a second boy. Advertising and screening for the right boy, alas, is time-consuming and annoying. Which brings us full circle to John’s description of the prevalence of distinctly not-true submissives.

What’s a poor girl to do? I work, and I slave, and I’ve got the longest-lasting cold in the history of people having colds, and I come home to a messy, messy house. And still my closet has wire hangers.