Posts tagged ‘men who clean my house make me hot’

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.

April 8, 2008 at 6:30 pm 5 comments

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.

March 7, 2008 at 8:09 pm 6 comments

Sum total of my kink experiences to date, or why you should never hire me as a prodom

Age 3: I am the Queen of the Boys in preschool. We play Star Wars. I am Princess Leia, of course. They lock me in the tricycle shed and then duel with their lightsabers. Luke Skywalker defeats Darth Vader, but forgets that I’m still locked in the tricycle shed. I get myself out.

Age 7: I smother Jeffie, my second-grade boyfriend, with kisses. He never stops me.

Age 14: People ask me if I have a nickname. I tell them they should call me Dominique, because I like the name. Someone jokes that I should be Mistress Dominique, mimes the sound of a whip cracking. I laugh along with the rest of them.

Age 15: I’m at an arts camp. I’m making out with my boyfriend in his dorm room and he tells me that he likes… I think the word he uses is “dominance.” I’m freaked out almost immediately. It’s not whips and chains or anything, he tells me. I just like to be told what to do in bed. I run away as soon as possible. We never talk about it. Years later, I realize he knew me better than I knew myself.

Age 19: I’m in my sophomore year at a college that is very sexually open. My boyfriend and I experiment with bondage, with anal sex. I don’t enjoy either very much. We split up in April.

That summer, I realize I like girls and get my heart broken. A few months later, I meet an older man who seduces me with cooking and a foot rub. He is a wonderful lover, considerate, sweet, experienced, communicative. He loves to go down on me. Once in passing, he mentions that he and someone else used to tie their friend to the radiator in San Francisco. I’m intrigued but don’t ask further. He spanks me a bit, and I like it. When I like something, I tend to be vocal about it. Once his roommates tease me because they could hear the sound through the vents. I’m embarrassed.

Age 21: April and I are the Big Dykes on Campus. At the annual “gay” dance, a BDSM student group from a neighboring college creates a dungeon in a side room. They cover three walls with black plastic sheets and set up a sort of whipping post with ropes that dangle from the wall. They don’t actually tie people into the ropes — people just hold them while they stand belly up to the wall. They have informational packets about safety and ways to save money on floggers, whips, etc. I’m wearing a long, form-fitting dress that zips up the back. The group members very gently guide me to the ropes, unzip my dress, expose my shoulders and back. A lovely woman in a leather miniskirt whips me with a crop. She checks with me over and over again, rubbing in the marks with her hands. Before she uses the flogger, she warns me against the dangers of wrapping, especially to the sides of a woman’s breasts. People are watching. Afterward, I’m not prepared for the rush, but the group members are. I step away from the wall, feel dizzy, they guide me gently to a chair, offer me water. A beautiful woman with coffee-colored skin comes up to me as I sit there in the post-whipping rush. “Did that feel good?” she asks me. “You have no idea,” I answer.

I do some reading. A few months later, I start telling a friend of mine to shut up, over and over again, while we’re hanging out with other people. He calls me later and tells me that he got turned on when I did that. “I know,” I say. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I tell him I’d always been curious about being a dominatrix. Dominatrixing, in my mind, is something you get paid for. He’s also particularly unattractive, and I am living with April–we have a quasi-open relationship, one that’s never really negotiated or processed. He runs a soup kitchen, so we work out an arrangement.

Every week or so, he brings us a bag of groceries, washes our dishes (we are complete slobs and let them pile up to the ceiling), and cooks us dinner. Afterward, I put on my best business suit and sexiest shoes, make him strip to his underwear, kneel him on the living room floor, and beat him with the various implements he brings me. I especially like the riding crop. I spank him, call him names, pull his hair, put my feet up on him, read him dirty stories. Once, I make him lick my shoes. He does it so eagerly, and the feel of his tongue on the suede, so close to my feet, arouses me. I can’t deal with the idea that this ugly little man might make me feel anything but contempt and a rush of power. I never let him lick my shoes again.

During these sessions I first experience top drop — the complete exhaustion that can happen when I direct all of my energies into a beating. I don’t know what to do with this either. Topping is a lonely, exhausting business. April is jealous.

Once during lovemaking, April says “you’re treating me like a common whore!” I apologize immediately. “No,” she says. “You’re treating me like a common whore!” I slap her face, too hard, and she recoils. I apologize immediately, cringing at my ineptitude. I kiss her, make love to her, then loop my belt around her neck and make her walk on her hands and knees around the kitchen.

Eventually, April leaves me for a man even less attractive than my sub. My sub is the one who helps me pack up the U-Haul. I move to another state, and he visits me there. He buys me an electric wok as a housewarming gift. I tell him it’s a terrible gift, and I can tell that this hurts his feelings. I never give him a proper goodbye. I look back on the scene with April with regret.

Age 24: I have a brief, violent affair with Pura. At one point while she’s fucking me with a strap-on, I ask her to treat me like a bitch. She slaps me across the face so hard it jars me. Another time, she’s fucking me with her hands and I tell her it’s hurting me. “Take it for me,” she says. And I do. Pura has been to jail twice for assault; I call the police once when she punches me in the nose.

Age 28: I spend some time at a place in Arizona that specializes in childhood trauma recovery. They draw up a treatment plan for me. In it, they say I have a sexual disorder, NOS (Not Otherwise Specified), because I have “experimented with sado-masochism.” I protest, but not enough to have it removed from the chart.

Age 29: Badger uses a collection of silk neckties his mother sent him to tie me to the posts of his cheap, aluminum bed. I almost always escape, usually while he’s fucking me, because I want to touch him. Once, he takes my face in his hands and kisses my eyes, my cheeks, everywhere except my mouth until I am begging, begging him to kiss me on the mouth. He refuses. It is one of the hottest experiences I’ve ever had.

Age 31: Kristen and I (just friends) go for a walk in the woods. She won’t stop bleating about all the disastrous dates she’s been on in the past few months. I wish she would shut up so I can hear the sound of a stream, so I can hear the quiet of the woods. In a high, scrubby place, I look at her and say, “This is a magical spot. We have to tell each other a secret here.” She tells me that she put herself through school as a professional dominatrix. That I can’t ever tell anyone else about it. I’m incredibly curious. I tell her about my dishwashing sub.

I’m self-employed at the time, struggling financially, and learning about Kristen’s former avocation makes me consider seriously going pro. I have no idea what I’m doing. I post to Craigslist with a sort of Victorian theme. I meet two potential clients at restaurants but never go through with it. I realize something important: I never want to do sex work. I enjoy sex too much; getting paid for it would be like getting a job at my favorite restaurant. Plus, I don’t like the idea of being financially dependent on anyone, especially not the kind of man that visits prostitutes.

Six months later, Kristen and I become lovers. I can tell that she’s reluctant to experiment with kink–working as a dominatrix has ruined it for her. I’m so very relieved when she agrees to do some bondage. She says I’m what she’s always been looking for: a femme top. And I realize that’s what I am. I like to be the one doing. It’s hard sometimes for me to allow someone to touch me. The power, the control, I can’t always give it up. It was like this with April sometimes, too. I can make love to her, revel in the sounds and the smells and the taste of her orgasm, but I can’t always submit to her caresses. I can’t–it’s too much for me. I need to be in control. I can’t always let myself go. She complains about this, about the gradual reduction in our sex life. She complains about a lot of things. I realize she’s not happy unless she’s complaining.

Age 33: Kristen and I split up in January. I resolve to stay celibate for a year, but then springtime comes. I post an ad (vanilla, W4M) to the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist and am immediately overwhelmed by responses. I go on a lot of first dates and am rudely re-introduced to the horrors of dating men (especially the kind of man who trolls the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist). Dating is a rough sport, but I’m a tough girl. My friends and I laugh about the man who texted me to tell me that he wanted to fuck me in the ass.

Eventually, I meet a nice man who tells me, upon examination of my photograph, that any man should be happy to spank me. I meet him at a coffee shop, take him home. When he kisses me, he sounds like a man enjoying a very good meal. In the aftermath, I ask him to tell me a story, and he tells me about performing with Women of Sodom as their slave. I’m thrilled.

The next time he comes over, I tie him to the bed with scarves, break out the riding crop that has been sitting in the back of my closet since R and Z mailed it to me from DC. I flick his erect penis with my fingernail and he gasps. I put him in a ball gag. I use my nails and my teeth on him. At one point, I say to him in wonder, “you like it when I hurt you.” It’s as though I’ve discovered something that’s been missing my whole life, something I didn’t even know I should be looking for. I fuck him in the ass with my hands, just as I used to with Kristen. Once, he makes me come by rubbing his chin against my shoulder. He’s less than dependable, prone to disappearing for weeks at a time then phoning me out of the blue. I don’t really mind.

Around the same time, I am bellyaching to a good friend that I can’t afford to pay a maid. I hate cleaning the house–it seems like such a waste of time! He half-jokingly suggests that I advertise on Craigslist for a houseboy. I remember my dishwashing sub. I receive at least ten serious inquiries to my post, along with a number of emails from men who think I should come over, wash their dishes, and give them blow jobs. At least five people tell me that I am an unnatural pervert. The ad gets flagged fairly quickly, although Craigslist is full of advertisements from men looking for women who like to be spanked and humiliated.

I meet a man who likes to dress as a sissy maid. He tells me that he’s looking for the whole package, a relationship both BDSM and vanilla. I’m not interested in a relationship with him, only in service. He comes a couple of times to clean, I talk sternly to him, order him around, beat him once with the crop when he doesn’t do something fast enough. But I find the cross-dressing unsettling and am exhausted with supervising him. He meets someone at a kink event and stops coming.

The second houseboy candidate I meet turns out to be one of the potential clients I met when I was considering going pro. I don’t find him attractive, but he is very eager to please and very good at housework. I beat him with the crop, spank him with my hands, make him soap my back once when I am in the tub. I bind his arms and legs, drop candle wax on his back. Once, when I’m rubbing lotion into his poor, abused shoulders, I find myself admiring his powerful muscles. He faithfully expresses his gratitude at being able to serve me and once, when I don’t email him in a timely manner, begs me not to discard him. Over the Christmas season, I stop hearing from him and send him a plaintive email in return.

Just after Christmas, Ace contacts me via OKCupid. We have similar politics, similar interests. He’s fun to chat with and to talk to. I am attracted to him. It’s clear from some hints in his profile that he is submissive. He’s not really ready for anything approaching a relationship, and I’m not sure if I am or not. The first time we kiss, I scratch his neck with my nails, bite him, and from the noises he makes I can tell he likes it. It’s hot for me because it’s hot for him. He tells me about BDSM dating sites, points me to the good porn. We talk about Bitchy Jones’s diary. We talk about what we’d like to do, what we haven’t done, how we can do things better. Sex with him is like exploring a magical garden, always with new paths to walk down and discover.

I talk about my adventures in kink with friends. Some of them are freaked out, many of them don’t know the first thing about it. The important ones assure me that there’s nothing wrong me, I’m not sick, I don’t need therapy. The next time I meet with my houseboy, I drop the roles, talk to him like one human being to another. “I’ve been ashamed of my kink,” I tell him.

“That’s surprising to hear, since it comes so naturally to you,” he replies.

It does. And I have so much left to learn.

February 5, 2008 at 5:22 pm 8 comments

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