Posts tagged ‘submission and why that’s hot’

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.

May 17, 2008 at 9:38 pm Leave a comment

More

“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes.

It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures the sparkle of the glass itself. The painting never captures the exact line of the leaf, or curve of the land. Or curve of the hip.

And there’s no way I could capture the lovely, juicy, reassuring quality of that night. Wednesday night, yes, Wednesday, because on Tuesday, our regular night, I was still hip-deep in work. Which I won’t talk about here because, frankly, once the suit comes off, who cares?

And if I tried to capture everything we did, I think I’d just end up boring you. Who wants a laundry list of places we went or positions we tried? And who wants more lists anyway? That little trick is getting old and just seems to encourage bad, lazy writing.

This is turning into a post about writing instead of a post about what Bran and I did on Wednesday. And who wants to read that?

I know you’d rather hear about him disappearing while I was busy shoving a pill down my cat’s unwilling little throat. “I don’t want to see this,” he said. And left the room. My flat isn’t THAT big, so there were only a few other places he could have been. Once kitty’s dignity had been shredded, I went in search of him.

And found him in my messy bedroom (I did mention the hip-deep-in-work thing, and if you’re not a new viewer you’ll know I’m currently houseboyless), taking off the last of his clothes. Bran likes to get naked quickly. I like him naked, of course, but I do enjoy taking his clothes off myself. I love that tattoo in the center of his back. You’d never think of him as a tattoo kind of person, but there are lots of things you’d never think he’d be into or do. And does.

Like letting me hurt him.

As we spend more time together, as this evolves from a playmate sort of thing into something else, I find myself getting caught in the old gender role/relationship trap. Of wanting to give away my power. It’s partly gender-based, but I’ve done the same thing with women. Wednesday night, I was selfish. I had to force myself to be selfish. He was there, on all fours, on the bed (which is about one rambunctious fuck away from complete structural failure), and I was… what was I doing? There were my sharp little nails involved. I used my belt. And my hands. And I was careful, careful not to go too hard, at first or even after, because I know for him it’s not about the pain itself, it’s about doing something that he knows turns me on.

It’s so difficult to admit it, but yes, it turns me on.

“Do you like it when I hurt you?” I asked, after the fact, long after.

“Not as much as you like it,” he replied.

And there it is right there. So I can’t take pleasure in it the same way as I did with Ace, or would with a true pain slut — slut in the sense of someone who derives sexual pleasure from the noun or verb preceding. Slut. A word I’ve been meaning to write about. A word that needs to be reclaimed, like “bitch” or “dyke” or “cunt.” A powerful word, a word describing women’s power in particular, women’s power that has come to be shamed and labeled dangerous. Just imagine what would happen if every woman in the world owned her sluttiness? Society as we know it would end!

The word “sadist,” that’s a word I can’t say needs reclaiming. God, how can you ever want to take pride in hurting someone else? How can I say that I enjoy hurting other people? It’s more complicated than that, and it’s not. Yes, consensuality, yes, yes. But oh, the pain. The lovely pain and his reaction to it.

And I know myself the power and the pleasure and the all-mixed-up of bottoming, of taking pain for someone else. There was that time I actually came when he spanked me. Not just titillation but full-on orgasm. The kind you can’t mistake because there’s a mess and the sheets are soaked and my bedroom has that close, animal smell to it for days afterward. I took smacks harder than I ever might have. Sure, I used the safewords at first, asked him to slow down in a way that still allowed him to be in control, but then I took the hard smacks, took them for him. Took them for myself. To prove I was strong.

And male suffering, yes, it’s strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Bran is tough, has endurance and strength. When we wrestle, I know he’s careful with me, could probably always beat me — has more formal training — but I’m strong too, very strong, and happy to have found someone as strong as me. Someone who can put up a fight, can win.

And still gets on his back because I tell him to. Because I put the command in my voice. Still tells me when I ask him why I should suck his cock, knowing he’s straining for the feel of my mouth on him, “because it’s yours.”

Mine and not mine.

Another night, after I’d scratched him with my nails and bit him and maybe smacked him around a bit, I was on my back with him inside me, one of my favorite places to be, and he asked me (again), “You like hurting me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh. You’re confused?” he said, and pinned my wrists to the bed and fucked me.

Yes. I’m often confused about that part of my sexuality. And about switching. Switching is confusing. But why should I be ashamed about being confused? Con-fused. Things that used to be separate, now put together.

I wasn’t confused on Wednesday night. Then, Bran was mine. Mine to order around. Mine to collar. Mine to send back down to my crotch for more cunnilingus, because I wasn’t done, because I wanted more. I’m often afraid to show him just how much more I want. But on Wednesday I let him see how powerful my orgasms can be — I know it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but the the old fear still comes back. I was afraid of Kristen’s orgasms sometimes, overwhelmed by them, and by Pura’s too. I still remember Kristen saying to me “I want more,” and wondering whether I’d ever be able to fill that hole of want. Why shouldn’t he be afraid of mine? The way I clamped around him and rode his hands and writhed and moaned and screamed. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that? Overwhelmed by it?

Who wouldn’t be afraid of anything as deep and powerful and neverending as sex?

There’s always more to want, more to try.

More.

May 16, 2008 at 5:02 pm Leave a comment

Found femdom from the diva of pop

Madonna’s new album and the accompanying buzz in the blogosphere has had me reflecting on my own relationship with the diva of pop. The righteous babes at Feministing do an excellent job of summing up my own complicated relationship with this role model from my girlhood. And yes, she was a role model. But I was so clueless about so many things when her first album came out! I was about nine years old, and at the time it was still a toss-up who was going to be a bigger star: Madonna or Cindi Lauper. In many ways, I respect Cindi Lauper’s career more than Madonna’s even though it wasn’t as prolific. I think that Lauper remained more true to who she was; choosing an authentic voice over what will sell in the current zeitgeist requires a tremendous amount of integrity.

But I do admire Madonna as a woman who has always been unafraid to go for exactly what she wants. Her overt sexuality paved the way for other women to come out of the “slut” closet and proudly own the fact that we, too, enjoy sex. But her message is confusing at times.

I remember when “Express Yourself” came out on MTV (yes, once upon a time, Music Television actually showed music videos). I was a sullen drama chick at the time, disdainful of anything remotely mainstream. But twenty years later, the narrative of this piece really stands up on its own. The visuals express in a clear and yet question-raising way the power play inherent in sexual politics. Money, class, gender, and sexuality all bring with them their own kinds of power. It’s important to understand the power of each so that you can decide whether you want to own them, reject them, deny them, or appropriate them for your own purposes.

This was also the first time I saw the sinous muscles of Madonna’s back. Phew. A few years later, I’d realize I was more interested in the singer herself than the hunky guy down in the boiler room sweating away (although I know Bitchy likes that). Twenty years later, I’d realize I was also really, really interested in the woman at the top of the stairs dressed in the traditional trappings of male power.

PS: A tip of the hat to Axe’s awesome collection of found femdom. I could never compete.

May 8, 2008 at 4:41 pm 2 comments

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

– Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

>> NEXT: What do you feel when I slap you?>>

January 23, 2008 at 8:11 pm 4 comments

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