Submission is not masochism, although you know she becomes aroused by pain, you’ve seen and heard how she shudders and gasps at the sting of the paddle. You’ve twisted her nipples and felt her response in the flood of wetness from her cunt. You’ve held her throat while driving yourself hard and fast into her, watching her eyes glaze with pleasure, feeling her tighten and spasm around you. It’s pain as physical pleasure, sure – but it’s more than that. It’s tangible surrender, the marks you leave are badges of her trust in you, symbols of faith and belief.
Today, I desperately want to be dominated. I thought I was just horny but even after a wank featuring a beaded glass dildo and much fantasising about rough gangs and rope, I still feel a deep yearning inside me which I know from experience can only be fulfilled by willing obedience to the will of another. To have the burden of decision-making – even for something as banal as ‘shall I have a cup of tea now?’ not just lifted from my shoulders but held high over my bowed head, is something my whole body and mind cry out for right now.
Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me, and when, and where. Make it graphic, filthy, commanding – (and if you’re telling me in writing, please use apostrophes and correct verb conjugation).
More than pictures, more than sound, I love to read filth. I especially love to read well-written filth. Most of all, I adore well-written filth that’s directed specifically at me.
In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.
I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.
So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?
A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.
(Reposting from a piece I wrote on FetLife a while back)
My place is at the bottom in any given sexual dynamic. I do not switch. I am not any kind of Domme. That’s the bottom line for me.
I just don’t get off on wielding power. Giving orders doesn’t make me wet; receiving them does. Inflicting or threatening pain or control is tedious, asserting my will takes conscious effort, being in charge is both awkward and fatiguing. Oddly (but not uncommonly, I gather) this is very much at odds with my professional persona, in which I am the confident decision-maker and voice of authority. (It’s probably just as well that I don’t get sexual satisfaction from this, otherwise I’d probably spend all of my day wanking rather than working).
Let me tell you about why I like you to spank me…pinch my nipples…dig your fingers into tender parts of me…
…I want to be your slut. I want to exist to please you. Your moans, your dilated pupils, your hard cock – I want to be the cause; and see your unrestrained lust.
I feel powerful when I see how I make you feel, and so will I hand that power right back to you, to use me for your absolute pleasure. Your arousal, your approval are the nectar that feeds my deep hunger; they are what makes me wet and welcoming, spreads my limbs and wants you deep inside me