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On the vulnerabilities of dominants

Him: You’re going to get tired of making me ask permission to drink water. You don’t know how much I drink.
Me: Oh, trust me, I know. And I’m not going to get tired of it.

I have a confession to make: I find most 24/7 d/s relationships to be really boring. When I ask people what they do in them, they mostly tell me things like, “I take care of her,” “I get water for her,” and “Everything I do is for her.” When I ask them if they get anything sexual out of doing things for their partners, most of them say “no.” I don’t fucking get it.

But it’s not that I’m not into 24/7 d/s dynamics—I totally am. I just like the really fucked up shit, and it’s mostly sexual for me. I’d cheerfully keep a sub locked up and chained to a piece of furniture for… well, as long as I guess I reasonably could. I literally jerk off thinking about my sub asking permission to use the bathroom and telling them “no.” My ideal version of a sub is basically a sex toy who does whatever the fuck I want them to for my entertainment and pleasure. Their humanity is only really meaningful to me in this arrangement in as much as I find consent (as well as the blurry world of consensual non-consent) hot. (Despite appearances, I’m not actually much of a sadist, and a lot of the awful things I love to do I don’t even find hot—I just find it hot that someone will let me do them).

I generally divide up these two worlds of d/s into “affirmative d/s” and “the dark side of d/s.” In affirmative d/s dynamics, the idea is basically that the sub has been uplifted by being owned by the dominant; doms do things like tell their subs that the subs aren’t allowed to refer to themselves as “fat” or suggest that they’re in any way unworthy. There’s kind of a glowy look that subs in these dynamics get. Dark d/s subs, on the other hand, have generally been consensually downgraded through their submission. They and their dominants are happiest in the places where the sub’s humanity seems questionable, and you get comments like a friend of mine’s in reference to his sub that “sometimes she forgets and thinks she’s people.”

It shouldn’t escape any observant kinksters’ notice that the vast majority of long-term d/s relationships, whether primary or even fairly serious non-primary relationships, are affirmative d/s dynamics. People in those dynamics sometimes play in the territory of humiliation and degradation, but it’s not the core of the d/s arrangement. It turns out that it’s really hard to have a spouse who you treat as degraded property all the time (more plausible to do it on weekend retreats or just when you close the bedroom door, but still tricky).

Dark 24/7 d/s dynamics, which in their most extreme versions are just  immersing yourself in a fucked up kinky fantasy life, are relatively rare because they’re wildly incompatible with the basic demands of real life and most people’s actual emotional needs–and ironically require a pretty serious dose of trust, compassion, honesty, and just generally knowing someone well. From observation and experience, I’m pretty convinced that if you’re addicted to this kind of intense hyper-kinked (and often hyper-sexed) fantasy, you’re unlikely to get it outside of the context of vacationships [1].

Staying cognizant of the emotional limitations of these vacationship “24/7 dynamics” is a perpetual challenge, since most of the people who are into them are really into them and tend to get kind of swept up in them. Moreover, if you find one, it’s hard to escape the sense that you’ve stumbled upon something precious because it’s so hard to find people who are into this fucked up shit, good at it, and don’t have questionable motivations for doing it, and who have good chemistry with you personally. Once you find your golden needle in a haystack, it’s hard not to want to metaphorically clutch it and cuddle it, but the reality is that it’s about as emotionally satisfying as cuddling that metaphorical needle: it’s sharp and not well-designed for that. …And yet… You journey into the dark parts of your self with someone else and you create a powerful intimacy and trust on that trip. And if you’re on the left side of the slash and you have an ounce of sense, you know that the end of that trip leaves you in a profoundly vulnerable place.

I think most of us in kinkland spend most of our time worried about the mental health, stability, relationship satisfaction, and general well-being of the subs in these dark d/s dynamics, but little to no time concerned about these things for the doms. I get why that is: we’re worried that the subs are being abused, or that they’ve only agreed to do these things because they have abysmal self-esteem—and these concerns are very valid. But in relationships that are completely consensual and voluntary (those are some big and important caveats), there’s a weird emotional/relationship imbalance that ends up accruing in these dynamics against the doms, which I think is the reason that most longish-term dark d/s dynamics I’ve ever heard of got broken off by the sub.

One of the most fucked up aspects of these relationships is that, to some (and sometimes to a great) extent, they’re built on the sub being afraid of the dom and hating many of the things the dom does to them. On some level, this tends to generalize to the sub also hating the dom a little bit too, but in some twisted way, just as they love hating the things the dom does to them, they love hating the dom. That’s a convoluted emotional labyrinth for most people to navigate, and it’s only made weirder and more twisted by the fact that terror, degradation, and humiliation are often the deepest core of intimacy in these relationships.

If the core of intimacy in affirmative d/s relationships is sort of a perpetual trust fall into loving arms, the core of intimacy in dark d/s relationships is the dom pushing the sub into a dark hole and then maybe eventually throwing them a rope ladder to climb out.

There are a few bleak inevitable emotional inequalities in this arrangement. First of all, unless they’re deep switches, doms tend to be pretty bewildered by what the subs are getting out of it. Doms in these dynamics live in a state of (aroused) cognitive dissonance and discomfort surrounded by the fact that their sub keeps telling them they hate something, but they’re obviously turned on by it and apparently keep doing it willingly. Yet the doms don’t really understand why.

The second problem is that even the most cheerfully degraded subs still usually have at least a few things that are genuinely “too much,” but neither they nor their doms are often terribly clear about where those lines are. Once ideas like “I hate that,” “that’s too much,” “I can’t do that,” and “please don’t do that” become so blurry that they’re sort-of meaningless, doms end up in this odd limbo where they’re worried about accidentally going too far and worried about not going far enough and boring their subs. Instead of meaning “stop,” all those phrases of dislike just become a means to emotional intimacy and kinky pleasure on both sides… right up until the moment when they don’t.

Every dom in these relationships inevitably crosses a line, and they don’t really know where the line is until they get to it. Sure, the subs have safewords, but not using them tends to be a matter of perverse pride for them, and in my experience, instead of safewording, all of them just get mad and yell at me if I hurt them too much. It’s pretty hard to know what “too much” is until you get there, especially because it often varies wildly by the day. Relatedly, guessing how the subs are going to react when stressed is often just a crap shoot: half the time, do something terrible to them when they’re in a bad mood, and they’re so much happier and relaxed than they were before, while the other half they’re furious with you. How do they feel about you after you cross those lines? At what point do you do something that’s unforgivable? Do you do cumulative damage to the dynamic every time you mess up, or is it basically okay as long as you don’t do it too often? Even more torturous is wondering if maybe you’re actually creating more of this fucked up intimacy by occasionally going too far, but if now it’s kind of the wrong kind of intimacy? No matter how much you pretend they aren’t people, the subs here still are, and they have actual feelings. About you.

Which brings me to the third and biggest problem. While you’re building this perverse intimacy with someone, it just doesn’t look the same on both sides. Subs are getting slowly lost in this twisted labyrinth of simultaneously fearing, hating, being attracted to, and possibly loving their doms, and all the while the doms just kind of adore the subs for letting them do this shit to them. Sure, there may be a fucked up part of the dom’s brain that actually, genuinely, truly believes that they own this piece of property formerly known as a person, but any reasonably healthy person knows that that piece of property is actually a rare fucking miracle of a person for letting them do (and seemingly enjoying) the things the dom always thought they were a terrible person for fantasizing about.

Thus you end up with this twisted relationship dynamic where, for a variety of reasons–including the fact that it’s what turns them on–the subs get increasingly ambivalent feelings about their doms, but the doms unambivalently like their subs. That doesn’t exactly put the two of you on equal emotional footing in terms of the relationship.

I wrote an erotica years ago that ended with the sub telling her dom, “I hate you,” and him telling her, “shhh, you’re trying not to cum.” I find that fucked up emotional place to be incredibly sexy, but it ultimately makes the doms weirdly emotionally vulnerable. If you’re genuinely emotionally invested in your sub (and, perversely, you can’t cultivate hatred without emotional investment), wondering if they actually hate you will keep you up at night even if the memory of them saying that in bed is pure wank fodder. And that inequality is just exacerbated by the fact that even in the most degraded of dark d/s dynamics, it’s very hard to imagine a dom telling their sub, “I hate you,” because that’s just not the way this usually plays out. When you build a dynamic around one person’s eroticized hatred and the other’s eroticized malevolent sense of ownership, any smart person knows they’re going to end up with some warped interpersonal dynamics. But contrary to what you might expect, in a real world of genuine consent, I don’t think the warp favors the dom. Even though both people have the power to walk away from this, we all know who’s a lot more likely to do the walking; despite being tied down, chained up, and leashed, I’m pretty sure it’s mostly the subs.


[1] I usually define vacationships as “real” relationships where people see each other intensely, but only occasionally. One of the signals of a vacationship is that you clean the house, get dressed up, and clear your schedule because the partner is coming over. You don’t have to try to schedule a “date night” with a vacationship partner, because any time you spend with them is basically by definition date night. You can’t really get the kind of trust you need for super intense dark d/s dynamics out of a casual encounter, but you run into the aforementioned pragmatic day-to-day + emotional problems if you try to do it in the context of more serious long-term relationships. (I’m sure everyone reading this will have one exception to the claim that dark d/s dynamics mostly only work in the context of vacationships over the long haul. Cool. But I’ve watched a lottttt of kinky relationships over the years, and those people stand out because they’re exceptions… And even most of the ones I thought seemed okay later ended in acrimonious messes).

Witnessing the Aftermath of the Battle of Richmond, 2020

In July of 2000, I was 19. I was a freshly-minted not-virgin, and much of my summer felt like a classic coming-of-age film. Of particular note was the bizarre road trip adventure I took with a couple of strangers that eventually wended its way to downtown Richmond, Virginia. I grew up in North Carolina, in the most segregated city in the country by many measures at the time (Winston-Salem), and I was no stranger to racism. But as I stood on that street, I realized there was an entire universe of racism I had yet to comprehend. Towering monuments to the confederacy (I refuse to capitalize it) lined the street. In my memory of it, there were at least 20, but apparently it was only 5. But what horrified me most was that the street was mostly full of Black people (to the point where my white stranger-friends and I stood out like sore thumbs). It felt like white people, clearly a numerical minority here, nevertheless felt the need to assert their ownership of this street, this city, this country–and to remind Black people that they were unwelcome. I was genuinely, truly, absolutely confused and shocked that the hundreds of Black people I saw on the street weren’t trying to tear down these monuments RIGHT NOW. The fact that they weren’t suggested that 1. They were really used to this kind of blatant oppression 2. Social conditioning had taught them not to worry about it right now and 3. Perhaps most ominously, that there were bigger racial problems they needed to deal with. There’s been a piece of my heart that’s been sad and angry and guilty and horrified ever since.
I wanted to rip those monuments down myself, but I knew that I didn’t really deserve that satisfaction as a white person. I’m devastated that it took 19 fucking years for these monsters to come down, but I needed to go see for myself that they had, and to mourn the agonizingly slow rate of meaningful racial change in this country.
One of the awful truths that gets lost so often in our conversations about racism in America is that structural racism means that white people grow up in a state of carefully government- and socially-crafted oblivion. On some level, we know that life is harder for Black people, but we don’t really understand why or how or feel any connection to it. The system is designed to keep us in barely sympathetic ignorance. Something has to disrupt our illusions in order for us to “get it,” and then it takes years of effort and education to destroy a lifetime of smoke screens (what the great Black sociologist W.E.B. DuBois called “the veil”). That day in Richmond, I felt like someone had accidentally let the veil slip in front of me, and I’ve never been the same since.
I saw a post from a Black woman on Twitter recently saying, “white people aren’t used to thinking this much about race, take care of yourselves.” One of the many components of white privilege is that worrying about race is sort of optional for you, and I’m well aware that depressingly few white people do. But I’ve opted in for most of my adult life since that day in Richmond; thinking about race is a big part of my job, and explaining it is something I do almost every day. White privilege for me means that I don’t have to think about race every day *all the time*; but more importantly, I get to emotionally disconnect from it–which is different from not thinking about it. For me as a white person, that twitter user was sort-of wrong: I think about racism constantly, but I’m not used to letting myself *feel* this much about racism everyday, because if I did, I’d just sob while I taught my classes. I’m accustomed to completely disconnecting from my lessons on race in order to get through them. Even while writing this, I’ve often had to correct myself from talking about white people as a “they” to a “we,” because distancing myself is how I normally cope. As soon as I start changing those pronouns, I start crying.
I went back to Richmond yesterday for some catharsis. I cried for much of the drive down, but surprised myself by not really crying at all once I got there. It felt like a battle had been won. Lee’s monument has little graves all around it memorializing Black people who’ve been shot by the police, which is heartbreaking. But being there, I can tell you that there’s no question that a battle has been won. Lives were tragically and horribly lost, and it’s only one battle in a very big war, but Black people were taking a well-earned victory lap all over that monument while I was there. There were so many Black families cheerfully posing for photos that I didn’t even get up on the monument myself as I had planned to. This was their moment, and as an ally, I bore witness to their victory from a respectful distance without needing to coopt it.
Symbols matter. There’s a little piece of my heart that feels hopeful and assuaged seeing these stone heads metaphorically chopped off. I wanted to guillotine them myself, but I accept that my role as an ally means trying to make a safe space for Black people to do the chopping. And I’m posting this with the hope in my heart that this is not just the end of something. It’s the beginning of something else.

Interview with Evie Lupine

Evie Lupine interviewed me about the academic side of BDSM for her YouTube channel. You can check out the video at this link. Enjoy!

Rope bottoming education videos!

It’s the apocalypse 2020! So I started making rope bottoming education videos, with the idea that you can keep training for rope even if you’re lacking in riggers.

First video on Body Basics & Safety

Second video on Stretches & Body Prep

Third video on Managing Challenging Ties

If you want the professional version of this curriculum, follow this link to head over to KINK ACADEMY (and I’ll actually get paid 😉


“Do you really have to go?” I whispered in his ear. 

He smiled sadly. “Yes,” he said simply. 


As soon as he got into my house and put down his bags, he knelt in front of me.

“Are you going to do whatever I tell you to, slut?” I asked. 

“Yes, mistress.” 

Going through this ritual, stroking the velvet of his collar and then putting it on him for the first time in so long, I actually breathed a sigh of relief. The simple act of locking him up and claiming him felt like a release for something heavy inside me. 

Pushing my hands ungently through his hair, pulling it slightly, I purred, “This is where you belong. On your knees, locked up for me.”

“Yes, mistress.” 

I stayed like that for a moment, but eventually I couldn’t resist standing up all the way and stepping over him. My long skirt was just black lace, and I deliberately surrounded him with it. He looked like he’d been completely veiled by me, and under my skirt, he began kissing the inside of my legs, his hands running up and down them. It felt so good that I actually giggled because it was hard to keep my balance. When his soft lips reached the place where my underwear met my thigh, he pulled away long enough to ask, “Please can I lick your pussy, mistress?” 

The mere fact of him asking turned me on even more than the feel of his ardent lips and hands. “Yes,” I gasped, my voice catching. 

He pulled my underwear aside, and gently started licking my labia. By the time he moved to my clit, I really couldn’t keep standing any more. Reluctantly, I stepped away from him, then pulled up on his hair to force him to stand up. 

For the first time since he knelt before me, I looked directly at his face. His eyes were glazed, as though he simply got lost in the folds of my skirt – – or me. I found that look impossibly arousing, and in it a confirmation that he really would do whatever I said. I felt the heat rising in my face as I absorbed that look, and he whimpered slightly as I leaned in to bite his bottom lip, not kissing him. His lip tasted like it belonged to me, and not just because it tasted a little bit like my pussy. The softness of it between my hard teeth was such a delicious contrast that I wanted to hold onto it until it bruised. 

But I didn’t, because his mouth was too pretty and useful to wreck. 


He sat up in bed, automatically bending his head forward. Without being asked, I took off the earring I was wearing with the key to his lock, and knelt behind him to unlock the lock holding the collar around his neck. 

In movies, the click of a lock opening like that symbolizes joy and freedom, usually from arrest or capture. But in bed, that tiny metallic click is an awful sound, like a door closing as someone you love leaves. The magic has ended; the lights have come up at the end of the play. This time, you’re left with dirty sheets to change, a trashcan full of condoms to empty, and a handful of velvet memories. 

I held his collar in my hands as he turned his head to me, kissed me gently, then got out of bed. 


I hooked my finger into the loop on his collar and dragged him (oh so willingly) up to my bedroom. I left him standing in front of me, while I lounged across my bed, still fully dressed in very little. 

“Take off your clothes, slut,” I said archly. 

He wasn’t wearing anything a stripper would wear, and he didn’t make a production out of it, but I didn’t want him to. He just pulled his t-shirt over his head, and then started unzipping his jeans, revealing his dick pressing insistently against his underwear. Then he took his underwear off too, leaving him wearing nothing but an impressive erection. 

“You look like food,” I told him, crooking my finger to beckon him closer. Still seated, I leaned forward to close my mouth around his dick, which was almost too big to swallow. Almost. Biting down hard at the base of it, I dug my fingernails into his balls, hearing him gasp and watching him struggle to stay upright. Still holding his balls, coming up for air, I asked, “How much do you think you can take, slut?” 

“Whatever you tell me to, mistress.” 

“That’s a very good answer, pretty,” I said, relinquishing his balls, and gently lapping at the head of his dick with my tongue. And then I pulled a truly awful contraption out from under my bed and held it up for him to see. “Even this?” 

He gulped visibly, but nodded. 

“I won’t do it unless you ask for it, slut,” I said, dragging one of my fingernails along his dick. 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Please lock up my cock, mistress.” 

I grinned. “Well, since you asked so nicely! I mean, I think this is technically a chastity cage, but you’re just not that kind of slut, are you?” 

He shook his head nervously, and then I put a metal ring full of awful spikes around the base of his dick and locked it in place with an absurdly incongruous heart-shaped lock. 

“You’re the kind of masochist who thinks this is a cock ring, aren’t you?” I mocked. “You’re still totally hard.” He whimpered again. “What do you want, slut?” I teased, licking the head of his dick again. 

“Please can I fuck you, mistress?” he begged, sounding a little bit frantic. 

“With that on?” I laughed. “Don’t you think that will just make it hurt worse?” 

“Yes, mistress,” he said, his voice redolent with obedience and desire. 

“Fine, but if you can’t make me come with it on, I won’t let you come until tomorrow.” 

He groaned, but stood still while I put a condom on him, and then laid down on top of me. 

“You can take off my underwear,” I said generously, wondering even as I said it how the fabric of it pushing against his dick would have made his predicament even worse. 


As he stood up, I tried to enjoy the sight of his naked, slightly sweaty, just-fucked body, but all I could think was, I have no idea when I’ll see this again. Until a minute ago, I forced myself to live in the moment for days, enjoying everything about his body touching me right now and never letting myself think for more than a fleeting second about the fact that he would, inevitably, have to go eventually. 

That’s a lie. I did think about it for more than a second, but every time I did, I comforted myself with the fiction that he’d be back before I knew it. 


“You look nervous,” I mocked, taking hold of his dick with my hand to position it between my legs. He gasped. “Aw, does that hurt?” I teased. 

“Everything hurts,” he choked out. 

“I’m sure that will just make you want to come harder,” I taunted. “Don’t worry, this will make it better,” I cooed, lifting my hips up to force his dick inside me, then intentionally clenching my pussy around it. 

He screamed, and then my pussy clenched without me even trying, just because I was so turned on from the sounds of his pain. I wrapped my legs around his back, hooking my ankles together to force him to stay inside me. 

“You begged to fuck me, slut,” I hissed. “So do it.” 

“Yes, mistress,” he gasped. I unhooked my ankles, and he lifted himself up more to gain more leverage. Biting his lip in pain, he slowly started moving inside me. Every time I pulsed my pussy around his dick, he gasped, which was incredibly satisfying. 

“Please can I come, mistress?” he begged. 

“No, but by all means keep asking,” I said, making no serious attempts to come myself just to draw out his torment. “And pull your dick all the way out and come back in.” Looking defeated, he did exactly that, which caused both of us to gasp simultaneously–me with pleasure, and him with agony. 

“Please can I come, mistress?” he pleaded again. 

“No,” I said, pulling my pussy off of him this time. 

“Thank you, mistress,” he panted in relief, sweating from the effort of pleasing me and trying not to come. 

“Are you thanking me for not letting you come?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Hm, I thought so.” I grabbed hold of his dick again, causing him to gasp, and forced it back inside me. This time I reached down to touch my clit while he fucked me, and the look on his face was positively desperate. 

“Do you want me to come, slut?” 

“Yes, mistress.” 

“Even though you know it will make my pussy clench around you so much harder and make it almost impossible for you not to come?” 

“Yes, mistress.” 

Gasping, my pussy shuddered around his dick as I came, and he actually screamed, which only made me come harder. 

“You’re a good slut,” I panted, stuffing my fingers into his mouth to suck my cum off, his dick still inside me, albeit no longer moving. 


I should get dressed, I thought. What the fuck am I going to do in this bed once he leaves except morosely caress the cum stains on the sheets and try not to cry from how empty it feels? 

How do I look if I beg him to stay? I wondered. Pathetic, sweet, or cute? I care too much about my dignity to tell him how much I don’t want him to go, but even to me, that pride seems pathetic too. 

I’m so used to telling him what to do, but I don’t get to tell him what to do this time. Even a dom can’t order you to stay. 


“I think you deserve a reward for making me come with that awful thing on,” I said, pulling my fingers out of his mouth. 

“Thank you, mistress.” 

He pulled out of me, and I unlocked the lock on his dick, freeing it. There were tiny dents at the base of his dick where the spikes had poked him. I licked them, and he moaned. 

“Well, I freed your dick, but now I think I’ll just capture the rest of you,” I grinned. 

I put cuffs on his wrists and ankles, then attached them to latches on the bed. Spread eagled and still hard, I thought he looked more like food than ever. 

“You know, you ought to look like you’re at my mercy like this, but you look like you want it too much, slut,” I teased. It was true. He looked more like a cat that got the cream than a compromised sub. 

He grinned lazily. “I think you knew what you were getting when you threw me into your bed.” 

I pounced, sitting on top of his chest, and pulled my excuse for a dress off over my head. Then I grabbed his balls with one hand and choked his throat above his collar with the other. “My own fucking slut?” He nodded as best he could while I choked him. “Yes, I was well aware.” He actually looked a little bit disappointed when I stopped choking him, although his eyes were much more glazed with my hand still clutching his balls. I looked down at him. “You’re a whore who’s dying to have me fill your ass, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, mistress.”

I moved back a little bit so that I could sit on the bed and extend my leg enough to put my toes in his mouth. “Do you want me to fuck your ass with my foot, slut?” 

He cringed a little bit as he stopped sucking my toes long enough to admit, “Yes, mistress.” 

“Don’t worry too much,” I mockingly assured him. “I’ll start with my hand.” 


As I stared at him fully dressed in front of me, I couldn’t help but notice the ironic reversal of convention: a naked dom, sitting in bed, with a fully clothed sub standing in front of her. But that moment of irony was quickly overtaken by the conventional fears and doubts of every nervous dom ever: wondering if he’d ever be back, terrified that this time I’d pushed him too far, never quite believing him when he said he loves the terrible things I do to him. 

If he doesn’t come back, it’s my fault, the awful voices in my head whispered. 

Tell me again that it’s okay, that you’re okay, I want to beg. But you can only ask so many times. 

I’ve never felt as vulnerable and exposed as I do when I’m controlling him. 


I grabbed two sets of nipple clamps with chains, and attached a clamp to each of his nipples, then to my own, chaining us together. This wasn’t remotely fair, since my nipples were several times the size of his, so the clamps hurt me a lot less. But fair was hardly the point, of course. The point was that I like having my nipples pinched, and that whenever I moved too far away from him, I’d make him scream. I gave them an experimental tug, just to make sure they’d stay on, and his instant moan of pain was a good clue that I had the right idea. 

I put a glove on and, feeling kind, lubed up my whole hand. I pushed two fingers in his ass relatively gently, and he looked incredibly happy. 

“You’re such an ass slut,” I teased, wriggling my fingers inside him and watching how his dick reflexively twitched in response. I could see the desperate look in his eyes from wanting to touch his cock, but of course, his hands were pinned to the bed. He bit his lip, and I waited for him to ask, still moving my fingers inside him. 

“Please will you touch my cock, mistress?” 

“Sure,” I said, digging all five fingernails from my other hand into his cock. He screamed, and I intentionally jerked my body back too, pulling on the nipple chains between us, which made him scream even louder and me gasp. “You might want to be more specific if there’s something particular you want,” I warned cheerfully. 

His voice sounded a bit choked as he pleaded, “Will you please be nice to my cock, mistress?” 

“Probably not.” Instead I added another finger to the two already in his ass, and watched with delight as his hips bucked (clearly wishing he could fuck me too) and his entire face contorted in pained desire. 

“Try begging,” I suggested. 

Please will you touch my cock, mistress? Please?” 

“You still just don’t sound quite frantic enough.” 

He looked like he was going to bite his lip off in desperation. 

“How’s this?” I suggested, adding another finger to his ass and enjoying his writhing scream as I did. “I’ll touch your dick if you promise to lick my toes after I put them in your ass if you ask me to stop.” 

He groaned, looking trapped and disgusted and aroused all at once. “Yes, mistress,” he said in a small voice. 

“You’re such an ass slut that you’ll agree to just about anything to keep me fucking you, won’t you?” 

“Yes, mistress,” he said meekly. 

I started sucking his cock, my fist still in his ass, but I barely lasted a minute before he looked and sounded frantic. “Please stop, mistress, you’ll make me come!” 

I took my mouth away and gently stroked his dick with my other hand, but even with that he instinctively shook both his head and one of his pinned hands. “Please!” he begged. I laughed. 

“You spent so much time asking me to touch your dick, and now you’re begging me to stop. You really can’t make up your mind, can you, whore?” 

He just whimpered. 

“Well, I think now is a great time to switch to my foot,” I said, pulling my hand out slowly, taking my glove and the nipple clamps on me off, and putting my toes briefly in his mouth to suck on again. I fucking loved the way his tongue and lips felt on them, and I could almost come from the sensation. But instead of sinking into the feeling, I pulled my toes out and added some lube to them. Then I put two toes in his ass. 

His ass was already very open from having had most of my hand in it, and my absurdly sensitive toes reveled in the warm, wet, tightness of him. I got another toe in easily, and then started stroking his dick with my other foot. I really didn’t expect that to do much, but he started moaning in a way that strongly suggested it was, and his ass clenched around my toes as well. I managed to contort my foot until I had all five toes inside him, and at that point he screamed and begged, “Please can I come, mistress?” 

“Yes,” I said easily, which should have been his warning that doing so might not really be in his best interest. But I was far too intrigued by the prospect of making him come with just my feet to say no anyway. His ass twitched around my toes as he came, while splatters of his cum ended up between the toes on the other foot. I pulled my foot gently out of his ass, then rubbed the other foot in the puddle of cum on his stomach before sticking those toes in his mouth. 

“Clean up your mess, you dirty slut, and be very grateful I didn’t push you into having to clean up the other foot,” I ordered. I pulled the nipple clamps off his nipples, making him scream, but then he diligently started cleaning his cum off my toes while I laid back and played with my clit. His mouth felt so good on my toes that it didn’t take much for me to come, and I felt my toes twitching in his mouth in an echo of the way his ass had just twitched on my other foot. 

I pulled my toes out of his mouth, and then I put another glove on my hand and lubed it up. 

“Fuck,” he said, and I just grinned wickedly at him as I pushed two fingers back into his overfucked ass. 

His dick was only half hard, and his whole body jerked as I mercilessly found his prostate and stroked it. I was sure that if he wasn’t tied down, he would have tried to curl his body into a protective ball. Instead, he laid helplessly spread open, while he screamed, his head rocking from side to side in a silent “no.”

“You loved this just a minute ago,” I teased. 

“It feels completely different after I come,” he managed to say, although it was clear that he was having a lot of trouble talking through the pain. 

“I know. Poor slut, tortured by your own pleasures.” 

“This… Isn’t… Pleasure…”

“Fair. Tortured by my pleasures then.” I watched him writhe some more, and then generously promised, “I’ll stop whenever you ask.” I loved adding a whole other layer to his torment: an explicit challenge to see what he could take from me. 

His face was absolutely contorted in agony, and he didn’t last much longer before he just said, “Please.” I knew he didn’t want to actually ask me to stop. 

“Please what?” I asked innocently. 

Please,” he said more insistently. 

“Please you want to come?” I teased. 

His voice was thick with pain and something close to shame as he begged, “Please stop.” 

“Ooookay,” I said, pulling my fingers out of him with an evil wink. 


I could deal with him walking out my door so much more easily if he was just taking himself. 

You always give a piece of yourself away when you let someone in too deep. But I knew, with an ache that permeated my entire body, that I’d given him too much. From the first moment I ever pulled him up off his knees and into my bed, I foolishly gave him my desires. Anonymous fantasies I’d had for years now had a face, voice, smell, and taste: his. 

Getting exactly what you want is a dangerous thing. 

Now when he leaves, he won’t just be taking himself. He’ll be taking my fantasies with him. 


I gave him a minute to clean himself up alone before pushing him into the shower with me. “Such a dirty whore,” I mocked. I gently soaped his entire body, then rinsed it with the shower head, careful to try to keep his collar dry. When I was done, I told him, “You got them dirty, so wash my feet.” He bent down to do so, and by the time my toes were clean when he stood back up, he was already a little bit hard. 

I pushed him against the wall at the back of the shower and kissed him for the first time since he’d arrived. I loved the feel of his soft lips against mine, but even as I enjoyed the physical sensation, I was still distracted by the ever present electric current of power between us. “You belong to me,” I whispered in his ear, taking his now completely hard cock into my hand. 

“Yes, mistress.” I kissed him again, but now it felt a little bit violent, my tongue playing with his as if it sought to win a game. 

A game that was long since won. 

I hastily pulled him out of the shower by his dick, got us both dried off, and dragged him back to my bed. We curled up naked around each other, kissing each other’s mouths and necks, our hands frantically moving all over each other’s bodies at the same time. I tilted my head so he could suck my ear, then felt my body quivering as he trailed kisses down from my ear, over my neck, all the way down to my nipple. My nipple was so sore from the clamps earlier that his tongue on it almost made me come. 

His dick kept brushing against my thigh, trailing against the outside of my labia, and all I could think about was how much I wanted it inside me. But even though I felt a little bit drunk with desire, I still wanted to hear him ask for it even more than I wanted the thing itself. 

I grabbed hold of the loop on his collar and pulled his face to mine, our lips almost touching. “Ask for it, slut,” I told him. 

“Please can I fuck you, mistress? Please can I make you come?” 

“Yes,” I said, and fucking meant it. I let myself come almost as soon as his dick was inside me, and I kept coming over and over until finally my pussy was so exhausted that I just told him to come with me one last time. 

He collapsed beside me in contented exhaustion, his head resting on my chest. “You are the prettiest fucking toy,” I murmured into his hair, damp from the shower and from sweat. 

“Thank you, mistress,” he said, his lips moving against my neck. “I’m yours.” 

Lifting his face to me by the ring on his collar, I kissed him emphatically and said, “You are mine. Don’t you fucking forget it.” 


“When will I see you again?” I finally forced myself to ask as he left. 

“Soon,” he promised, blowing me a kiss. 

It’s never soon enough. 

Tell Me What You Want

Lying in bed beside you, I feel somehow furtive and playful at the same time. I can’t shake the sense that I’m still fantasizing about you, except now there’s a real face in front of me, with actual eyes staring back into mine. If I close mine, I half believe you’ll just disappear. I need some way to assure myself that you’re real, that the thing I remember between us is real, and that it’s not just an erotic fiction conjured by my eager imagination in the months since I’ve seen you.

A sensible person might start with a kiss, but instead I’m stuck staring at you, laying here and gauging you. I don’t have some long acquaintance to draw from, some well established set of touches and habits to cover for my awkward simultaneous sense of familiarity and unfamiliarity. I can almost trick myself into believing our limited past together is all I need to build this present, but right now that past seems too distant and illusory. Besides, I want to focus on who you are in this moment, to taste and discover what you’ve become in our absence.

Of all the things I want to know, nothing is as pressing as my desire to find out if you still belong to me. I doubt it’s a question I can pose out loud and have meaningfully answered; I’m pretty sure it’s a question that only breath and flesh can answer. But I’m so afraid of finding that you don’t belong to me anymore that I’m paralyzed, not wanting to make a move that might prove that you do–because the same move might prove the opposite. So instead I’m left gazing foolishly at you as I try to figure out what I should do first.

I opt for the cheapest and easiest move of all: I hedge. “What do you want?” I ask. It’s a fatuous question, and you’re not going to answer it well. I already know you want to fucking feel, and the longer I keep you talking like this, the harder it will get to make that happen. You want me to fill holes, both literally and figuratively, but no one is good at saying that. That’s not what words are good for.

And besides, you want me to fucking read your mind. Goddamned subs.

I wish you looked aroused by my question, but you mostly look uncomfortable. No surprise, since I haven’t asked the question I most want answered, and we both know it. Just say you want me, I think. Say you want me to own you, to take control of you, to use you. But I know you well enough to know you’ll always phrase those things as being about what I want, not you, still leaving me wondering what the fuck it is that you want. I could write poetry about all the things I want from you, but all I’ll ever really get from you is this heavy silence, thick with expectation.

Fucking. Subs.

“Use me however you want,” you say. It’s an incredibly arousing sentence, but it’s a cheat, and not what I need to hear.

Fuck it. Without giving myself any more time to think about it, I force myself to make an actual move. Both of us still fully dressed, I roll on top of you and straddle your hips, keenly aware of your dick between all those layers of clothes and my pussy. Looking down at you, I feel such a complicated mixture of power, desire, and doubt that I’m almost dizzy. I lean closer to you as I stare straight into your eyes. “You didn’t say you wanted it, slut.”

Between our change in position and our words, there’s no question that something shifted. Your eyes have glazed over now, and it feels like there’s an invisible leash tightening between us. Flesh and breath have answered the question I didn’t ask, and that should be enough to calm the fear that paralyzed me before. Words should seem pointless next to this pulsing current of power and desire, your easy surrender beneath me a heartbeat of yes and please. You don’t need the wind to tell you its name to feel the breeze on your flesh, and the power flow between us feels just as basic and elemental as it has every other time I’ve seen you. But I need to hear the words to believe that this isn’t just all in my head and to separate the fantasy of you from the reality of you. “I told you long ago what I most want to own is your desire,” I say, and my voice is heavy with control and the depth of my feelings. (If I believe there aren’t tears in the corners of my eyes, maybe they’ll just go away). “If you say you want it, then I own that too.”

I put my hand on your throat, not to choke you, but in a gesture of control. You gasp as if I’ve truly pressed down hard, then say softly, “I want you to own me.” I can’t pretend there aren’t actual tears running down my face when you say that, and I’m afraid to let you see how much your words (and desire) matter to me. So to cover for myself, I lift up enough to turn you over onto your stomach, sitting now on your delightful ass, my face hidden from your view. I pull your shirt up and over your head, then scrape my fingernails down your back. Hearing you gasp and seeing the visible marks of possession I’ve left in your flesh soothes my overwrought nerves; I finally start to relax as I settle into the rhythm of methodically claiming you. I lick the fresh marks on your back, imagining that you taking pain for me has left a taste on your skin. Even the traces of my tears on those marks feels like a kind of claiming, as though my eyes were looking for a way to own you too.

But my eyes dry quickly as I thoroughly distract myself, reaching around you to unbutton your pants, then sliding them down just enough to get to your naked ass. I take my time massaging it too hard, making you gasp some more and creating interesting red marks as I grip your skin too tightly. Then I put on a glove and some lube and gently slide one teasing finger into your ass. You moan and instinctively wriggle up against my hand, grinding your cock into the bed on the other side as your whole body begs for more. When I don’t give it to you, you whimper, “Please fuck me, mistress.”

I decide to go with a theme for the rest of this encounter, and keep forcing you to tell me what you want. At some point, talking like that is pure suffering for you, but fortunately, your suffering turns me on. “Why do you want me to fuck you, slut?”

You sound almost pitiful as you say, “Because it feels good.”

I laugh. “Even if I was really mean about it and shoved a dildo inside you using only your spit as lube?”

I actually feel your ass clench around my finger in enthusiastic response when I say that.

“I… That doesn’t…” you stammer.

“That doesn’t feel good, does it, slut? But you like it anyway.”

“I like to hurt for you, mistress.”

“You’re a liar,” I say, pulling my finger out, and pulling the glove off too with a snap. “You like hurting and pretending you’re doing it for me.”

You groan as I turn you over again onto your back. “I like hurting for you too,” you say meekly.

Now on your back again, you look adorably compromised (and you clearly know it), without your shirt, with your pants and underwear shoved down around your thighs, and your dick hard. You wriggle your body in a way that only a subby slut like you can, a practiced move that’s half plea and half invitation.

I lay down on top of you, still wearing all my clothes, and you gasp when I touch your dick just long enough to strategically position it against my pussy through my underwear, my skirt hiked up around my thighs. I put my hand back at your throat, still just a gesture of ownership, not choking. Then I lean in to your ear and whisper, grinding my clothed pussy against your dick, “What do you want most right now, slut?”

You groan. “Anything,” you whimper.

I laugh. “That’s such a broad desire.” Swiftly changing tactics, I abruptly sit up and rake my fingernails down your chest, pausing to dig them in deeply a few times and enjoy your screams. “Was that part of ‘anything’?” You nod, your eyes wide and completely glazed.

I put my fingers down my underwear, running them along the lips of my pussy, then shove them into your mouth. You suck them obediently, and your mouth and tongue feel so good on them that I forget what I was doing for a moment. When I pull them out, I dry my fingers off by smearing your own spit across your face.

“What do you most want me to put in your mouth right now?”

You groan again, looking tormented. “You,” you finally say, clearly wishing I’d stop making you talk, stop asking you to make decisions you want me to make.

“Does this count?” I ask, opening your mouth with my fingers, then leaning over you to slowly drool into it.

You nod enthusiastically. “Thank you, mistress. Can I please touch my cock?”

I grin. “No, but feel free to keep asking.”

I move up so my knees are on both sides of your face, then pull my underwear aside, my pussy barely an inch from your face. You lift up your head to try to lick it, but I pull it back down to the pillow by your hair.

“Something you want, slut?” I ask, loving how you look like I’ve captured you.

“Please can I lick your pussy, mistress?”

“You keep changing what you want. You’re so easily distracted. You just want whatever is in front of your face right now, don’t you, slut?”

I lower myself down to your mouth just long enough to mark it with my scent and for you to barely taste me, then I move my underwear back in place and slide my body back down yours. With my crotch on your thigh, and my knee perilously close to your balls, I genuinely can’t predict your answer when I ask, “What do you want most now, slut?”

You whimper again, and I giggle. “You want me to stop asking you that, don’t you?” You nod. “Too bad. Tell me what you want most, or nothing happens at all.”

You look so cutely distraught in an agony of indecision and not wanting to have to form words. You finally force yourself to say, “Please fuck me, mistress.”

“That’s very broad. Be more explicit.”

I love how much you hate this torture with words, and making you voice your desires is doing wonders for helping me forget my anxieties earlier. “Please let me fuck you with my cock.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” I put a condom on you, and move my underwear aside again to lower myself onto your dick. I ride it for just a moment, and it feels really fucking good, but I try not to think about it too much as I quickly pull off, yanking the condom off too.

You genuinely look like you might cry when I do that, and your tormented face is hotter than almost any orgasm. “Why do you look so sad?” I mock. “I gave you what you asked for.”

I lay back down on top of you, my clothed pussy still strategically positioned against your dick. “What if I told you I thought now was a good time to go to sleep?” I tease.

“I don’t think I would sleep very well,” you admit.

“Do you think you’d keep waking up, hoping I’d change my mind in the middle of the night and fuck you?”

“Yes, mistress.”

I’ve lowered my face to yours until our lips are almost pressed together, but I put my index finger between our mouths. “If I made you choose between kissing me and being allowed to come, which would you choose?” I know the answer, of course.

Closing your eyes, you unwillingly admit, “Being allowed to come.”

“You’re such a fucking slut!” I grin, sitting up without kissing you, and reaching between you to smack your balls. You moan as I do it several more times, and I’m amused watching your dick start to wilt. Then I grab hold of the base of your cock with my fingernails, pressing them in til you scream. Your dick is barely hard at that point, and I taunt you, “Well, I guess it’s time to go to sleep now, slut, you’re not even hard anymore.”

You actually dig your fingers into the bed in frustration, and I can tell it’s because you’re desperately struggling not to touch your dick. “I’m sorry, mistress,” you say, and you sound genuinely apologetic and distressed. “I’ll do better, please don’t make me go to sleep.”

“What would make you hard again fastest?” Again, I don’t know what you’re going to say.

“If you sucked my cock gently.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re lying again, and that sounds boring anyway.” Instead, I slap your dick and go back to teasing your lips with my half-revealed pussy. When I look back, your dick is already half hard, and by the time I push two of your fingers into my pussy, it’s completely hard. Then I pull them right back out and stick them in your mouth to lick.

Again, you look like you might cry. “Your problem, slut,” I inform you, “is that you’re so much more turned on when you don’t get what you want.”

You don’t bother to argue the obviously true point, but take my fingers out of your mouth and start begging. “Please can I fuck you, mistress?” There’s a ragged note in your voice that turns me on even more than your fingers in my pussy did.

“You’re not much of a gentleman, begging to fuck me when you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You look understandably confused by this reprimand, since we’ve already technically had sex a number of different ways. But instead of disputing the point, you ask, “Please can I kiss you, mistress?”

“Sure,” I say. “But then you don’t get to come.” You groan again, and I love watching you try to make up your mind. “Say please again!” I taunt.


I lean down to kiss you, and your lips are soft and smell faintly of my pussy. There’s another slight shift between us in that moment, and you put your arms around me. Briefly, I notice sex more than power, with your cock straining against my underwear like it wants to break it, our tongues playing, and our arms wrapped around each other. I roll you on top of me, my legs wrapped around you too, keeping your cock tight against my pussy.

“Ask for what you want, slut,” I whisper in your ear.

“Please can I fuck you, mistress?” you ask again, your voice both desperate and a little bit husky.

“Well, you can fuck me until I come,” I say, pushing my soaked underwear aside, and giving you another condom.

After holding back for so long, I positively luxuriate in the feeling of taking you inside me. I clench my pussy around your cock, making you gasp, and then reach down to touch my clit, coming almost at once.

Pulling myself off your cock, which has been inside me for a minute at most, I laugh because it’s the first time you’ve ever looked disappointed from making me come.

Laying beside me, I grin at you. “Such a terrible reward for making me come. But then, you never did ask for what you most wanted, slut. Because what you really want is to not get what you want.” You grin sheepishly back, then bury your head in the pillow in an endearing gesture of defeat and admission.

I put my hand along your cheek. “Well, just as long as you were telling the truth about wanting me to own you.” I feel my breath catch in the back of my throat when I say it, though I play the line off with a wink. You nod emphatically into my hand. “Good,” I say, kissing you very chastely on the lips so I don’t tempt myself out of my tease. “Good night, my pretty slut. Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll wake you up in the middle of the night.”



You can also check out a video of me reading this out loud here:


A parable

(this isn’t about sex. This is about bodies)


There once was a man who was an amazing dancer. He had always been an amazing dancer, someone who danced as easily as he breathed.

But one day, for the first time in his life, he suffered a minor injury that kept him from dancing: he broke his leg. He couldn’t dance for weeks, and not dancing gave him too much time to have dire thoughts.


Was this really the thing he wanted to be the source of his personal power? Was it okay to depend on this fragile body? His partners’ bodies might break too. He couldn’t depend on anything that came from this fragile, weak body.


Once he physically recovered, he went back to dancing. But even though his body could still do things that almost no one else can do, all his partners agreed he just was not the same. Finally one of them asked him why. He told her, “I can’t have the same passion for dance that I used to, because I might lose it at any moment. I can’t face the agony of that disappointment again. I can’t let myself NEED to dance again.”


His partner said, “Darling, you’ll eventually lose everything, because that’s what it means to be human–you lose it, or we lose you. It just depends on how long you’re here. But are you going to waste your youth not doing something you won’t be able to do much in old age for fear of losing it some day?”


He argued, “I can’t put my faith and strength in something so fragile.”


She said, “What are you going to substitute for it?”


He looked her straight in the eye and says, “I haven’t found it yet. But you told me I’m going to lose it eventually. So I may as well spend the intervening time finding that substitute.”


She said, “you’re a fool and a truly great dancer. Cross that bridge when you come to it. We’re all weaker when we let mortality make us squander the gifts we have rather than appreciate the glory of something temporary.”


He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to learn to find strength and power in myself, not some stupid thing that doesn’t even matter very much.”


She glared at him. “You should be doing that regardless. But what do you think your SELF is? It’s a collection of the things you love and are good at. Leave that behind and you’re trying to find power from a shell of yourself.”


He retorted, “My shell is safer.”


She said, “Should we never light fires because some day they’ll burn out? The only thing in life that lasts that’s worth having is love. Everything else will abandon you eventually. That’s why all the Hindu gods of destruction dance. So fucking dance. Because even as one thing goes down, something else goes up. And some day, when your personal fire goes out, you’ll know that you didn’t deliberately freeze yourself today because you wanted to prepare yourself for being cold later. Welcome to the world.”


He hated everything she said. But after she spoke to him, his dancing changed. A passion of a sort came back. Now he danced with anger instead of joy. He danced with the anger of someone who was furious at the gods for taking away something he loved and then expected him to love it the same way when they gave it back. His partners were afraid now when they danced with him, because his dancing glowed with electric  rage.


Then one day, he collapsed at the end of an exhausting dance, sobbing in the arms of the partner who had convinced him to do this again.


“I can’t do it any more,” he said. “I just can’t.”


“For a little while,” she told him, “you found the beauty in white hot anger. The flame reached a peak. Now you think it’s gone out again.”


“I’m sure it has,” he cried. “I can’t do it any more.”


“If you get back up again, you should be able to do it indefinitely,” she said. “Because now you’ll dance with embers, and they glow so much longer than white hot flames.”


He didn’t believe her, but when next  he danced with her, initially reluctantly, he found he wasn’t so angry any more. He made his peace with his mortality and relearned the art of loving his body. And he was a much happier person (and an even better dancer) because of it.


And so he danced. And danced and danced. And even though he couldn’t dance forever, he learned that he could love himself no matter what.