When I first got into domination it was on a strictly personal level with a long-term submissive. I didn’t understand small penis humiliation and felt that men with small penises should be encouraged to consider their other strong points in bed, such as giving good oral. I firmly believed men’s obsession with penis size was ridiculous and in no way based on reality.

Three things happened to change this:

1. One of my submissives had a very small penis. I worked around this, I was patient, I was supportive, I was licked from dawn til sunset. But if I ever tried to ride I couldn’t move or it would fall out. Condoms slid off. They were baggy. And he was a premature ejaculator. After a while I just had to find other ways to amuse myself with it. Mmm… Did I mention he was a masochist?

2. I finally started to understand erotic humiliation, and how it could be erotic, for both the giver and the receiver. I could never experience it as erotic to give until I understood what it was like to enjoy it from the other end.* I had to experience it myself a few times – and find it intriguing.

* I say never but there were times when my sadism took hold and I played rough. That said there was always hesitation and remorse until I understood it from both ends.

3. I finally gave it, gave it and enjoyed every minute of it. Over and over. Until the fading shame of cutting another person’s ego down was replaced with the secret thrill of exposing his weaknesses and leaving him raw and vulnerable… of loving to make him squirm. The penis is the center of a man’s ego, after all. I saw it as an intersection of verbal sadism, male exhibitionism, submissive shame, and the kink of being inspected and judged. I’m into CFNM (oh, who wouldn’t be? Who wouldn’t want a harem of sexy naked men on display for their amusement?) and after understanding small penis honesty from that angle it all started to click.

And the good people at LoveHoney sent me this satin smooth Inch Perfect vibrator, and it’s got a ruler on the side, in both inches and millimeters (some of you really need every bit you can coax out of a ruler, it seems). And I took one look at it and knew it would be the perfect tool to break these men. A femdom vibrator – I never thought I’d see that dream come true. Imagine the CFNM party applications… Actually I’m going to write that story now.

After all the hassle of dealing with an actual micropenis (see #1) I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. My man has something even the Inch Perfect lacks – skill, stamina, flexibility and a breathtakingly perfect G-spot hitting curve. (Actually he’s thicker too but I don’t want to swell his ego too much here. He does read this sometimes.)

NEW! Small Penis Honesty video – Ready to hear the truth about your undersized equipment? See how your little q-tip dick measures up against my 8″ vibrator. 14 minutes of crystal clear visual and verbal humiliation. (.WMV format, will convert on request)

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“How submissive is it really to pay another person to throw up for your kinky indulgence?”

And see, that’s exactly why pros are around: often, it’s not. There are thousands of kinky men – masochists, fetishists, humiliation aficionados – who can pretend to be submissive in exactly the ways they want to be, to someone they’re paying to give them only the domination they can handle.

In a pro role our preferences conveniently match up with theirs and we’ll push their boundaries only up to the point they want them pushed. It’s the dominant equivalent of an American Eclectic chain restaurant; we’ll change up the menu in exactly the sort of safe ways you’ve come to expect, nothing too risqué, nothing that really requires much trust or taking chances.

We don’t ask for surrender, simply obedience. If our will conflicts with his it won’t be in any heavy way.

Outside the pro role – off duty – I have no patience for bottoms who just can’t admit they’re not submissive. I am one myself. Beat me, whip me, toy with me – oh yes – but try to order me around outside of a play situation and I don’t take to it well at all (sorry darling).

It’s the difference between surrendering to the senses and surrendering to another’s will. Not all bottoming is submission – and that’s okay. But damn, don’t tell me you’re a submissive and then not… actually… submit. It’s incredibly frustrating. Makes me grit my teeth.

I get along just fine with my boys who are upfront with me that they’re still coming to terms with their submission, still fighting it. I always enjoy the trip. It’s different every time. It’s the ones who tell me they’re service submissives, ‘oh I’ll fulfill Your every whim, Mistress,’ the ones into discipline, management, and control… the ones who ask for Real Submission™, and then get all pissy if you move in a direction that’s just not their favorite. (An aside: This doesn’t describe any of my repeat guys. I’m disgustingly fortunate.)

This was something I ran into a lot when I started getting into phone domination, because I was coming to it from a real-time dominant girlfriend style relationship. I didn’t understand why my boys over the phone didn’t react, didn’t bend in the same way my willing victim had until I realized that they fantasized about being submissive.

Before I ran into this directly, I never understood how pro dommes could consider themselves dominant in the “lifestyle” sense. They were paid to fulfill client fantasies. It didn’t compute.

Once I tried it for myself it became clear to me that phone domme was a completely different mindset: service domination. These men have fantasies they may have no interest in living out long-term face to face. They may be afraid to try them; they may simply be between partners, or with partners who don’t share their kinks. They might crave a safe outlet that won’t actively threaten the relationship. Or – like many of my guys – they might have had real-time dominant girlfriends or wives in the past and realized that can get intense, fucked up, and scary, but that they still crave intense, fucked up, and scary things.

These things get them off hard but they aren’t what these men want or need in their daily lives. I scratch their itch (and, also, conveniently, mine). I accept those limitations I wouldn’t accept in my personal life, as an off-the-clock dominant woman. Within their range of interests I have a lot of room to work some magic.

I don’t take calls outside my personal kinky interests; although I love to try new things, I won’t mess with kinks I’m just not interested in. It’s just a personal preference. I switch – always have; when I’m in a mostly dominant role real-time, I tend to sub on the phones, and vice versa. It’s a funny way to balance my urges but it works for me. My lover isn’t submissive or masochistic, but I still kink hard for men in pain, men begging, whimpering, pleading. Oh, and crying. It turns me on to hear a man cry. I’m almost ashamed to say that but it’s true… as long as I caused the tears.

Whatever submissive streak I may have is satisfied with serving a sexual need, and my switchy sadistic dominant side loves having all sorts of interesting submissive, masochistic, and/or kinky men to talk to, explore with, play with… toy with? Yes.

That was completely Sabrina going off on a tangent. The rest of her entry is dead-on hilarious and you must read it – that’s an order.

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I like to remember.

Right now it’s like this:

Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.

…Kissing in the kitchen – all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…

…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…

…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.

…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…

…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.

I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it – I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.

I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.

…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.

“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”

…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…

…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.

…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.

This time he let me, or rather I did, well…

He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.

Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.

That’s promising.

Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.

I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…

…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…

And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…

There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail – he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.

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First, read Sam Sugar’s latest blog post: An Illustrated Guide to Nude Modeling

Most model learn to pose by trial-and-error but I don’t advise it, I tried it myself with advanced rocketry and killed a lot of people. As someone who last week looked at over 8,000 pornographic images (I wish I was joking), and who’s been on hundreds of photo sets, allow me to provide a guide to a few of the classic softcore poses…

Take 30-70 pictures. You’ll be keeping 8-15.

Email them to your favorite flirtation objects, and send me as many copies as you wish. I promise to treasure them all (and the best of them more than once).

Lesson Two: Why Mother always said every lady should own a strand of pearls.

From Allegory of an Underage Femme Fatale:

…Babe, I’m into cock-bondage. Don’t worry, its not the crazy kind, just the fun kind and I promise you’ll like it.

Without waiting for a response, I reach behind his head to my jewelry rack that hangs on the wall of my currently being-re-decorated room and take my 35 inch strand of antique natural pearls. His waiting cock is standing forth like a monument to the night and to all his little sex driven mind can conceive. Delicately and with small, soft hands, I wrap the pearls around his cock, starting at the bottom of his thick shaft and twining up, completely encasing his hard flesh in pearls. When at last the pearls were in place, I took both ends and pulled gently, flicking the head of his cock with my tongue…

-”The Hymn of the Pearls“

Now that’s what I call inspirational reading. Feminine dominance at its finest.

Ladies, go ye forth and strike fear into the loins of men. And women.

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I was 17. He was a virgin.

Even early on I was insatiable and had an attraction to the shy boys, the big boys who bragged bigger but had wants they could never admit to themselves, the boys who I could corrupt. The ones who could be willingly corrupted, and then pushed further, and then molded – or discarded when they broke.

It was easy. They were drawn to me. They could sense I would draw them in, then push them.

I was insatiable and I was a teenager, a pretty, developed teenager, and I was insatiable. And no one would say yes to me.

I felt it was owed me. I feel like I’m entitled to sex, and not just the sex, the playing with men’s minds. That’s what makes me what I am, right?

And what makes my minions what they are is that they can’t say no to a gal like me, not even if they want to. I love hearing them say no when they mean yes – then twisting it to yes when they mean no, know they should be saying no but can’t bring themselves to say it.

I was a virgin, and I was sick of it.

Before the virgin I took was the one who wouldn’t take me. He had a girlfriend, and I had a boyfriend, or a minion who loved me and took me to dinner at any rate. (I think I loved him, but I don’t enjoy love, so it’s really hard to say.) He was older and almost as frustrated as I was… his girlfriend didn’t enjoy riding his cock, and I thought I might.

He said no. “I’d feel like I was intruding on your boyfriend’s claim.”

…

I am mine to give or withhold, to buy or sell at or above market value, and no one else’s.

My love for tease and denial was born that night. He denied me – I returned the favor and left his cock swollen and aching. I rode the train home that night sleek and sated on the lust in that hotel room. I didn’t come, then. I didn’t need to. It satisfied me to watch him squirm, and moan, and beg, to feel the heat and crackle in the air, to feel his skin shiver when I ran my fingers down his back. I felt his cock hard against my thigh and I knew that the sex I imagined having with him, taunted him with, and then never gave him, would be so much better than any sex he could ever actually give me.

It’s revenge, sure. Shameless. But that’s what makes me a villain. Every villainess needs a revenge story.

My virgin – my minion – denied me too.

He was a fucking fool. I owned him, in every sense that counted, every sense that mattered.

I pushed, and touched, and asked, and invited, and pressured, and stroked until his no turned into a “Yes, please, now,” and then I told him “No, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

And I pressured him. Over and over. I wore long, black lacy slips to bed instead of nightgowns. I asked him for kinky sex, romantic sex, hard and horny sex, I’ll-be-flying-home-tomorrow sex… I bought stockings, garters, and a red satin corset. If you think my tits look good now you should’ve seen them then. I wore a purple bra and matching panties of see-through mesh trimmed with satin and lace. He was hard instantly, he had to touch my ass through the sheer mesh panel but it wasn’t enough to make him fuck me, or let me fuck him.

What a gal like me loves – and hates – is a man who says no, but not enough no to make me believe it.

I don’t remember what made him finally say yes after saying yes and then falling asleep on me twice before (the first of many let-downs). I did pull out all the stops to seduce him. I was wasting my time, but he was very submissive and more masochistic than was healthy for either of us and I found that rush addictive.

I remember the caresses, his fingers stroking my slit until I was wet and opening and hungry. I remember my lips sliding, wet, over his shaft. Making him groan. I remember finally (finally!) helping him roll the condom down the length of his cock, then climbing astride him and lowering myself down onto his cock, feeling stretched, feeling no pain, only a sweet, sweet tight fit and a fullness that was almost exactly what I had been craving. I wasn’t in heaven, it was someplace better, earthier… the blessed isles maybe, or Elyssium.

What was it, five minutes?

He kept asking to kiss me, asking me to bend down and kiss him. I didn’t need kisses; I needed to not lean forward and risk his cock slipping out (I’m a short girl). They always think I’m sweeter than I am, or maybe it’s just they can’t admit they need what I don’t; the cuddling, the hand-holding, the flowers. He’d give me flowers and I’d ask for him to talk to me, and to let me fuck him. It was about the show and not the substance – all I got was the hollowed-out shell. I’d rather do without the shell and have the creamy center, or for the rare men with both, drain out that center and leave only the shell holding him together…

He made me breakfast and gave me footrubs and let me torture him and that made him useful but no one minion is good for everything. I deserve good service (and many minions).

Our game played out like this: Tease. Deny. Tease. Deny. That’s what I was receiving, but what I dished out in return was the promise (unintended) of sweet, romantic love and sensuality and the reality of a mercurial, sexual bitch.

I ate him alive. It took seven years. I think of it as paying my fey tithe to hell.

I cut him loose, after it was too late. He says he’s getting better but he’ll never be the same.

It’s not that I have no mercy – I tried to give him mercy. He refused it. I offered to release him and he begged me to stop being so mean to him and let him stay. He couldn’t recognize my mercy and he punished me in denying it.

I don’t like what I became with him, you understand? Words were always my weapons, and I only used them to play, before. With him I found a new arsenal and a vicious streak – no, it went beyond vicious. It was evil. It wasn’t even human, or controllable. It was totally unthinking, pure blind rage.

I’m dangerous then, but I’m more dangerous when I go cold.

This is what I am now. I use men for my gain and my pleasure. I take their sex from them, and their money. I take their pride. I eat their lust. They serve me. I’m evil, la belle dame sans merci, a femme fatale.

And I love it.”

Written back sometime in mid-March, posted today. I decided to give my cartoonishly villainous alter ego her own dominatrix account on Niteflirt – and the saucy bitch is live.

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The double meaning is fully intended.

There are a few linked ideas swimming through my brain right now.

One is a couple of posts, and their attached comments, by the divine and transcendent Ms. Lena (namely Praise the Goddess and Pass the Lube and Sodomites in Room 101). One is my slight – but persistent – submissive streak. One is the song “Stinkfist” by Tool. It uses anal fisting as a metaphor for transformation, crossing into the otherworld, and trust.

It’s that last word that links these ideas and this experience.

I’m a pervert, not a slut. I’m short on experience but long on ideas. That said, I’ve done my share of experimenting, but haven’t had the opportunity to do so in much depth.

On Saturday my depths were plumbed.

That was… new.

It’s strange to realize you’ve been in situations, romantically involved with people you’d trust with your life but not with your ass or your thoughts. It’s even stranger to realize that sometimes to win you have to surrender, to protect yourself you have to expose yourself.

I’m not very good at expressing my emotions (I have emotions? Wait, what?); I’m primarily a thinker and a doer. When faced with things I don’t want to say I have to find out how to say or show them without coming out and actually doing it. Subtlety is a form of perversion, and we perverts have some pretty strange ways of saying things.

So bent over, on my hands and knees, wet thighs apart, virgin ass in the air, with my kiss-swollen mouth muffled in the pillow I was saying, to someone who’s just barely not a stranger, I trust you. I’m no good with English so I used the most basic language I knew, the only one I speak, for $1.99 per minute.

Spirituality is the experience of God; mysticism is the ache for, lust for, love of and submission to Hir.

Relax, turn around, and take my hand.

I wasn’t hearing those words – I liked the ones he used better – and they didn’t even come to mind, although that song’s stuck with me for a while. I’ve used it, every word, as an extended industrial mantra.

I’m not stuck on romance. Romance wears out when two people realize they aren’t each other’s love cartoons, and the beloved might actually have expectations and moods of their own. Romance has never been my craving. But experience, intensity, adventure both mental and physical – those are what I need and those are (to me) what the lyrics suggest.

To get those you can’t close off, tighten up, close your ears and forget how to breathe; you have to relax and open up, and it hurts at first, and it feels strange, it always does. You have to breathe, and focus, and listen, and accept accept accept and concentrate on not squeezing yourself tightly like you always do, no matter how much you enjoy it, because there’s a process…

And there are always points in that process when you hit a wrong angle and wince but if you relax and accept when new things try to push their way into you… sometimes you’ll be surprised how deep you can take it, and how good it feels.

It’s strange to put yourself into a situation knowing: I have no choice. I must submit or this is going to hurt like hell. But I want this.

It’s even stranger how easy it was.

Cold lube circled the rim of my ass and dripped down, jolting me out of my trance. Relax, baby. Breathe, breathe, breathe… Focus. Relaxing took focus, just remembering not to tighten that ring in time with the shivers running through my pussy. Remembering to hold still and just let things happen. I listened to his voice and the weight of his body on my legs and back and his finger sinking in slow and it was like going under, honestly, except no one’s ever been able to hypnotize me. Good girl and I opened up all over and bent my head down, arms folded, and raised my ass, and just held that feeling…

One fist pressed tightly against my slippery, just-fucked pussy, one clutching the pillow, then (desperately) the rug, then his hand, and I think I was touching his legs with my feet, or something… My hair was in my mouth and it helped muffle the mewling noises I think were coming from my throat.

And it felt good. Different. Intense. When you’re having a dick pressed inch by inch into an ass so tight one finger inside feels like stretching, til it’s almost buried to the base, and he finally gives you a real thrust for that one last inch, you truly feel fucked.

(HNT coming shortly but this post is much more than half-nekkid.)

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It’s not rape if he knows it’s coming.

Two weeks of threats. Just long enough for him to get used to the idea, to expect it but to stop thinking he knows when.

I like to hold him still, holding his shoulders, maybe pinning his arms in place, and go over his body with my eyes. I’ll walk around him, shamelessly eyeballing, checking out his shoulders and arms and chest and the line of his sides to his hips, the firm ass, the toned thighs. I squeeze where I want to and when I want to and if he makes a move to stop me it’s only to grope back.

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t know how to switch it around – how to fight back. Mrrow.

But this victim isn’t innocent or naive. It’ll be a challenge with the ultimate goal of feeding my sexual ego and blowing his mind.

First, the threats will increase in severity.

An obscene text message here and there. I’ll let him know exactly what I’m doing. He has to picture it, he has to be as constantly aware of the heat between my legs as I am.

Then voice mails prefixed with warnings: “You might want to turn the volume down if you aren’t alone…”

There will be evidence. He will receive it. Not in the mail, that’s too haphazard. I don’t want these things going to the wrong address.

After it’s affected his mind, after the curiosity and paranoia set in, I’ll back off on the threats.

Instead I’ll test the waters. I’ve already started; I started the first night. He’s doomed. He’ll go with a smile on his face if I do this right but that doesn’t make him any less doomed.

(I have to do this right. This one’s fun to play with.)

I’ll throw the pieces at him one by one before I assemble them around him. By the time he realizes he can’t escape he won’t want to.

(Technically he can, I just like the way that sounds. The knife will be there to cut the duct tape if he wants out. It’s not rape if you take no for an answer.)

I’m learning from the masters: One is a flaming psycho and the other is a sex god. I’m merging their techniques (minus the violence and illegality of the first – I want the intensity, not the fear) to create my own brand of crazy sexy.

I want him begging for it right before I thrust down and slide his cock home. I want to feel the tension in his shoulders and neck, in his thighs, and press my fingers against that hungry rhythmic pulse right above his balls. I want to see pure fucking need in his eyes that turns to orgasmic relief.

He’s seen it in mine. I saw what causing it, seeing it, did to him; exactly what it does to me.

(Have you ever been the victim of a seduction? Have you ever been hunted, lured, trapped, pushed and persuaded into exactly what you were hoping they’d do? Let’s just say I felt the hook in my mouth and now it’s his turn.)

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I tell Lorraine that I have on my black slip, the diamond earrings.

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, get in front of the mirror, Mel.”

“I am in front of the mirror. What?”

“I want you to put a finger up there. Come on, just one.”

“Lorraine –” I sound like I’m about to refuse. But I do it. Of course I do it. And yes, it’s warm, it’s wet. It was getting caught up in the excitement of having a reason to get next to a good silky clean and new pair of panties, a pair of panties that hadn’t gotten de-elasticized in the wash, that was never subject to an errant period, a totally pristine pair of panties like you want a man to see you in who has never seen you in your underwear before. It was getting warm thinking about Jeff, and how he smells freshly washed and dabbed with the cologne he, no doubt, wants me to think he smells like all the time. New people, new bodies, the fear of the unfamiliar, maybe.

(keep reading Kat’s delicious lesbian phone sex erotica piece Mirror, Mirror…)

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That’s all you’re getting out of me. I’m sworn to secrecy. Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!

(And yes, I did steal this bra from a goth bordello. Isn’t it great?)

I might post some erotic flash fiction tonight if I get a chance. If.

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My panties are totally soaked. It was awesome.

This is a first for me so I’ll commemorate it appropriately:

“…and this is how I look when I’m really getting into [a spanking] and pushing my ass out, raising my hips, begging for more. Green panties are wicked awesome.”

(The pic is from St. P’s day, the text is from my Flickr album, the clutter is from digging around for my Flogging Molly CDs. I’m wearing green panties today too – this time a lace thong.)

If you too felt compelled to bare your soul and/or your bottom to the world this week, send me a link to your favorite entry from this week and join the Sugasm.

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