Dream Deferred

April 1, 2017

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

fantasy come true

April 1, 2017

Is it a fantasy come true?

For most people femdom, or a female led relationship, stays a secret fantasy. Those inexperienced people often construct myths around femdom and FLR. But do you know what femdom is in real life? It is, in short: When you feel sexually aroused while I use you to make myself happy. Sounds like the porn you watch? Probably because you can’t put yourself in the position of the real me.

What I want to be happy may be a clean kitchen, it may be a stack of shirts ironed, it may be my neighbours called out because they keep me awake all night with endless partying. It may be you stripping for me on my command and then me stomping on and slapping parts of your body, it may be me, teasing your most erogenous zones, talking to you in my cute voice or it may be both of us cuddling on the sofa and watching movies in our pyjamas.

Femdom is about certain emotional needs being satisfied. It is not so much about the fetishes. They can be just a part of it.

FLR is one way of conducting your relationship and to find peace, happiness and real intimacy in it.

I can’t stand people telling me how my dominance should look like to be real dominance (mostly men, but sometimes women too).

I am the evil black spirit one minute and the loving mother the next, I protect and I hurt. Amicably. If we agreed in our relationship that you are my sub and I am your boss, there is no way that you dictate to me what is dominance and what isn’t. But of course you are to communicate to me what works for you and what doesn’t. This is a relationship as any other in one way: You are together with me because you want me. I am with you because I want you. If you decide, that I am not what you want, you can leave. Always. But you don’t come to me, beg me to be your Domme and then tell me what of my behaviour is dominance and what isn’t. What I’m allowed to and what I’m not allowed to do to still call myself a Domme. If I am your Domme, I’m always your Domme. No matter in what voice I’m talking, no matter how nicely I phrase any command, no matter to what use I see fit to utilize you.

Naturally, it follows, that not every man who calls himself a sub is the ideal match for every woman who calls herself a Domme. We are all humans. A relationship is always dependent on personal sympathies, and human personalities are defined by more than just “Domme” or “sub”. You wouldn’t suggest, that everyone who likes vanilla sex and conservative marriage, is a good match for every other person with the same preference, would you?

Femdom is far more than evil stares and harsh words from Ice Queens. Women can be dominant in so many ways! And if you want to, and she consents, you can have the Ice Queen occasionally from your loved one, or always, if you pay Her for it.

Living in a femdom relationship with a lifestyle Domme is fun and fulfilling, it’s contributing to the happiness of all partners involved. That’s the sign of every healthy relationship, by the way. And, you know, most women aren’t happy in a relationship where they never can get hugs when they’re tired or be silly and cute just because they always have to role-play the Evil Queen. You are two adults, supporting each other in your needs and dreams. Not two combatants, constantly fighting each other or one, always expected to fight, to subdue the other and to keep him in the relationship out of fear.

Source Here

All the way up him

April 1, 2017

I pull the giant strap-on cock out of him. Sitting back I examine his shiny, gaping hole… then I slide in two gloved fingers and I twist them around inside him. His ass tightens around them. I finger fuck him as my other gloved hand grabs his rock-hard cock, and I just squeeze it at the base and slide my open palm along the underside of his cock, wrapping my whole hand around the head after a few minutes.

“Oh god, oh fuck. You’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cum…”

“No, I’m NOT, and NO YOU WON’T! You do NOT come until I say you can! Understood!?”

I stop teasing his swollen cock. He’s close to orgasm. I pull my fingers from his asshole. I blow cold air onto his asshole with my mouth, then gather saliva and spit on his ass cheeks. I take my left hand and wrap it around his waist, while I rub my spit evenly in a circle with my right hand. I spank him as hard as I can on both cheeks and he jumps in surprise and pain.

“There! That should bring you back to me, you selfish fuck! Who do you think you are? You don’t cum when YOU want to, you ungrateful little tosser. This is MY time, and you’re MY fuckhole, bitch. MY cock, MY toy! DO you UNDERSTAND ME?!

His face is now buried in the sheets. I just sit there, letting his cock go soft again, in silence.

Then I rub my fingers on his asshole again and loosen him back up, getting him back into wanting. I slowly slide my thumb inside his hole and pull it to the side… then I slide in my other thumb and I pull him apart as slowly and as far as I can. I watch him open up again. I pull my thumbs even further apart. I know it hurts him.

“Bear down! Push out for me, you little whore…I wanna see inside you. That’s right.. push as if you’re taking a shit. There you go……. Oh yeah! Good boy.”

He’s grunting in between holding his breath, as he’s pushing as hard as he can while I open him up so I can literally see inside his now gaping hole.

He moans an ‘Oooww god’ as I stretch him out.

I move around by his head, my knees on the floor now, so I’m eye-level with him, and I take off my gloves. His head is face down in the sheets, he’s breathing heavy and sweating, so I lift his head gently and stroke his hair and face, and he looks into my eyes with adoration.

I kiss his sweaty cheeks, as he closes his eyes and I kiss his eyelids, barely touching them. He moans with anticipation and pleasure, as I rub his lower lip with my thumb, gently and lovingly, him kissing my fingers as I move my hand. I rub his upper back with my hand, going back to his neck and squeezing it as i lean my face into his ear and breathe.

He tries to kiss and nuzzle his face on any part of my body he can touch (which is mainly my arms). He knows NOT to ever try to kiss or touch my face, unless I explicitly tell him he can. I tell him to get up on all fours, and he does. I kneel up straight, and we’re now face to face. I give him a smile and stroke his hair again, and put his chin up to kiss his nose and then I kiss his open mouth – EVER SO GENTLY and slowly. He remains still, his breathing getting deeper now.

I hold his face in both my hands and study his entire face. He really is adorable, and I really love our interaction, his body, his baby-face, perfect teeth, lovely cock and adoring yearning for me. But I certainly can’t let him know how yummy I find him, so I now just kiss him fully on the mouth, my hands moving up and onto his hair again, to grab fists of it in my grasp as we kiss each other passionately. Once he knew it was ok to reciprocate, his tongue entered my mouth; our breathing deepened, and I was more than ready to open this sweet young pet up again. I left the kiss with my tongue lapping his lower lip in one sweep, my pussy as slippery as ever, and soaking through my panties for sure. He let his head hang when I pulled back, keeping his eyes closed. I moved behind him on the bed…my hand never leaving his back, never breaking contact with him.

I grab some more lube and drip it all over my 12″ flesh-coloured rubber cock. Then over his ass crack. I lean over and kiss his lower back along the spine, laying my cheek on his skin for a few seconds. I can feel him arch like a cat and moan quietly whenever I touch him. He lifts his head now, as I press my cock up against his assflesh and wait. He’s panting, I’m waiting, not moving.

Then, as anticipated, he starts to grind his hips once again, his cock growing while he moves himself back into me. I take my hands and put them on his ass cheeks and spread them wide. I LOVE the feel of the ‘pop’ when my massive cock head breaks through his tight little sphincter. He moans low in pleasure / pain. Then I feel it when the cock head reaches that ‘second sphincter’, the one deep inside where the depths of his bowels awaken. He moans differently now. I’m literally straightening his colon, his prostate swollen and everything raw and ready. There is NOTHING like this.

I bite my lower lip, grab his hips and lean over him, much more intimate than before. This time will be fast and hard…this time will wear out his hole and hurt my knees. He knows this, and can’t wait. Fuck, he’s adorable.

Mankind has gone very far into an artificial world of his own creation. He has sought to insulate himself, in his cities of steel and concrete, from the realities of earth and water and the growing seed. Intoxicated with a sense of his own power, he seems to be going farther and farther into more experiments for the destruction of himself and his world.

There is certainly no single remedy for this condition and I am offering no panacea. But it seems reasonable to believe — and I do believe — that the more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race. Wonder and humility are wholesome emotions, and they do not exist side by side with a lust for destruction.

Rachel Carson ,
Lost Woods: The Discovered Writing of Rachel Carson,
edited by Linda Lear

You are a witch. You warp the very energy that makes up the universe. You dig chunks of sharp crystal from the earth with bare hands and wear them as trinkets. You rip herbs from the dirt and use them to spice the air. You collect glass and bones and storm water and daggers.

Maybe you’re a different sort of witch. Maybe you write music like a siren’s song, sung to the stars, manipulating them until they shine the way you wish. Maybe you delve deep into code and weave quiet, meticulous charms into the very bones of the cyber world, feeling the flow of waves and Wi-Fi like others do the wind and the ways of the cosmos. Maybe you collect eldritch creatures, spirits and deities like others do stamps, frightened because you’re smart, unceasing because you’re brave, and know you’re much scarier than anything you welcome over your threshold.

Maybe you slip blessings into food. Maybe you slip curses under doorsteps. Maybe you draw symbols on your arms. Maybe you write incantations to be heard only by crickets, wicked, whispered nocturnes.

Whatever you do, however you do it, you are a witch. You are a warrior by default. Your strength is as innate to you as breathing. The only thing you must fear is what will happen when someone pushes you too far.

Source Here

Diary 1st April

April fool’s day.

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In which case should I write about the Fish woman leading a tartan clad army in an invasion of England? A fish unable to let go of the distant past; a Fish consequently obsessing about irrelevancies?

No modern leader of Scotland can ever live up to the example set by Mel Gibson. Now there was a first minister worth dying for!

“FREEDOM!”

Alas, freedom is not a quality found in Brussels. As the Irish like to say: “Imeacht gan teacht ort” which tells us everything, doesn’t it?

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I would like my fiction to profoundly disturb. It should be an open door that leads where the reader would never normally have consented to go; a door that simply twists reality into mind warping arabesques…

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School days in mind, again. Teachers, male and female, observing their young charges (us) during the lunch break. Noisy Cherubim and Seraphim are we, scattered around the playground in small gossiping groups (no ball games are allowed).

What thoughts filled the heads of those blackgowned masters and mistresses, standing together like big black bats beside the stacked milk crates?

Their job, after all, was to forcibly conventionalise us as potential miniatures of themselves. But children are such unruly barbarians, aren’t they So did they perhaps, these teachers, envision myriad bare bottoms, offered up as targets to their swishy canes?

We Cherubim and Seraphim had ‘normal’ bourgeois backgrounds. But many of us harboured infantile fantasies of burning schools, and the spontaneous combustion of hated individual members of staff.

Like Miss Boil…

Boil the Bitch” she was nicknamed. And bitch she most certainly was. Quick tempered. A firey Irish redhead, with a short fuse. She liked to group three rulers together on her desk; she’d use these to lash out and strike the backs of the hands of any child within easy reach – when the mood was upon her. She took an unspeakable delight in this, and the tears of her victims…the red marks on soft flesh.

It seemed to us at the time, that her pleasure was heightened when her blows landed on bare legs or arms. She was our form mistress and always condemned our slovenly dress or poor hygiene or careless homework – there was something almost fetishistic in her behavior! As if, deep down, she hated children. Hated us.

Once Ken B was caught picking his nose and eating the secreta. Boil, screaming, hacked at him with her rulers. Vicious blows to legs, backside. The rulers broke. Backing away from her, Ken tripped over a chair; ended up on the floor, his legs in the air supported by the chair – and the Boil grabbed and twisted between his spread legs.

All in that classroom were shocked by the unexpected severity of her outburst. It was bad even for the Boil. Worse, of course, for snot-eating Ken, who fainted through pain and the shock of what she did to him…

And what of Mr Varmā our teacher of mathematics? He spent most of his time having the class learn theorems. He enjoyed (apparently) having his pupils recite them from memory. The rest of his time he spent telling us, the Cherubim and Seraphim, of the mind blasting punishments that lay in store if we should fail in our recitation. He took particular delight in describing an occasion in some other school when he had caned a boy who’d failed to memorize his theorems –

‘I caned him and caned him and caned him ‘til the blood flowed…’ This recounted in the high, shrill voice of a closet sadist.

‘But surely not, I hear you cry.’ This must be an exaggeration or make-believe. Teachers like that couldn’t possibly exist!

Au contraire mes enfants.

The above is true. Certainly I’ve played with chronology. Miss Boil was form mistress at Chester Collage; Mr Varmā was maths teacher at Riverside in Harrow Weald. There were a couple of years between these unhappy encounters. But both were unstable individuals in positions they should never have held.

But we, the Cherubim and Seraphim, daily underwent psychostasy at their hands. We had to put up with the trials and tribulations; the ordeals and outrage. The pair of them were nutjobs who managed to fool the powers that be for a time. Ultimately, we, the Cherubim and Seraphim, should throw roses into the abyss in thanks that we weren’t devoured by these monsters.

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You bury the past, but with a will of its own it digs itself free to confront you again. Was it not Max Beerbohm who wrote: ‘The past is a work of art, free of irrelevancies and loose ends.’ Well, recalling my past now, in relative tranquility, it seems full of ‘loose ends’ and ‘irrelevancies’…