Friday Flasher: Lick

I watch while, with each long lick, his closed eyes flutter and his long lashes become wet with thankful tears.

I watch while the taut muscles of his neck struggle to reach, how he opens his mouth and uses his shoulders to push himself toward his own taking of this sacrament.

I watch the innocent cock that hangs down beneath his bound and kneeling form become achingly full with its need to release, its trembling longing to be of use.

I watch in rapt adoration while the dirt of the street that he takes into his mouth, onto his tongue, transforms before my eyes into something so clean, so holy that only a man such as mine could be worthy of it.

I watch while, in his servitude, he becomes not humiliated or unmanned, but set free, lifted far beyond the gritty filth of this man’s world he so lovingly cleans from my shoes.

Image: Morguefile

Feeling it

A post or so back, I talked about feeling it all the way down. And I just had a thought about that - an afterthought, aftershock, post script, whatever…

When I am submitting and that moment of surrender comes, I tend to feel it as a letting go, a relaxing, like heavy gates are swinging open in slow motion within me.

And that feeling usually originates as a tingling in the back of my neck that moves down my shoulders and radiates in expansive waves that wash down into into my chest and diaphragm. This is usually when the calm settles in and I being to float.

Also, when I start to feel the letting go of surrender, I want to begin exhaling in long slow beautiful waves. Really long, sighing, moaning exhalations feel very very good, and I feel dreamy, dissolved… at one with the world.

When I’m dominating and that surge of almost savage focus comes, I tend to feel it as a very fast expansion, as if some superheated energy has flash-flooded into a container that can barely hold it.

And this feeling usually originates in my solar plexus or my belly, and then radiates upward very fast into my chest and neck. I sometimes get dizzy at this point, and my eyes feel like they’re snapping into some sort of super vision mode, like I can suddenly see at both a microscopic level as well as into outerspace (I know, that sounds goofy, but there it is).

And when that flood of power begins to overtake me, I have the feeling that I want to suck in as much air as I can - deep, gluttonous inhalations. I think my chest actually physically expands at this point and inhaling feels so fucking powerfully good - like I’m suddenly more alive than alive.

So… this is interesting. Especially from the standpoint of chakras and energy movement. In my body, it seems that dominance goes up on the inhale, surrender goes down on the exhale, and either way, it all ends up swirling around at the heart.

Wow… I honestly never looked at my own responses like this before, contrasted in this way. The complementarity of this is really cool to me - up/down, in/out, etc.

Also interesting is that these upper body feelings are generally my first entrance into the “spaces” of either dominance or submission, and only later, after it’s spent some time swirling around in my heart center, does the energy move into the lower, sexual chakras - which triggers a whole other dimension of… swirling.

Hmm… Feeling it all the way down. Indeed.

Step into my office

I thought I’d just make my sexy retro self comfortable at my desk here and answer some mail.

(Ok, I admit it, I may have worn polyester and big belts and linebacker shoulder pads in 1986, but I drew the line at fake flowers.)

Anyway…

Recently, a few people have emailed me to ask me (very politely, bless them) about 1) my relationship with my husband and, 2) my experience with pro-domme work.

While I’m not inclined to answer a question just because it’s asked, I did realize that I haven’t really talked much about these two subjects even though I refer to them a lot.

So, for those of you who asked (so very sweetly), and also for those of you playing along at home, here’s the low down on both. Or, as Inigo Montoya would say:

Let me ’splain. [pause] No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

My relationship with my husband:

Basically, we are committed life partners. Period. So a few years ago, when we each realized how deeply different our approaches to both sexuality and spirituality really are, we came to the conclusion that renegotiating our previous agreement of monogamy was in order.

Since we are committed to loving and respecting and supporting each other from within the container of our relationship, we’ve renegotiated many things (sexual and otherwise) over the past few years in order to re-fashion that container so that it can continue to nurture us both as well as it always has.

So, the way we see it, we are now in a open, non-monogamous primary relationship (as we’ve defined it). Hence, my talk recently about both my relationship with my husband and my thoughts about seeking a relationship with a submissive man.

My pro-domme experience:

Well, it’s pretty tame, actually - by today’s standards, anyway. Long before teh internets changed the way sexual services were offered and sought out, long before the word Dominatrix could even be uttered in polite company, let alone become the subject of books on a publicly accessible shelf at Barnes and Noble, I worked with a very small exclusive clientele agented by someone I knew.

Basically, it was a friendly, almost casual agreement all around and I actually met some really great people… and only two real wack jobs. In other words, I have no glamorous dirt to dish. It was, on most levels, as I’ve said before, simply a job.

However, me being me, I did "travel" to some really interesting inner spaces with the men I worked with. And as I’ve talked about elsewhere, several of these instances ended up being life changing, spiritual experiences, sometimes for both of us. This certainly did not happen all the time, but more often than you might assume.

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Image: Oh-so retro secretary, from here

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And, for those of you who’ve gotten all the way to the end of this post, a bonus answer: I did play secretary, but it wasn’t at all like the movie. It was more like shut-up-worm-and-lick-my-shoes-cuz-I’m-the-Bossy-Bitchy Secretary… and not at all like sit-in-the-chair-till-you-pee Maggie Gyllenhaal secretary.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually adored the movie. It’s just that back then, it being the eighties and all, I hadn’t seen it yet.

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Still here?

You sit through the credits at the end of movies, don’t you?

A pro-domme is not a doctor, but she could play one on TV

Lately, I’ve run into a couple of blogs by young-ish women* who are writing about considering becoming pro-dommes because they’ve tried the femdommy thing a little bit and they find they like hitting men, and they have judged themselves pretty good at it.

So, they figure… Why not go pro? Why not make some money doing it?

Ah-hem…

Now begins the rant. A very short rant.

Hey, I just took an aspirin for my headache and my headache went away. Wow, that was fun! That worked! I really liked that, maybe I should become a doctor! You know, make some money at this administering drugs stuff!

No.

The yawning canyon between taking an aspirin for your headache and being a doctor is as wide as the one which exists between slapping your boyfriend around until you feel dizzy with power and being a pro-domme.

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*Not anyone I link to. Obviously.

Love and power, aka chocolate and peanut butter

I recently realized that I have never submitted to a man sexually if there was not an already established circuit of love coursing between us.

But, I have dominated men just fine without that type of mutual love connection. And, in fact, I’ve felt more clarity and confidence concerning my ability to dominate a man if I don’t love him.

It’s as if submission (me being submissive) is rooted in love and the feeling of connection, whereas dominance (me being dominant) is rooted in power and the feeling of detachment.

Hmm… so what the hell is that about? [Elizavetta ponders] And why am I making a differentiation like this; these mental groupings of love/connection/submission and power/detachment/dominance?

Is this a result of a cultural male/female thing I’ve taken on unquestioningly as a personal belief? Or is there really something integral to me about this differentiation?

OR, am I simply on the cusp of discovering two great tastes that taste great together… you know, kinda like the yummy heaven one finds in a Reese’s peanut butter cup?

These are my current questions of the day…

… which I’ll think about some more after I get back from the candy store.

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Image credit: bob.fornal at flickr

Words: sometimes they’re really pretty useless

One of the first times I realized that I had some understanding of the dynamics of the dominant side of d/s was when I was with a man who wanted me to hurt his cock, but in his words, "not too much."

So, intending to spend some pre-session time talking with him to try to get some idea of where "not too much" was located for him, I asked him, "what do you want me to do to your cock?"

He spent the next 15 minutes detailing for me, in one of the most mesmerizing, carefully constructed, self-involved monologues I’ve ever witnessed, exactly how he wanted to be hurt, but not too much.

He yammered on about which types of hurts would produce pleasure for him and which would produce pain. He talked about pleasurable pain versus pain that bordered on bearable versus pain that would send him through the roof.

He detailed all the acts that, if I were to do them, would worry him about the safety of his cock. Then he listed all the acts that would immediately send him into orgasm, but of course, not all the time, only in certain circumstances… on and on and on.

The man knew his cock, and he knew exactly what he wanted done to it. He was very articulate. But he never once looked me in the eye while he spoke .

Once he had exhausted his words, I proceeded to get him naked and tied - as he had asked for - standing, with his ankles and wrists in cuffs fixed to bars bolted into the wall.

We both expected that his expectations would be met; that I would do all the things to his cock that he asked me to do and none of those he mentioned that he didn’t want to experience under any circumstances.

He was paying me, basically, to first listen to him and then give him what he said he wanted. But, that night, I decided to take an intuitive gamble based on the fact that, when in comes to sex, especially sex that is paid for, what is articulated in the head is almost never the story hidden in the body.

I stood in front of him, placed myself totally into his space, nose to nose, and looked directly into his eyes. I ordered him to look at me and to look me in the eye the whole time I was hurting him. I warned him that if he looked away I would walk away and leave the room; leave him cuffed there by himself until he was either ready to look at me or his time was up, whichever came first.

It took him a few long moments before he was finally able to look me in the eye. When he was able to hold my gaze, I slowly pressed my tits into his chest and began crooning to him, "Do you want me to hurt your cock, baby?"

He nodded and began breathing heavily.

Still looking into his eyes, I ran my hands down his body, and rubbed myself against him, but never touched his cock, and never broke my gaze.

"Tell me how much," I said. "Tell me how much you want me to hurt your cock. Say it. Say all those words you just said… say them again to me."

His eyes began fluttering with tears. He struggled with trying to speak while looking in my eyes. His struggle went on for a long, holy moment.

Then just before it seemed he was going to finally speak, I reared back fast and slapped his face very hard.

When his head snapped back toward me, the look on his face went from stunned to hurt… betrayal… anger… in a matter of seconds. I backed up and stood barely a foot away from him to watch while he strained and arched in his bonds toward me, away from me, totally at the mercy of all the emotions and sensations firing at light speed through his being.

Eventually, as I suspected would happen, a great rage rose up in him; a rage that made me thankful he was bolted to the wall. And, as I suspected, it was the rage that finally did it (along with, perhaps, my uncompromising, uncommenting witnessing of it).

And as that lifetime of rage silently burned it’s white hot way from the center of his body outward, he never broke my gaze - and never said a word - until his knees gave way and his cock spurted in wild grunting whole-body thrusts into the electrified air between us.

When his orgasm subsided and his body went limp in his bonds, he hung his head forward between his shoulders and muttered an exhausted, gasping, "thank you." I waited with him in the aftermath with my hand on the top of his head until he was done crying, silently uttering my own thank you that my gamble was the right one on the right night.

Over the course of the next six months, he saw me regularly, and we came to respect each other a great deal in that odd way of two people involved in sexual/spiritual commerce.

And during that time, he began to understand the story in his body in a way that no longer required words. And I began to understand that the act of sexually dominating another person is, like even the most well-articulated of expectations, never what you think it’s going to be.

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Image Credit: Morguefile

Hide and Seek

And if I find my hard headed woman…
~Cat Stevens

I know now that it has always been my heart and body that long to submit, that ache to offer themselves up to that which sees, with absolute clarity, their true natures.

This heart-body that is me, this untamed spirit-self - this is the wild, essential part of me that automatically shows throat at the right word or look or touch from the right man with the right light in his eyes.

This is the part of me that comfortably dwells in the flickering pools of light that illuminate the dark nexus of surrender and renewal, that place in each of us where all universes are created… and destroyed… and remade.

But my mind, my survive-at-all-costs mind, has always been totally dominant and will stubbornly stick to the straight road of its own self-serving purpose even though my heart-body often pleads its own case in the most convincing of ways.

And I suspect that no word, no touch, no look by even the most righteous of man with the most beautiful of eyes, will ever change that.

This is not to say that I believe my mind is "bad" for being stubbornly consistent, or even that my heart and body are "good" for being properly (according to ideas about my gender) acquiescent.

On the contrary, I am beginning to see just how strong and complete this combination has made me - and how it has gifted me with the capability for masterful submission as well as exquisitely loving dominance, sexually and otherwise.

But this self-knowledge of the finer points of my own inner alchemical make up has not always been clear to me. In fact, it is relatively new information.

And, as with most discoveries about one’s self, after the ah-ha, comes the oy vey… or as they say, if only I had known then what I know now…

I once had a lover who called me his hard-headed woman. We flirted with dominance and submission but never crossed into that land even though, unbeknownst to us, we were both citizens by birth.

And so, at that time, I could not understand why he insisted on calling me hard-headed when all I ever wanted to do was submit my "all" to his every request, his every need for release and renewal. But then, neither he nor I had any idea yet about the subtle divisions that existed inside that "all" of either of us.

His naming of me as a hard-headed woman was not an insult, though, as it might have been coming from another man. He never uttered those words with any hint of anger or exasperation; it was a nickname, a term of endearment, saved for only the most intimate and tender of times.

In fact, he always said it with a barely concealed lust in his voice and something else in his eyes, something that totally astonished and confused me at the time, something akin to awe.

Back then, it was only the lust I understood and responded to. But, recently, I have come to understand the awe - the combination of respect and wonder and dread with which he looked at me. I have come to understand what he saw; what manner of creature he had found in me, hiding.

And in my new understanding, I can only sit here dumbfounded at the immensity of what we both lost - he because of his eventual inability to claim what he saw, and me because of my inability to fully be what I was.

Luckily, time does help most things of this nature. Well, it usually helps… somewhat…

And so, as my own understanding is carving a way for me to forgive him for not coming to look for me after our game’s counting had ended, I can only hope he is also finding a way to both understand and forgive my own need, back then, to stay hidden for so long in the devestating aftermath of that silence.

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Image credit: Unknown. If anyone knows who created this image, please let me know so I can credit him or her properly.

This is all I would need on my island

Ok, well, also this:

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The sweaty man in the picture: Desmond (Henry Ian Cusick ) from Lost

The thing that makes him sweat (in my imagination anyway): The Simon Legree Slapper from Mr. S Leather

Something just for me

Gillette left a comment on my last post which opened a floodgate for me. Well, not really a floodgate, it was more like just turning on a small faucet. Anyway, mental flow of any kind usually leads to me having to write about something, and while responding to her comment, I realized I was actually writing a post (I love it when that happens!). So here you are:

In her comment on this post , Gillette related a deep and somewhat edgy experience of engaging the dominant part of herself. And then she said:

I believe that sometimes the places of our deepest fears are the places that hold our greatest powers. (not saying I heard this [engaging with the dominant energy in one's self] is a fear of yours…just sharing).

Our deepest fears as a source of great power? Oh, absolutely! And there is indeed some fear in this for me.

It’s not that I’m afraid of the dominant desire in myself or even my expression of it in the world. I have had some experience with all of that and have definitely done quite a bit of emotional and mental processing about it.

What I’m skittish about is getting to a place where I can live my own organic expression of it, as I mentioned in my post, and find a partner who actually wants/needs my version of it. And by this I mean my own natural and unique version of dominance - which doesn’t much obey the confines and strictures of the Pro Domme sex worker persona I once participated in.

Once an outer role is shed or refused, the difficulty (and therefore the fear) becomes about taking on the total responsibility for expressing the unique truth of that part of one’s self despite the prevalent social models available at the time . And that’s right where I am with all of this; that’s the location of the fear.

Although, honestly, I don’t think I would even call it fear at this point. Wariness, maybe… trepidation. And not even so much at the unknown in myself, but in the acceptance of my own brand of dominance by any partner I might engage with.

I’m not so much concerned about my own ability to reach escape velocity where the socially accepted Pro Domme Persona is concerned. In fact, I’d have to say, I’m already safely sailing out pretty far from that particular black hole, at least mentally.

I’m more worried, frankly, about the likelyhood of finding the right partner, a man who is mature enough in his own submission to get that not all dominant women are perfect-bodied whip-yeilding catsuit-wearing ModelBitches dedicated to nothing but a faux-submissive man’s every demanding whim for pain, pleasure, humiliation, etc.

The idea of female domination has become so ridiculously skewed in the collective reality and therefore in the pictures of reality we hold in our heads (male and female), that the true personal expression of one woman’s dominant desires is often effectively wrangled into (ironically) complete submission by the monolithic MeanBitch-in-the-sky version of FemDom that we all know all too well.

It’s kind of like Pro Wrestling. While most people don’t believe that Pro Wrestling is the only true way to engage in contact sports, those theatrically costumed bigger-than-life Pro Wrestlers present a very strong and lasting picture in our heads. And pictures in our heads are very very difficult to put aside when we’re trying to find other versions of reality that have no corresponding social image.

Anyway, others have written far more eloquently and saucily about this subject than I ever could. And if you’re interested in truly delving into this topic, Bitchy Jones is certainly required reading, especially this and this . Also highly recommended are The Switch is Not a Myth , Devastating Yet Inconsequential , and Mistress 160’s Abode .

I guess what I’m trying to write myself into articulating is this:
I’m not seeking a Pro-Domme situation again, but a personal, sexual-spritual relationship with a submissive man. In other words, I’m not seeking a job this time, but a personal Way, something just for me.

And I’m not saying that I can’t or shouldn’t embark on this search because the Wonderful World of Disney, er, I mean FemDom is just so skewed that I might as well give up. I’m just saying that I accept the reality that it could prove to be a difficult journey, at least to begin. But then, if the rest of my life experience is any clue, that last statement alone probably means it’s going to end up being well worth the effort.

Image credit: Rundu

Swing yer partner, round and round, turn yer corner upside down

For some time now, I’ve been aware that I’ve had a kind of vague desire to wander back over to the other side of submission… again.

Thinking about some events over the past several months and also looking back over the writing I’ve done on this site, I can see that desire peeking out a little here and here , and definitely doing a pretty bold drive-by here .

For the most part, my domme-ish side* has been packed away and lurking around just beneath my personal radar - where it’s been for many many years (about 20… give or take). But lately, it’s become increasing obvious to me that the little green domme!-domme!-domme! light has begun to blip pretty hard again.

There are probably several reasons for its reappearance right now. I know that recent changes in my marriage along with the rapid personal growth we’re both experiencing right now has a lot to do with it.

Also, lately, I’m feeling a sense of personal freedom and power that seems very similar to what I felt when I previously danced on the dominant side of d/s.**

And I also suspect that the changes of menopause, particularly my theory concerning revisiting previous stages of life at this time, which I talked about in this post , may also have something to do with it, too.

Now, before anyone has a chance to over-extrapolate and take issue with that last sentence, let me just stop here and do this little disclaimer:

I am not saying that menopause is THE reason I am suddenly getting massively turned on by the thought of whacking men’s butts again and/or making them crawl on the floor and/or enjoying the hell out of watching them endure all sorts of other deviant torturations I choose to put their delicious male bodyminds through.

I am not saying that all women are dommy time bombs just waiting to go off when the menopause clock finally clicks zero.

I’m just noticing how my experience of menopause combined with the current changes in my marriage and with my own natural slant toward sexual alchemy and the power play that goes with it are all conspiring to resurrect a longing in me to dance on the dominant side of things again. As in, I’m just making a subjective statement about my own life here.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, where was I?

Oh, yes. Whacking men’s asses with thwacky smacky implements and such… right. Yes, this is what I’m thinking about lately… a lot.

Kneeling men, sweating and squirming under my gaze. Supplicant, bowing men who long for the opportunity to serve my will by offering their most protected vulnerabilities to me. Big strong, good smelling men who grunt and moan under my hand… and cry epiphianic tears… and thank me for it in oh-so many ways, later.

I find this emerging development in me kind of intriguing in general, but especially so in light of my efforts to get my dance mojo back . Yes, very interesting indeed…

More on all of this later. Obviously

* I wrote a little bit about my domme-ish side here , but the parts where I talk about it directly are sprinkled throughout this very long rambling post. If you want to read the whole tome, go for it, but if you don’t, here’s the short version: Basically, my past experience on the domme side of things was primarily in the context of sex work and was conducted as a service, meaning that my job was to "fill customer orders" rather than allow myself to fully engage in my own need/desire to explore my own organic dominance, which is, by the way, exactly what I think is coming up now at this point in my life. The chance to explore that, I mean.

**I do not capitalize the D in dominant when speaking of dominance and submission (unless the word occurs at the beginning of a sentence or in a title). I definitely respect the choice of others to use that notation (D/s, or Capitalized/uncapitalized first names) to indicate the power differential in a relationship (or whatever else it may mean to them) but, I personally don’t choose to use it for reasons which I explained in this post on my previous blog .

Image credit: Joseph Caprio

About the title: That’s a little Square Dancing call , y’all. You know, I always wondered about Square Dancers… all that fancy spinning around and do-si-do -ing… all that partner-swinging and such. They were up to no good. I’m sure of it.