Category Archives: confidence

Bonding over Bitching

I work in an office of women and it’s quite discouraging.  Through the course of a single day, the topics of conversation include: Reality T.V, how much they hate their bodies, celebrities, plastic surgery, cosmetics, and how annoying their kids/boyfriends/husbands are.  I have never had much in common with women, especially the “modern” woman.  Perhaps my lack of appreciation for the modern women stems from my facing constant rejection by many of them due to the way I live my life.  I am openly submissive.  I love my husband and he rarely annoys me.  I enjoy meeting his needs, and I love to take care of him in any way necessary.  I don’t like to be an inconvenience to him and I refuse to be a nag.  Thus, I have a relationship that is relatively free from any resentments or drama, save the occasional squabble over something stupid like him not picking something out for dinner off his bi-weekly menu I make him.  We have a relationship that, I would deem, comes as close to perfection as possible. My relationship and my lifestyle, it would appear, would be the cause of my lack of steady female companionship. I am rarely unhappy with any part of my personal life or myself, so I appear haughty I’m female circles. The perception of haughtiness is threatening and the antithesis to female bonding over bitching.

I also don’t hate my body.  I appreciate my body.  I am happy with the way it looks and feel very comfortable naked.  If I come into a pattern of low self-esteem over something about my body, I’ll make an expeditated move to fix it in whatever manner possible.  If I feel like I’m hanging onto a few extra pounds, I amp up my workouts and cut back on some of the foods that could be holding me back from my goal.  I have nothing against plastic surgery, and may find myself in need of some in the future.  But, I don’t see a need to discuss it at length with other women. How does airing discomfort provide comfort? Can women only dish a complement without the need for one in return if they perceive themselves as equal or better than the person they are paying the compliment to?

How does this fix anything?  How does this make these women feel better?  Perhaps, female comradery is built upon a foundation of self-hate and negativity. Do women have to demean themselves to find acceptance from other women and feel as though they fit in?  Why are the lives of celebrities (or their assumed lives based upon what the media portrays) fascinating enough to cover the span of an hour or more in near constant communication?  Who the fuck cares? Any significant amount of time spent discussing celebrities is an utter waste of time. If each moment brings us closer to our death, I don’t want to spend it discussing the Kardashians for an hour.

My life experience thus far has revealed that to share a relationship of any depth with another woman you must be at least mildly miserable with yourself and your life.  You must enjoy complaining.  Complaining seems to be the very thread essential to the fiber of the female friendship. People within earshot of such pointless, meaningless and seemingly endless jabber should be the newest victims to form a hashtag movement. Are you having to listen to women bonding over bitching and it’s making you miserable? #metoo.


Mastrophobia

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The first thing I did when I got home was strip off my top and hold each breast within each hand.  I kneaded them between my fingers, the flesh extending through the spaces in between my fingers like porcelain colored dough.  I relished the warmth of them against the palms of my hands, the blood accumulating there in response to my stimulation.  I ran my erect nipples through each separated digit like a flapper on a prize wheel, closing my eyes and appreciating the sensitivity I’ve been afforded with these glorious accumulations of tissue.  I held my breasts in my hands, for what must have been over twenty minutes, appreciating the natural texture of my flesh and the intricate network nerves, tissues and glands that nestles below.  I tugged and pinched my nipples in between my fingers and watched as the skin stretched outward and rebounded back into a perfect mound of taught flesh.  I thought heavily about what I would do if I were to lose these, seemingly pointless (as I’ve never had nor wanted children), breasts that I’ve connected with on a far more intimate level than ever in my past.  The thought brought a mist to my eyes.  Although my femininity consists of far more than my breasts, I’d be lying to say that I don’t associate a healthy amount of pride toward my breasts and how they make me feel, so deliciously, female.

I didn’t always have such a fond relationship with my chest.  I seemed to have jumped from a mere flat chested little girl to a full C overnight at the turning of my 10th birthday. The boys would stare whenever we played sports, and since I was a tomboy running with a large group of athletic boys in the neighborhood, that just wouldn’t do.  I began to wear multiple sports bras and, literally, tape my breasts with duct tape over an undershirt.  I didn’t start appreciating the luscious allure of plump cleavage until much later in my teens.  From that point on, I had a healthy obsession with breasts and found myself drawn to women with ample, natural bosoms.  Now, breasts are often the focus of my porn endeavors.  I usually separate my porn watching habits into two distinct categories.  I am usually in the mood for either traditional/vanilla porn, or more often, some incredibly kinky (no one else, besides my King, knows I watch this kind of shit) porn.  In any case, the female lead must have large breasts.  Some of the sexiest GIFs locked up in the recesses of my dirty mind are the most basic black and white images of a stubbly, hyper-masculine looking man diving head first between two perky tits, only to emerge and sink an erect nipple into his mouth and suck until his cheeks concave. Such an image makes me think of my nipples in my man’s mouth, to which I’m hard pressed to find a better feeling outside of one generated by his cock.  But, this feeling of appreciation for my breasts extended far beyond the sexual benefits they afford me.  I began to understand how much my breasts are a part of my identity of a woman.  I often speak of enjoying being an active part of a patriarchal society, to include being sexualized as a woman.  Breasts are not only a thing of sustenance, they are an icon of beauty, a force of power, symbols of utter femininity.  However, a recent event taught me just how much I identify with my bountiful breasts and the experience will accompany me for a lifetime…

I sat nervously in the chair in the doctor’s office watching the ultrasound machine images flashing before my eyes, and I began to appreciate the breast on a whole new level.  On an ultrasound machine, the breast tissue appears like clouds composed of various shades of gray.  In a way,  as I watched the probe traverse the terrain of her breast, the image resembled a moving overcast sky.  I continued to watch the rolling clouds until they appeared to part, revealing a patch of black sky, like a specter of doom forecasting events to come.  The probe rolled back and forth over the shadow, which appeared more as a void than the ominous “thing” that is truly is.  “If this is what I think it is, then take them BOTH,” she exclaimed.  I reassured her, although an honest reaction, it is too soon for such demands.  “I don’t care.  I want to make sure there is nothing left to attack,” she remarks abruptly.  You could hear the contempt for her breasts in her tone.  Her breasts had become two twin adversaries standing in the way of her survival.  What I see as two beautiful symbols of femininity are turned, in her opinion, to a despised enemy within mere minutes.  To be so willing to part with such a beautiful part of the female form, although totally understandable, shocked me to my core.  Her reaction caused my mind to wonder…

Will I ever see my breasts as the source of utter anguish?

Will I ever hear myself command a doctor to remove my breasts from my very chest?

Will that shadow ever cross the screen of one of my ultrasounds?

I’m not as strong as her…

I instantly became more aware of the heaviness of my full chest, appreciating the way my breasts sat supported in the cup of my bra.  I drew my attention to the tingly pressure of my erected nipples from the cold office.  I folded my arms under them, feeling the weight of my breasts resting on my crossed forearms.  I could smell the rose scented oil radiating off the tops of my full breasts.  I thought to myself how much I adore my breasts.  I have kept that perspective in mind with each passing day since.  I’m going to appreciate my breasts every day that I have them, use them for all their glorious abilities, because I’ll never know if a shadow may someday take them away.


Empowerment Through Punishment

Mistress M 234 (2)

I find myself here as a blanket of darkness surrounds me.  My arms are bent to form perfect right angles against my back.  The soft Japanese rope silken to my skin as small plumes of flesh escape at either side of the bind.  My wrists are one atop the other, partners in the challenge of maintaining the required position.  From the ladder laced between my parallel arms spawns a woven road to an anchor point in the ceiling.  A slight ache emerges from the inflexibility of my muscles; an ache transforms into pleasure as I breathe into the binds, allowing them to become one with my own flesh.  My sight removed from me.  I now stare into a darkness that is as endless as my determination to withstand what may.  In the end, You will be proud of my will, King.  I will make You proud.

“Challenge me”, I whisper to You as You place five heavy, beautiful beads of stainless steel inside of my sex.  You seal my fate with a kiss before commanding me to spread my legs wider, marking two areas on the floor with a material I can feel on the pads of my toes.  I imagine a thick glue holds my place, unable to slip, unable to budge.  As the space between my thighs expands, I become a vice around the spheres internal.  The metal seeming to surpass my body heat, feeling like small orbs of pure sexual energy within me.  Steely, my determination to impress You.  Tight for You.  Watch what Your treasured cunt can do for You…

My walls dripping of sweet glaze.  My focus intermittently interrupted with the thud of my favorite flogger.  The scent of deer hide leather fills the room – intoxicating.  I find myself in a crux of ecstasy.  Each thud upon my athletic thighs and my thick ass transports me higher.  A drunken relaxation veils over my body as the autumn breeze.  I’m both equally vexed and utterly seduced.

My stubbornness exhaled with every breath as the air smells of my obedient defiance.  You have transitioned to a device for punishment.  Oh, and You know me so well, so fluent in the language of me and my capable vessel.  You lay the gauntlet before me, my King.  With each calculated strike, my mind becomes a fogged street.  An intoxicated haze fills the space surrounding a deliberate focus, as a single beam of light through a heavy mist.  Thoughts break themselves from the ray, slightly fractionated, but the focus remains.  My head begins to bow as my body gives way onto the binds for support, my fortitude gives way to frustration as I teeter a pencil thin line – one side of temerity and the other surrender.  My head falls in acquiescence, my hair a waterfall of my succumbing pride flowing before me.  Your strong hand grips my chin as if Your hands cupped together to catch the spill, offering the liquid back to my lips.  I feel Your breath as You slowly and purposefully move your lips over my neck and to my ear.  Your words, a deep and calm whisper, grab my attention like a thunder clap that rattles through the quietest of nights:

“Beloved, you will keep your chin up.  You are my warrior, my valkyrie.  You will hold your head with pride because I am proud to have you as Mine.  Proud to have you by My side, fighting any battle life may put before us.  I’m proud to have you on My arm, to show you off to the world.  Proud to leave My mark on you, My claim inside of you.  Mine.  The punishment I give you is not to belittle or break you; My punishment is to build you up and make you stronger.  I will correct your behavior when I need to, and I will help you be better.  You are My wife, My beloved whore, My warrior and greatest ally.  Show Me how strong and capable you are, My valkyrie.  Do not let Me see you drop your chin again.”

I immediately correct, the fog lifts, and I’m standing in a meadow of absolute mental clarity.  I am Your valkyrie!  We have many conquered battles behind us and we have some wars before us.  This ax of insolence I wield at the world – this ax is not for You.  The shield I adorn keeping a true “me” from view – this shield is not for You.  Ego, the steed that carries me and rides me on high – he is not for You.  The many wounded in my wake, in the name of You and my love for You – You will never find yourself among them.  Casualties, they were far too weak for me.  I have always been strong enough for You.

Lifting my head, I note a heightened awareness of my value, my preciousness.  The heart that smolders within my chest – this heart is for You.  My flesh before You; full breasts, wide hips, physical feminine wiles, tethered and tied – My flesh for You.  The strength inside resides – Empowered by You.  I rise because I’m me.  I hold my head higher due to You.

As You continue to correct me, to build me, I will show You.  My King, look at my strength, see my devotion.  Look at what I can do for You.


Fifty Shades of M

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I’m feeling particularly feisty today…a delightful post I wrote a while ago before this blog existed.

I love a man with manners, but respect is more important in the bedroom.  The female obsession with Fifty Shades of Grey is basically the cry out for the good fuck that women don’t know how to ask for.  It’s quite simple really. Women are sick of taking care of you.  They are sick of having to take the lead in your everyday life.  They are always in control.  They want you to show them that you still know how to make their thighs tremble.  You are not a dependent little boy.  She wants to know that you can take her as passionately as she imagines the man next door could.

Does this scene sound familiar:  You are tired from a hard day of work.  You struggle to get dinner on the table within a reasonable time before you need to go to bed.  You are already preparing yourself for tomorrow’s work day.  You are exhausted, but there is a reasonable part of you that recognizes that you haven’t had sex with your partner in a while.  You proceed to get ready for bed and climb under the covers…clothed.  You turn on the television and settle in, your arm pressed snugly against the side of your partner’s body.  You don’t say much, but you begin to kiss or touch each other in a somewhat suggestive manner.  You can pretty much predict the routine that will follow.  He will follow the same “pleasure trail” as usual.  Right breast…Left breast…a little fondling…he’ll trace a line down your stomach in simple, meek kisses.  He’ll pay some oral attention to you, assuming it’s pleasurable.  He’ll assume his spectacular oral skills are making you wet, when in reality, it’s just his saliva.  You don’t make much effort toward him, because you have a headache.  You then have approximately 3 to 5 minutes of sex resembling the pace of a metronome.  If you’re lucky, you’ll cum.  But, you’re not really concerned with this anyway…because…well, you have a headache.  Plus, you know he’ll keep going in his sad attempt to satisfy you if you don’t lie about it.

You’re a timid bunch, gentleman.  The world has emasculated you.  Sure, you may not be 18 anymore; but, you still have the glorious effects of that surging testosterone.  Most women agree that a man who is unapologetic in their attraction to them is a complete turn on.  Stop being coy and delivering the same punches you’ve always thrown.  It’s time for a new bag of tricks.  It’s time for you to reclaim yourself as an alpha male.  It’s time you took control in a much bigger way.  I’m going to switch rolls a bit here.  I will have the cock.  I will successfully lay the pipe.  And it goes a little something like this:

I walk in from a hard day of work.  Throughout the day, I’ve envisioned all the many ways I was going to make you surrender to me.  I pictured myself with a handful of your blond hair, shoving myself deep into your mouth.  You’d be staring up at me, and this would give me a sense of elevation.  You are always telling me what to do.  I am always asking for your permission.  I imagine you, face down, and leaned over the kitchen counter with your legs spread.  I am deep inside you, and with every thrust, you are pushed against the cool countertop making your nipples hard.

I watch you make dinner.  I admire your curves.  I envision the positions I’m going to put you in when we go upstairs…when everyone is asleep.  We finish with the mundane tasks of our evening and head upstairs.  You’re at the sink beginning to wash your face.  I come up behind you.  I take my hand and run it up the back of your head, grabbing a significant handful of hair.  I pull the hair downward, exposing your neck.  You’d expect me to go there next, but I don’t.  I proceed to spread your legs apart and penetrate you with my fingers. I keep the grip on your hair, tugging a little with every thrust of my fingers.  I push you face down onto the counter, with my fingers still inside you; I pull your ass up to meet my face.  I tongue you from behind.  Not too much.  Just enough.  I turn you around and hold your face within my hands at my waist level.  I bend down to grab your breasts.  I am just delicate enough to not bruise you.  I’d part your lips with my thumb, opening your mouth and rub the head of my cock on your lips.  You suck me in.  You wouldn’t be shy about it because I wouldn’t let you.  I sense you’re beginning to enjoy yourself, so I stand you back up.  I aggressively grab your hips and bend you in half.  I thrust into you.  I don’t proceed gently.  I take a free hand and grasp your shoulder to enable me to penetrate you deeper.  I finger your clit while I’m inside of you.  My strokes are long and deep.  I hold my cock inside of you and feel you clench around me.  I fuck you ridiculously, furiously and barbarically.  I pull out.  I have to taste you.  I have to taste “us”.  I lift you onto the countertop and spread your legs in front of me.  I kneel in front of you and bury my face in your sex.  I nibble on your lips and flatten my tongue, rubbing it along your clit from side to side.  I bring you to climax. Before you recover, I put myself back in your mouth.  You attempt to resist, but I only want you to know how good you taste.  We stumble toward the bed, and I lay you on your back.  I enter you and fuck you so deeply, you’d swear I was trying to part you in half. Your nails are digging deep into my back, your face buried in my chest.  With each thrust, I bring you closer to the edge of the bed.  Your head and upper body are draped over the edge, and I watch your tits bounce with each thrust.  You struggle to brace yourself and I grab the tops of your thighs and penetrate you deeper.  You feel every kick of my orgasm.  I pull you back onto the bed and lay on top of you, remaining inside of you.  You are not allowed to clean up.  I stay inside you until I start to soften.  When I pull out, I watch our passion trickle out of you.  I watch your body rise and fall with each exacerbated breath.  Exhaustion will claim us both shortly and this is the last vision I want to have before it does.

This does not have to be a fantasy.  This is not a passage from a book.  Don’t allow me to fuck your women better than you do…

Fuck Fifty Shades of Grey