Category Archives: women

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.


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I do believe there is nothing quite as sobering as having someone you love tell you they were diagnosed with cancer.  But, for me, she is not simply a loved one.  I don’t let a lot of people in.  I thrive in extremes, so I either uphold a person as someone of incredible value to my life, or someone that can pass through aimlessly as they please.  Of course, with the latter, I don’t give much care or consideration but ample freedom and an available ear.  I struggle to manage the intense responsibility I feel for the people I love, so I limit whom I give it to.  I have been disappointed too many times at people’s lack of integrity, that I keep most people at arm’s length.  They say that love is an infinite resource, and although I would love to agree, I cannot.  Personally, my love is finite.  My heart is a capsule with only so much room.  I divide it amongst the few people I would die for and I love them with reckless abandon.  She’s one of them.  She’s a warm, soft cashmere.  She’s a radiant light in a world full of dim, flitting embers.  She’s strong as oak; yet, presently a trembling leaf holding to the branch with but a thin stem.  I can’t protect her.  My loyalty can’t make this better.  My steadfast dedication can’t shield the cold zephyr of the shadow at her back.  I can’t do a fucking thing but watch her fear and watch her fight.  I feel like a rabid dog on a leash with nothing to attack but an apparition, a crazed bitch barking at the air.  He’s holding my leash and keeping me steady, tethered as I bark tirelessly.  Tethered to my greatest source of strength.  Tethered to my beloved.

The largest portion of my heart belongs to him.  He is my King, and I am forever the warrior at his side.  If I lose him, I die.  There is no in-between.  No survival.  No desire.  No life.  Not because I can’t survive, but because I won’t want to.  She held the other spot of the greatest value and some fucking ghost permeated my defenses and is threatening one of my two greatest allies.  Powerless, a resonating message keeps repeating itself in my head:

Time is dwindling down your army, warrior.  Time is an impossible weapon to fight.

I’m grasping for resources and there he is, at my side.  My battle tested right-hand man.  My life’s purpose.  He’s here, and at least as we watch each other age, I see nothing but beauty in it.  We have our spears in hand, and with each kiss we thrust forward, piercing through fear’s frail skin.  I have you, I have all I need.

In the darkness of our room late last night, you pressed your lips to mine.  The full, softness of them comforting a beaten soul, a tepid cloth to the wound.  I pulled you on top of me and wrapped my arms and legs around your body like a cocoon to the moth.  Entering my body, my embrace pressing you as close to my flesh as materially possible.  My body’s feeble attempt to physically convey my undying dedication to loving you, protecting you.  As if acknowledging that I cannot fix her, but I can block anything from getting to you.  My love a forcefield from all the specters that threaten you.

Get me first.  Here I am, you fucking phantom!  You got one; but, you let him be! Phantom, get at me!

And I held you there within me, gently rocking my hips into you, running my hands up and down the muscular terrain of your back, flooding pleasure over the pain affecting both of our hearts.  The breath of your life upon the nape of my neck to the pattern of our swaying bodies.  Your breath permeating the very thickness of my skin, you breathe life into me.  In turn, I dedicate my life to you.  I give my body to you.  I’ve handed over my very soul countless times.  Here I am again, offering you all that I have.  You always want me.  You want me even when I’m broken.  I am forever yours.  Yours after time claims all my pieces.  Placing my body over yours, it will need to get through me first.  Yours before and after my final battle with the wraith.



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.

Seed and Swallow

  1. cause or allow (something, especially ejaculate) to pass down the throat.
    “she swallowed a mouthful slowly”
  1. 1.
    an act of swallowing something, especially ejaculate.
    “she downed his ejaculate in one swallow”


    I took a long and lazy break away from writing that I am not proud of.  However, it is the nature of me to wax and wane on things that require my attention outside of my King.  A particular topic has ignited my passion to write this post, even though the clutches of laziness for writing had a grip on me with great strength.

    What topic could inspire me from such depths, you ask?

    The topic of SWALLOWING.

    I have recently come to a shocking social discovery amongst my peers.  Many of the females I know, either rather well or just by brief acquaintance, do not swallow their man’s cum.  But, this isn’t just a matter of not swallowing, no.  These women express that they don’t like his cum and find it “disgusting”. Now, this discovery bothers me on so many levels and I feel the need to address each one; not only because it does my psyche well to express things that frustrate me, but because maybe this will resonate with the very few people who will actually read this post.

    My King is a fantastic pussy eater.  He is passionate, aggressive, and will quite literally devour me.  He is very complementary of my taste, and hearing the rumblings of, “You taste so fucking good” escape his muffled (get it?) mouth generates a fire within me that ignites my femininity from the most dormant recesses of my body.  He never hesitates, never waits, and never progresses toward my pussy with caution.  I never go long without being exceptionally eaten.  My King insists upon making me cum, using his muscular strength to lock down my hips as they buck energetically in anticipation of my orgasm.  When I do cum, I flood.  He will proceed to press harder into my flesh, lapping more and more with each twitch of my body.  As his moans grow deeper, he usually thrusts a finger or two inside of me, only to lick them clean after pulling them from my body.  I feel like a goddess.  I feel beautiful, desired, owned, and utterly appreciated for being a woman.  His woman.

    I cannot imagine if, upon the first signs of my impending orgasm, my King pulled away from my pussy and proceeded to rub my clit to finish the deed.  I cannot fathom how I would feel if his mouth stayed on my cunt long enough to finish my orgasm, only to spit out whatever saliva he had in his mouth that still tasted of me.  I would be devastated if my husband asked that I cum on his chest, and after my orgasm, he took a towel and wiped me off him while making a face akin to a face one would make while wiping off a bird shit from their t-shirt.

    Yet, this appears to be commonplace behind closed doors.  I can’t understand, for the life of me, why a man would accept any of these behaviors from a woman, especially a woman you are committed to monogamously.  Why are men so tolerant of a woman viewing their seed in such a way, when a woman would never be as tolerant?  Is this another reflection of our cultures growing inequality and demasculinization of men in the name of “feminism”?  Are men starting to feel like that’s “just the way it is” and cum swallowing women are saved for viewing porn?  And what about in a marriage, where you have promised to spend the rest of your lives together in a monogamous relationship, and you have a lifetime of feeling the cold air hit your cock just prior to orgasm.  If your wife is reluctant, or downright refuses to swallow your cum, what other doors will be shut in the realm of your sexual experiences together?  How does this not frighten these men straight into the arms of a receptive woman?  Perhaps this is sometimes the reason for affairs, and if so, I don’t blame the men for wanting to put their cocks in a welcoming mouth.

    Yet, it would still be the man’s fault.  He would still be labeled a “dog” and scorned by the vast majority of those around him.  He would still go to sleep feeling the tinge of guilt on his conscious for acting on desires that went unmet…

    For wanting to be WANTED.

    I’m not saying a woman needs to love cum.  I’m not saying that she must get on her knees before her man, mouth agape, batting her eyelashes, parched and desperate for his cum.  I’m not saying a woman needs to scoop her man’s cum into her hands and devour it like a toddler does with a slice of birthday cake.  I am suggesting that a woman should swallow a man’s cum when he wants to leave his cock in her mouth to orgasm.  I am suggesting a woman should show appreciation for her man’s cum as if it’s her pleasure to please him.  I am suggesting that when sharing your bodies, there should be very few things you find distasteful about one another and cum should NOT be one of them.

    I would argue that the taste of orgasm should be seen as a reward.  Brining your loved one to orgasm should be something of an accomplishment to be cherished and valued.  Most common arguments from women for not swallowing cum can easily be resolved:  If you don’t particularly like the taste of his cum, use flavored organic lube.  If you don’t like the feeling of his cum hitting you in the back of the throat, deep throat him.  If you can’t deep throat because it makes you gag, use a product that numbs the back of your throat temporarily.  Or better yet, practice deep throating.  You can significantly improve your gag reflux by practicing, and I’m fairly confident your man would be a willing participant as you practice.  Bottom line, there is no excuse for not swallowing.  It is inexcusable to treat the product of your man’s orgasm as intolerable.  Step outside of yourself and imagine how that rejection would feel.

    And if, as a man, you feel guilty when holding the opinion that a woman should swallow…Don’t.  Women don’t struggle gulping down ridiculous drinks to lose 10 lbs; swallow smelly, bad tasting herbs to improve their hair and skin.  Women will eat certain foods that are disgusting to improve their beauty and health without hesitation.  If she’s unwilling to swallow your cum, you should find it insulting.  She is basically saying that your pleasure isn’t worth her discomfort, and by accepting that, you are saying that her opinion is okay.  You are rewarding her pettiness, and that is unacceptable.

    I find it tragic that so many women will treat their men in a way that would make them feel rejected.  A man who tolerates this behavior perpetuates this double standard.  Just because we have been cultured to feel that a man’s emotions and need to feel appreciated is an afterthought doesn’t make it true.  Just because we often place men into roles with a purpose meanwhile quickly dismissing their need to feel like a man, doesn’t mean they aren’t longing to feel like a man.  Just because you may not WANT to doesn’t ultimately make it unnecessary.

    If it’s true that actions speak louder than words…


Children, Not The First Priority

In celebration of the New Year, I’d like to wish you all a happy and prosperous 2015!  I thought I would throw that little “feel good” energy before I go on about my regular writing.

As I’ve indicated before, I don’t really concern myself much with marriage or the condition of the institution within society.  I believe marriage should be a beautiful expression of love; but, as love has many layers of intensity and can be fleeting in nature, I am left untroubled by the crumbling of unions.  I do feel there is a significant contributor to the disintegration of marital bliss, despite the numerous messages culturally programmed into us suggesting the contrary…

Putting the kids first.

I know many dedicated parents who subscribe to the cultural kid-centric groupthink, and I can hear them shaming me in my head for the words I previously typed.  I could not care less.  I feel with great passion that we have deviated far from lifestyles that encourage lasting monogamy, a difficult practice to maintain to begin with.  I also speak often of how marriage and monogamy is particularly juxtaposed against male evolutionary development.  Worse, we have relatively abolished adult right and welcomed children to participate in an authoritative position within the household.  We wonder why society suffers from an unruly and dysfunctional family life.  We wonder why the majority of the populace suffers gravely from a false sense of entitlement.  But, we keep treating little Johnny and baby Janie like they should be the center of our universe, the sole reason for living, and our only source of enjoyment as adults.  I feel the sex most slighted from this misappropriation of importance are men.

A mother will often care for her boys with tenderness, providing a feminine love much different than the love a boy experiences from their father.  Boys learn that they are to be valued as a contributor, a provider and the “head of household”.  Society sends a similar message to boys, encouraging strength, competitiveness, emotional hardiness, power, and success.  These messages cultivate a mission within boys to behave a certain way, and by the time they become men, they associate an expectation upon those they are romantically involved with:  They assume they will be valued for their contributions to the home and to the relationship.  But, conversely, we are teaching women quite the opposite.  An emphasis on importance is being directed away from the wife, and pointing toward the “mother”.  At one time, it appeared that “wife” and “mother” were in agreement.  Now, it appears that it’s all “mother” and a big middle finger is being given toward men and being a good “wife” – Unless we need the men to contribute their sperm, of course.

I have seen women quickly neglect men from the moment their eyes gaze upon their child.  Sure, a woman can say that it’s because a baby requires more, a man is self-sufficient, and he should not need to be cared for.  A woman could argue because of the baby time is scarce, and because of this, there is little time left for the husband.  A woman could uphold that both she and her husband agree that the children should always come first.  I am just going to step out there and call bullshit:  You got the greatest contribution from the man – his seed and his money – Therefore, you hold little regard for him after.  He becomes a side note, a hindrance, and a nuisance.  Women cluck among each other, “I have three babies; two children and a husband.” I have heard women say, “My biggest child is my husband.”  I have never heard a woman say among female gatherings how much they value their husband as a man, as an individual, apart from what he does for her and the children.  To most women, men are a vessel of production; their value does not extend beyond what they can provide.  Sadly, they often won’t complain and suffer in silence, because they were taught not to be needy.  This is a disgrace.  Men need tenderness, appreciation and love for their contributions.  They need to be acknowledged.  But, women are often too busy bitching or making bracelets on their daughter’s rainbow loom to care.  No wonder porn is more comforting…

Children should not understand their place of value is greater than that of the parents.  Children should understand that they do not have the power to dictate every day decisions made in the household.  Children should not be requested to be more adult than they are by allowing them to make decisions that affect the well-being of the entire household.  I will go on further to state that I appreciate that my household is headed by a man who assumes all of the decision making.  Certainly, we take things to an added extreme while operating within our 24/7 Master/slave relationship; but, that dynamic only encourages a power hierarchy that enables the children to understand their place.  They do not get to make decisions that impact the adults, especially my Husband.  My husband places the greatest of priority upon the health and well-being of his wife.  We both understand that the children are our first responsibility; however, they do not get to occupy the place of household priority. They are valued above the relationship maintained by the adults.  They have consequences for their actions and how they impact the household.  They have expectations that are akin to those reasonable for a child.  Everyone has their place.

You cannot show your appreciation for your man in the same ways you wish to be appreciated.  Men need to be shown appreciation in ways more tangible.  They need to be fucked.  They need to be loved.  They need to feel appreciated by drawing their dick into your mouth and selflessly pleasuring them.  I realize I sound exceedingly cliché, but I believe men should be provided delicious meals and a loving touch along with kind words.  Men need you to remember they are visual, and present yourself in a way that show you value yourself for your own feminine allure.  He needs you and your love as desperately as your child, he just won’t scream and cry until he gets it.  His lack of vocal outcry does not make his needs less important; on the contrary, his reluctance to ask for doting affection and attention shall serve as a warning sign that he is growing despondent.

I am merely arguing that women need to acknowledge that children are the first responsibility, not the first priority.  A distinct differences lies between responsibility and priority.  You can tend to something else, such as a child; meanwhile, you can acknowledge that your husband is the priority.  I believe that the adults in the household need to maintain that the two of them, and the health of their relationship, should be the first priority.  As children are deliriously needy, allow them to be your number one responsibility – understand the difference.  Hopefully you will raise your children to be self-sufficient, well rounded, and independent adults.  You will not achieve this by allowing them constant priority and attention.  They will grow up and build homes of their own.  Once the dust settles on raising your little family, you may see the only person left to stand beside you is that man you devalued – if you are lucky.  Make him your first priority, and your children your first responsibility, and you may just be holding hands to watch the dust settle together.