Tag Archives: submission

Feminist Facade

Feminist? Not me.

I don’t want equality.

I don’t want you to feel like you must fight me for a position of authority in our relationship.  That you must assert yourself in the face of my emotional whims.  I don’t want you to feel like we both have something to prove, and your assertion of such points must trump mine.  I desire not to corner you, belligerently belittling your spirit for my personal validation.  To feel power over a threat, merely a phantom.  To place you ahead does not render me last.

There are no wars for power here.

I view myself not as beneath you, but beside you. Albeit, preferring a view from slightly behind the curve of your muscular shoulder, the force of your strength leading me forward with each step.  You guide me.  You lead me.  I have no desire to be directly beside you.  I love you in the lead.  Forever keeping in step with you, with eyes alert to awaiting obstacles.  We will traverse them with relative ease made of a balance found between two uniquely different, naturally complementary, forces.

When I’m on my knees before you, I don’t feel devalued; rather, I feel elevated beyond the physical position of my body.  I feel larger than life and greater than the sum of my parts.  With the downward caress of your strong hand through my hair, I am elevated in my service to you.  Your eyes cast downward, connecting with mine, render me gracious for your presence.  Gracious for your presence that is not only physical, but emotional; not simply loving, but loyal to the conservancy of my being.  For your downcast gaze is hardly one of degradation, but admiration.

A very strong and capable woman, indeed.  But, I need not prove to you my independence by forgoing my desire to serve you well.  I need not persistently deny your request to provide aid, to sooth my upsets, or to supportively criticize, in order to reason with my facility.  My strength unveiled with my submission.  The fortitude necessary to forge the iron, strong enough to withstand a blow, however vulnerable to the fire.  You, my weakness.  You, my fire.  I burn in your presence. I melt for your power.

I need not do what you can do to feel equal.  I need not do it better.  I need only to provide to you the soul of a woman who has devoted her life to complementing you.  Where you are right, I will make up the left; whenever you grow far, I will pull you near.  If you shall find yourself sinking, I shall elevate you.  A dance of mutual attendance.  A dance of complementary forces, neither one in need of convincing the other of our position.  Neither one in need of demanding their value as greater.  No need to rehearse for the sake of a convincing performance.  Not a single toe stepped upon.  Complementary.

The fantasies that lurk behind the fortress you’ve built to preserve yourself from the fray, you offer them to me.  The darkest corners where monsters are rumored to thrive; I see beautiful beasts of burden, grown angry carrying the load of societal pressures.  I offer comfort, lure them from the recessed corners and hold them securely.  The beast is aggressive, but I feel no fear of harm.  The beast is physical, but I fear no attack. The beast is rough, but softens at my caress.  I feel the beast tremor as I caress over the scars that form trails along his hide.  I remove his burden.  The beast has no need to conceal any longer.  The beast is in no need of taming, nor training; in no need of demasculinization.

I envelop him in my feminine embrace.  Press upon his flesh the breasts of a woman for pleasure not purpose.  Caress with the touch of delicacy instead of efficiency.  A body with the curves composed of sensuality, not simply capability.  A beautiful cunt to converse the most intimate of conversations, not an agenda.  A woman.  His woman.  His needs are my needs, and my needs are his. In this, we are freed.




Wolfman by Boris Vallejo

Human (adj): Having or showing those positive aspects of nature and character regarded as distinguishing humans from other animals.

I don’t need love to be delicate touches from the tips of your fingers.  Barely grazing the skin, careful not to bruise.  I don’t need palms upon my breast to cup delicately and massage tenderly.  I don’t need soft lips to lightly kiss my flesh; pressing down onto my skin and departing swiftly without a trace.  I don’t need love to physically manifest itself as society sees it – soft sheets and similar thrusts between the parted legs of a lover.  Whispers of “I love you” waltz though the temperate air.  I don’t need love to be lax stroking of hair and fingers tracing the outline of my face.  I don’t want a mindful body atop, aside, behind or below mine.  Instead, I want you to be inside of and connected to your nature, your true identity; your primal animal.

I want love to manifest itself physically the way I understand it; you and me, dedicated to one another through a mutual understanding of our animal natures.  You are my alpha, the dominant leader of which I obey and allow limitless access to my body.  I am your beta, the one you own, protect and cherish vehemently.  I feel your love through your ownership.  I feel your love through you taking what is yours, and in doing so, love takes a different approach.

I’ve always been drawn to the way you sniff my hair and skin.  The way you’d breathe me in.  You’ve always noticed the slightest different between smells from one day to the next; a change in perfume, a change in body chemistry.  I feel literal heat inside me as you bury your face aggressively into my neck without a care for how your rough whiskers left behind red irritation.  Your lack of delicateness, to me, is a direct translation of your need for me.  Love looks different between us, King, doesn’t it?  Love is the bite to the back of my neck or shoulders sending a fiery streak through my able body.  You sink your teeth deeper into my flesh as your cock sinks deeper within my cunt.  The pressure from your heavy sac against the delicate skin of my sex makes me feel at the mercy of your masculinity.  Your purposeful thrusts indicate a deep need for penetration.  Each thrust into me is another symbol of your power and control over my body.  The harder the thrust, the more I feel your need.  The more you restrict my body movements with your hands or under the weight of your mass, the more I feel loved.  I’ve given you permission to take, at will, and you do.  You take with your hands as the pads of your fingers leave bruising upon my hips.  You take with your lips as they wrap around my hardened nipples.  You take with your tongue as you lick my flesh, leaving the mark of your saliva upon my skin.  You take as you allow your body to manipulate mine, with little regard for my comfort. You take as you don’t allow my choice.

I feel love more passionately as your words transform into unintelligible guttural moans or throaty growls.  I feel love the more you fill me up with your cum.  You push yourself inside of me, causing what you’ve previously left behind to seep beyond the seam of where you and I meet.  I feel love the more I am used; I feel love the more I am marked by you. I feel your love as I lay upon the puddle of our fluids that spilled out of me and collected itself upon the sheets.  I feel our love as some of my hair breaks way from the pull of being interlaced between your fingers for leverage.  I feel love as you press my upper body and face down into the ground or upon the bitter frigid wall.  I feel love as I’m bent to the lengths my flexibility can handle.  Feel love as I ache from your repeated entries.   Feel love as you release yourself inside of me, feeling each kick of your cock against the sides of my plush inner flesh.  I feel love the more my sent transforms into the smell of you.  I feel your love as you stay inside of me, allowing the weight of your body to be supported by mine.  You don’t remove yourself from me, instead allowing your body to decide when your cock departs from within me.  As the heaviness of your now flaccid cock falls from my pussy, a stream of our love trickles out from within.  I feel love the more you make a mess of me.  I feel your love the more you are selfish with me, possess me.

I feel your love with the loss of your human.


I often feel this way when the inside of me is at total odds with my professional exterior. I feel bright red and orange; at the center of a massive nebulae attached to my body like albumen to the yolk. I’m quite certain anyone in the near vicinity can feel my heat. I feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing – I’m teeth smeared in drool, grey fur on end and claws a carving half-moons into the sand. Outwardly I’m assimilating. I’m merely a sheep standing next to my neighbor, fleece blending into one another, alike to a lesser eye. Instinct paws as I have to rein back my tendency to take teeth to the throat, refrain from gloat, and modestly blend into my wooly counterparts. In this moment, I’m desperate to run with the wolves whose creativity claws from within them, ripping a hole through flesh of which their insides spill out. Wolves who play in the darkest of nights, finding solace in shadows over the light.

I am sitting at my desk at work feeling like it might be someone else sitting here, she just looks exactly like me. She’s no imposter though, she’s the real deal. She’s all impulse and passion, flaws and forgoing obligations. I’m feeling depressed and of little motivation. I want less verbal and need more physical expression…  

I am supposed to be working, seeing cases, and instead I’m seeing cages. I’m craving cages. I want to peer from behind the steely bars feeling completely at peace within. Instead of the cage of my body, I want to find my body within a cage. As if being within the cage allows me to free my inner mind, my inner nature, my inner animal.

I should be seeing cases, but I keep seeing laces. Silken Japanese rope laced up the back of my arms or thighs, making misshapen soft mounds of flesh, causing pride over blush. Laced handles of floggers that seduce my nose with the aroma of leather. The slap to my rounded ass from the hands of my Man. I want my thick leather collar fur lined at the neck, cinched tightly to leave room for escaping breath. Lace panties. Lace bralette over full, perky breasts while I press them into your whiskery face. Your pet donning black lace. Interlaced fingers tightening to the crescendo of my orgasm…

I need to be working like the other sheep. Mindlessly reviewing and submitting, checking and proofreading. But, my mind is flooded with imagery. I’m seeing his whiskered jaw line, a briar patch to plush lips. Deep red painted toes wrapped around his inner calves. Deep reddened ass cheeks, beneath a calloused hand. Vascular forearms, digits plunged into tousled hair. The cold metal of his piercing at my flushed, swollen opening. The salty taste of his skin upon my tongue as I lap at his taught testicles.

I should be seeing cases…  


Not you, boy…

I could not be tamed. I loped with wild horses and dined with lionesses. I made beautiful work of faux feminism, teeth into the flesh of lesser men. Dinner for a hungry soul in search of the sustenance of a Dominant man. Flip of the hair, curve of my hips; all the while knowing they couldn’t handle this.

They would seep weakness, and I couldn’t be bothered to clean up messes, not for long, not for very long. They tried, they cried, and I thought of nothing but You. 

They said, “I thought I could change you” while smelling Your cologne on my breast. They said, “I can love you better”, while Your love was slipping out of me.

I was told to feel bad about my sins, taught to atone; but, my religion is Him and my God had anointed me. I’d been baptized in His water. I’ve knelt at His feet to receive my confirmation. 

Oh, and they’d seethe because they knew I only worshipped One. I’d only kneel for One. Only submit to One. Only to be tamed by One. You’d have me a tigress on a leash, never having to pull tight. Never having to tug me in, and never having to cry “heal!”  But, they tried; a boisterous laugh escaped my mouth with each attempt to rein. You? Better off someone new; go find someone new, boy…

I cannot settle for a cub whilst craving a lion. I cannot mount a pony when I’ve been atop a stallion. Go ahead and wear any mask you choose, any cloak you deem comfortable; all of your disguises transparent, boy. You have proved entertaining, a jester for a time…

Only one Lord, you see, and He is mine. 

Interlude 2

My ample chest is flattened to the mattress, as my ass is perched high in the air. Legs form an “A” frame below me, with my sex facing the mirror. Your fingers press upon the keys of my skin, composing music of nothing more than a bundle of nerves. Your grey gaze watches as you play, while I make liquid trails over your rigid terrain.