Fed up

January 29, 2010

I’m officially giving up on submissive men. Fuck them all. They are selfish and even worse, manipulative and sneaky. I can’t trust a submissive man. His desires drive him in such a way as to scramble his ethics. I hate dishonesty above all else and for some reason, the submissive men I’ve met couldn’t ever be fully honest with me. (FYI: Deceit by omission counts as lying).

I don’t want to deal with men who keep back-up dommes on the side in case one doesn’t meet their expectations.

Look, I’m a person, not a goddess. I make mistakes. I have personality flaws. I don’t always do or say the thing you want me to do or say. And I’m fucking busy now so I can’t cater to your every submissive whim these days. But none of that justifies you meeting other women on the sly, or taking up with one instantly after deciding things with me weren’t going to work out (without informing me of this decision either).

I have feelings, asshole.

So I’m done. I’m tired of being objectified. I’m tired of being faced with unreasonable expectations and demands. I’m tired of being hurt. I’m just. So. Damned. Tired.


January 28, 2010

Dear sub boy:

I’m sorry if I’m not as accommodating, attentive, and available as you’d prefer. I’m sorry that my work comes first in my life these days, not you. I’m sorry that I don’t respond to your e-mails right away, or that I don’t immediately drop what I’m doing to return your phone calls. I’m sorry if our relationship feels unbalanced because I think about my needs ahead of yours. I’m sorry I’m not more sensitive to your needs and desires. I’m sorry if I’m not dominating you exactly how and when you’d like to be dominated. I’m sorry I don’t think about you as often as you think about me. I’m sorry that I’m not ready to be completely emotionally vulnerable with you, even though we’ve known each other for a few months now. I’m sorry that I’m confused about what I want. I’m sorry I don’t know myself as well as you know me. I’m sorry I have emotional baggage because I was involved with men before I met you. I’m sorry I haven’t lived up to your expectations.



My staying-in shoes

January 18, 2010

I have a pair of 4-inch t-strap sandals. They are black, croc-embossed patent leather and have tiny brass studs to add subtle glimmer. They’re vixenish, impractical and absurdly flattering. I have never worn them for more than five minutes. I can handle 3-inch heels pretty well as long as I’m not indulging in too much drink. I can dance in them, even. I have 3.5-inch heels that are less comfortable, but still manageable. I am certain attempting to wear 4-inch heels for a night out would result in more than a few embarrassing falls at best, an injury at worst.

Yes, you can’t run away from a madman (or even just an ordinary jerk) in a pair of pumps. But most of us don’t find ourselves on dates with serial killers. The wrong pair of heels can hobble you, but the right pair will make you strut (perhaps even swagger), define your shape, announce your presence with a definitive click-clack. And, honestly–isn’t there something a little dangerous-looking about that long, slender heel? They don’t call them stilettos for nothing.

I made him lay down on the hard floor. I towered over him, staring down. He looked so vulnerable. I gave him my sole to taste. He’s very oral. I pushed the tip of my heel past his lips and he sucked eagerly. “You’d make a good little cocksucker, wouldn’t you?” I taunted, smiling down at him. He stared up at me, wide-eyed, still sucking. I pressed the sole of my shoe into his cheek and began fucking his mouth a little more roughly. “A good little cocksucker, that’s what you are, isn’t it? A good cocksucker?” He moaned softly.

I withdrew my foot and sat down. I rested my feet on his chest, idly traced a nipple with my heel. He moaned again. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” I did it again, but pressed down harder, eliciting a soft sound of distress. I smirked a little, “hurts, doesn’t it?” He nodded wordless, still gazing up at me. I began walking my feet up and down his body, digging my heels into his flesh. He writhed, made hurt noises. He was hard and sweating. He was helpless at my feet.

What a good little boy.

We stayed in, but I left the shoes on all night.