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Put your toes under your pillow and the Toe Fairy will suck em clean

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When it’s time for your punishment, he’s the one who provides the threat and the leverage. He’s the tallest among you, after all, and those hands of his feel strong and heavy enough to intimidate you when they’re just resting on your wrists or the back of your neck. It’s his low and steady voice that needs only a few words to chill you. It’s his presence that makes the animal in you drop into freeze or fawn.

But you all three know that she’s the mean one.

Her words are playful and affectionate; her tone is light, her lips soft and sweet when they touch you. Her fingers are slender and her nails are cut short. She doesn’t look menacing, the way he can. He makes you quiver and tingle like a slow-rolling storm you can see coming from far away. She, by contrast, gets off on making you jump and flinch from the flash of her sadistic delight.

It’s not that she isn’t strong enough to hold you down if she wants to. Sometimes the two of you get to play-fighting, when she needles you a little too much, or tempts you into talking back. But that’s just foreplay, before the fear steals back to drain the brat right out of you. She takes the most satisfaction in making you sting and cry out, hearing your protests give way to pleas, drinking in the shock and frantic word-tumbling as you realize she’s just getting started.

It’s why she likes the cane so much. The cane, and a hand pressed tight to deny you breath or vision, and the way your flexing calves betray you when you hit the edge.

You’ll never forget the first time he turned you over to her completely, after he worked you raw and swollen and left the marks of his hands on all your soft parts. You thought she was going to be kinder. That she might pull your hair a little when she brought you in for kisses, or run her nails lightly over the places where you were red and puffy, but more or less ease you out of the scene. Your wrists were still bound, your collar was still on you; you should have known. But surely, you thought, she was going to grant you release and relief.

Oh no.

You couldn’t sit down without a hiss and a lip-bite for a full day, after she had her fill of you. Your breath hitched from the friction of a shirt against your nipples for at least that long. You wore a scarf in August to hide the reminders she left on your throat. And every time you relive that session, the one that lasted until—what, four in the morning?—you turn red in the face when you realize that you’ve started to drip.

Between them, they left you spoiled for other couples. There are other men who can make you tremble; there are other girls who can tease you until you scream. But you’ve yet to match that frisson of oh-fuck escalation, that savor and greed and relish lighting up her eyes when you reach your panic point. That bone-deep animal satisfaction when she finally spread you open for him to plunder you, and pressed herself down to ride all the breath right out of your mouth.

Time and distance and life intrude on everything. They’re not as easy to reach as they once were, and you’re no longer the same free little bird. But sometimes, at night in another city, she’ll still send you her dark reflection in a hotel window. And someday, maybe, you’ll walk into the lobby with your scarf and sunglasses, pick up the key she left waiting, and let her render you into atoms again.

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I dreamed I was mind-controlled in some messed up tea party scenario, being fed honey from a spoon, little fleeting thoughts of “what’s going on” “I shouldn’t be here” being overtaken with blank acceptance. When she lifts the lid she says “don’t look in the pot dear, anything could be in there…” and of course I don’t look. Now I’m thinking, man, that’s a little heavy-handed with the implied horror elements covered up with (literal) sweetness. But, uhhh, it was a good dream.

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Don’t just deny me, make me thank you for it. In fact, make me thank you for everything you do to me, regardless of how humiliating it is.

And then make me to do it over and over again because you’re still not convinced.

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What’s something you wish you did more of?

Actually posting to this blog! It’s much too easy for me to go into lurker mode here, and hard to feel like I have much to contribute sometimes. But I’m still around, and I do still have lots of half-written things in my drafts. And maybe, as I get to feel blog-friendly with a few people who are more consistent posters than I am, I’ll get to a point where writing something new feels like a conversation and not just a note dropped into the sea.

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Nothing gives me anxiety like seeing a young submissive on tumblr. I said what I said.

Was I once a young sub on tumblr? Yes. It is hypocritical? Maybe.

Being on tumblr as a young sub gave me endless resources to learn about kink and myself… but it also exposed me to a never ending barrage of unhealthy influences, unsafe kink, and people trying to take advantage of me.

So many of us that are new to kink are looking for community and are desperate to feel less alone in our interests. Trust me when I say: the older folks on this and other platforms know that. And many of them are pieces of shit who know exactly how to take advantage of your desire to find belonging.

These people also know that the younger you are, the less experience you have, the less likely you are the question their unhealthy or abusive behavior. The less exposed you have been to kink, the less confidence you’ll have to stand up for yourself as a submissive.

It happened to me. It doesn’t mean you’re weak, dumb, or stupid. It means someone who calls themself a “Dom” saw something to gain from you with no consideration for your humanity.

Anyway. Not to be an annoying old person, but don’t trust anyone ever!!!! Question everything and everyone. Know your worth. Understand the gift and value of your submission.

And … try to date someone your own age. 💀

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it's not a red string of fate those two are bound by dog collars and a steel chain

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Tryna make you cum so hard you can’t help telling me you love me after

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My biggest goal in life is to make people feel safe so they can be themselves around me because I myself was criticized for simply existing in the wrong way my whole life.

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I’m so interested that you added the tag I’ll admit it becomes confusing to this post, narcissus, because I don’t think it’s confusing at all. Some days you want to retain your agency; some days you want to loan it out. Just like some days you might want noodles, and other days you might want falafel—or maybe some days seltzer, and other days wine. Even in choosing how to obtain or yield satisfaction, our appetites remain our own.

Of course, we know there are some people who would read the straightforward statement that you want different—and fully compatible—things at different times, and declare that statement a paradox, or incoherent, or invalid on its merits. Unfortunately for them, such an attitude reveals them to be children. Children don’t belong in discussions of adult matters, even if they are physically my age or older. Sorry, kids. Maybe you’ll get it once you grow up.

But there really isn’t any contradiction here. Both days described in the post above are more alike than they are different, because they are both framed in terms of first-person desire. And learning to understand and express one’s own desires in safety is perhaps the most important thing each of us can do to care for one another.

When thinking about this dichotomy from my own side of the slash, I find it instructive to follow the example of the professionals. My favorite movie about sex work—maybe my favorite movie, period—came out nine years ago, and oh does typing that make me feel old. But time has not dulled its relevance. Magic Mike XXL is not a realistic film about the profession, but it did count sex workers among its creators, and I don’t think this scene would have come about without that fact. I think about it often. What it asks of dominant partners like myself is not always easy to do, but it’s certainly not complicated. And I don’t think it’s confusing in the least.

Some days I want to be fully controlled, like 24/7 can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t cum without your permission. And then other days I want to be the freest free bird.

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Louise Bourgeois / Jenny Holzer, Hole of Anxiety

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Sometimes people write me and say something I wrote rewired their brain and it’s so beautiful to hear, because when I was growing up everything was so ugly and it was only art that had this underlying fetishistic quality to it that made things beautiful for me. Porn is the process of developing your own way of feeling about something, beyond learned disgust.

—Porpentine Charity Heartscape

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The timer went off, and she squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a frustrated sound.

“Oh, again already?” he said, putting down his book and checking his phone for the time. “Yes, sure is. Okay, roll over.”

“Look, I’m right in the middle of something, can it just wait a minute?” It came out a little grouchier than she’d intended, and she quickly backpedaled. “Um, I mean—I’m not saying—I know the rules, but I just…”

“Nope,” he said, brusque but clear. “How do you want to do this? Vibrator, tongue or fingers?”

She stuck out her tongue, and her face did show a faint flush of genuine aggravation. She really was trying to finish something—the emails he’d told her to write, in fact. “Vibrator,” she said.

He stood over her, his gaze steady, waiting.

She drew a deep breath and said it all in a rush. “I don’t get a choice, the rules are the rules and I take what you give me, touch me however you please Sir.”

He nodded, as if he’d been expecting that little bit of brattery too. “Fingers, I think.” He sat down next to her, patted her hip none too gently, and reached for the little bottle of lube she always kept next to her.

She let out one more grumpy sigh and flipped over on her back, pushing her leggings and underwear down to her knees and opening up for him. The lube wasn’t really all that necessary. These days, she was wet whenever she was awake, and often when she slept too.

He didn’t need long, either: despite her earlier protests, she felt her clit stiffening the second he touched her, and when he pressed up on her from underneath she gasped. Her hips pressed up reflexively into his touch, and he gave it to her, sliding up the center of her and then quickly back down one side or the other before pressing up again. It made her thighs twitch every time her aching bud tugged back out from under the pressure of his strokes. He was always too fucking good at her.

And good at reading her, too.

She couldn’t ever manage to trick him. It was something about how her belly tensed, or how she set her jaw or flexed her toes in readiness: she was at the edge, she was on the edge, she was just about to crest it and crash into a release she fucking needed—and he stopped.

“Oh my GOD, fucking… come ON,” she said in an explosive outburst of breath. “PLEASE!”

He wiped his fingers on her panties and started to tug them back up, and gave her another very, very steady look.

“… ThankyouforhelpingmefollowtherulesIaskedfor, Sir,” she mumbled, the blush high in her neck and cheeks.

“You’ve welcome,” he said, as calm and infuriating as ever, and patted her on the thigh, at least a little more gently this time. She pouted, wiggled herself over again, and tugged up her waistband with several theatrical noises of unhappiness. But she felt herself throbbing, and her brain buzzing with frustration and excitement, and she settled into the feeling of it like a welcoming bath.

He stood up and walked over to her timer, picked it up, and clicked the button to reset it. 59:59, it read. 59:58.

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got told at lunch "you feel like Tumblr Incarnate" and i had to tell them i've been here for 13 years and counting. i was here three years before dashcon happened. i saw the mishapocalypse. i survived the gigapause. i've been here longer than the shoelaces post. i've been here since it was hipsters versus fandom and i played both sides extensively by overdoing the sepia filters on everything and making my own flashing galaxy gif edits for my fandom posts. i'm every tumblr. it's all in me

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