I’ve made jokes about my labia to hide the shame, to “admit” to the epic labia in my possession to partners before any possibility of nakedness. I make fun of myself before anyone else has a chance to. Ironically, no one else has. I’ve never had a man run screaming for the door after seeing me naked, but still, the embarrassment is there. Honestly, it’s ginormous… it could be mistaken for a flying tree squirrel … [read more]
I refuse to demand respect. I want to earn it. I won’t demand affection. I want to inspire it. I don’t want obedience. I want my will to be your own. I will not ask for kindness or love. But I hope what I have given will be returned to me. what I want was last modified: October 2nd, 2012 by Dumb Domme
I got home from work pretty late tonight. It was already dark when I pulled in. Thank goodness that my house is far enough back off the road that errant articles of clothing and random produce can’t be spotted by neighbors. Hung around my doorknob, my panties. On my doorstep, one unripe avocado and one ruby red pomegranate (In the car on the way back to the pub, I mentioned my habit of having pomegranante stained fingers, annually, about this time of year. I’m a whore for good produce, so?). On the back of the grocery receipt, a scrawled note: … [read more]
homage, n.: Respect, honor, or reverence shown to a person or a thing. In BDSM, submissives may pay “homage” to their dominant as an acknowledgement of respect. Additionally, a sub may pay “homage” to a dominant’s particular body parts–feet, hands, breasts, cock, pussy, ass, etc–by praising, touching, kissing, and/or generally worshipping.
“A monetary homage of $20 will be adequate to show your respect, and coincidentally, it’s enough to buy me a pizza.”
“I was fucking around with J and told him that having my elbows stroked got me hot. He seemed to believe me, so I asked him to pay homage. He sucked on my elbow in earnest for about thirty seconds before I fell over laughing. He wasn’t amused.” … [read more]
He has this awful habit of leaving his car keys on the bar. I’ve told him that it bothers me, but he never seems to remember to put his keys in his pocket. Last night, in the middle of our conversation, when I was sure he was watching, I made my move. I put my index finger on his ignition key and slowly slid the key ring towards me, to the very edge of the bar. I looked up at him and let the keys fall into my lap. “Pay the tab,” I said. I slipped off the bar stool, … [read more]