A Few Thoughts on Face Sitting

I love sitting on my slave’s face, as much as he loves feeling my bottom press down on him, the softness of my panties, the weight that restricts hos breathing the tantalising closeness of my genitals,  the aromas of my animal sexuality. I love too the helplessness of his position, the easy accessibility of his nipples, his penis, his balls. Facesitting is sensual but, as a sadist, I cannot allow him to enjoy too much sensuality without the spice of a little excruciating pain.

But until last week, I had never sat on his face outside a BDSM context, naked, pantyless, offering him my crack to lick, feeling the delicious rub of his stubble, the tongue working its way round. I leaned forward not to torture him but to take hos delicious cock in my mouth, to lick his balls, to enjoy the groaning not of pain, but of pleasure anticipated, pleasure that could still be denied, if I was to  switch back into domme mode. Or maybe I never leave domme mode, maybe the sexual and the BDSM elements of our relationship have become so deeply intertwined that they can no longer be separated. And this is not always good news for him because  it adds to his uncertainty, knowing that he could be denied what he most craves, that I might ruin his orgasm, just because I can.

But last week I didn’t. As I felt the delicious abrasion, felt his cock harden in my mouth,  I was just so horny. I needed orgasms and quickly and if he had one too, well that’s all part of the fun too. Sometimes good service needs to be rewarded.

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Sitting Around

My first experience of face sitting wasn’t in a BDSM setting. It happened when I was 10 and a jealous older sister of a school friend. She overpowered me and sat on my face, wriggling as she did so, and made no move to get up as I screamed and beat the ground furiously as I struggled for air. She did this more than once and it was part of a pattern of seeking to humiliate me and more. This was the same girl who tied me up and locked me up in a coalscuttle and I have no doubt she really wanted to harm me. She certainly terrified me.

After that face sitting played no part in my life until two years ago when ATVOD included in their ludicrous list of banned activities in their war on porn or rather their war on sexual activities that women enjoy.  But still I felt no desire to do it.

Now I have a sub who loves having my butt, actually quite a bony in these days with all the running I do, on his face, and as I gain experience I have come to realise it is rather sensual. Maybe there is an element of humiliation for the sub. Maybe it’s the thought that my genitalia are just a tongue length away.  For me it’s the symbolism. As a form of breath play it is a powerful form of control. And the thought of my sub, directly underneath me, utterly helpless, is intoxicating.

I know that Harriet Birch hated me with a passion all those years ago but if I don’t exactly remember her with fondness I don’t feel any bitterness. I wonder whether she was one of the people I have met on my journey who helped plant seeds of kink within me? And I also wonder what she is doing now?

Double Trouble

There is, as they say, a first time for everything and Monday this week saw my first experience of double domming. There really couldn’t have been anything better to do on a day when the rain lashed down and hammered on the roof of the former industrial building where the dungeon was located. We were at the very top of the building so got the full sound effects as we put my slave through his paces. As readers of this blog will know I am still relatively new to domming myself but my partner in crime is even newer and keen to learn. And it was a huge learning experience for me too. I had planned and scripted the session and discussed it with her over lunch the day before. I had to make one or two late changes as I had originally planned a couple of activities she wasn’t yet entirely comfortable with, but from this perspective it went smoothly. I always worry about timing but this is something you can only learn from experience. Essentially, the trick is not to try to fit too much in, and I find that half a dozen activities works best. There were a couple of things I really wanted to do but which I had to defer to next time. I can’t tell you what these were as the slave will probably read this and, well, I would hate to spoil the surprise.

So I had the task of leading the session and guiding my fellow domme but without stopping her showing spontaneity. Also for a good session it was important for the chemistry to work between her and the slave. Feedback I have received suggests this happened. And also, of course, the chemistry between the two dommes.

Most importantly, it has helped to restore my confidence. I went through a real low patch recently and was starting to doubt my own abilities. Did I really want to do this? I even got as far as clicking my way towards the Delete Account on Fetlife? What, I reflected, if I just disappeared as others have before? As I reflected I knew that I couldn’t. I would have hurt too many people. It is not time for me to be gone yet, nowhere near in fact. And I have learnt something else. As a domme you want to appear strong and powerful, in control all the time but sometimes you just can’t. I have learnt that, sometimes, being open and honest about your problems with your sub can teach you a lot about them as people and no, it doesn’t have to impair your dominance over them. I really feel that my bond with my slave has been strengthened by this experience.

And double domming was a great way to get my mojo back, not least because having a third person there reduced the emotional intensity that can occur in one to one sessions and made it fun. Even my slave had a smile on his face…..at least until I took out the nipple clamps!

Better Watch Out for the Skin Deep

I  have been a regular blood donor for a quarter of a century so am used to having needles stuck in my arm. Despite this I still shiver at the thought and, when I give blood, cannot look as the needle is inserted. I turn away, should me eyes and imagine myself on a palm fringed beach.  At times I think I should just give up but, having a rare blood group, I know this wiould be selfish. So I carry on giving and, in truth, it is an excuse to have a full English breakfast before I go.

When I first got involved in BDSM the idea of needle play never really got on my radar. Humiliation yes, CP yes, and one or two more exotic things, but, before my first visit to the after party at The Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar I had never even heard of it, let alone seen it. So I watched. This was a most interesting experience particularly as there are one or two people on the scene in the West Midlands who are both highly skilled and highly creative with needles. As with many BDSM activities, you can stand back from the physical sensations and just admire the aesthetic. This is something I wrote about here.

Even so, this was a purely detached interest. The idea of participating myself, either as top or bottom, left me cold. I simply couldn’t see what enjoyment the participants got. This was until earlier this year when my slave and I went to a kinky house party. He has enjoyed needles for some time and told me a lot about his enjoyment. I felt that, as his domme, I really ought to find out more. I watched closely as he played with a mutual friend who then guided me as I  inserted some needles myself before later removing them, some slowly and sensually, some more quickly and painfully, which, of course, appealed to my sadistic side. But what most impressed me was the deep deep subspace my slave was in after removal of the needle and the gentle washing of his back that formed part of the aftercare.

Why, I wondered, does it have this effect and why has needle play found its sway into the world of BDSM? I think it shares with other activities the self-abandonment and freely entered vulnerability of the sub or bottom, and the trust he or she has in the top.  It is an activity of incredible intimacy and must create deep bonds between those who play regularly with each other. It is also, I think, a parody of a power relationship. Think needles and think medicine, the patient doctor dynamic, and, at the extreme, the death chambers of many US states. Inserting a needle is to exercise real power and dominance, even to be master of life and death. BDSM subverts this power dynamic by turning pain into pleasure.

I discussed needle play a few months ago, over breakfast actually, with sex writer Remittance Girl. She argued that needle play can be seen as even more transgressive than other BDSM activities because it involves an essential violation of the bodily integrity of the bottom, the penetration of the skin that forms the container of the things that make up his or her physical existence. Other things, even the harder CP essentially don’t do this.  Transgression is, surely, what we seek, it is the locus of our deepest pleasure.

Whilst I will never, I think, be a particularly hardcore player, it is something I want to explore further. It is not just metaphorically that I like to get under people’s skin.

Taking a Bathroom Break

I have, on occasions, played in hotel rooms. These are in some respects not ideal locations, there is little room to swing a whip, no play equipment as such (and I have still to find a kinky use for a Corby trouser press, still being a little nervous of the obvious!). But there is a bathroom. And the scope for humiliation and degradation play in a bathroom is great.

On one occasion, whilst changing for the session, I noticed that my play partner had left the toilet lid up (a grave sin) and not flushed  it after having a wee (a graver sin). I warned him of the possible consequences of a repeat. Next time round I was pleased to note that he had complied with my instruction. But I still wanted my fun.

I made him crawl into the bathroom.

“Is your toilet clean?” I asked.

“Yes Mistress.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“Show me.”

He hesitated.

“How Mistress?”

I let him sweat for a minute or so.

“Lick it out” I ordered.

His face fell and he attempted a smile. But I wasn’t joking. I gazed at him unsmiling. He understood and stuck his head down the bowl to begin licking.

Toilet humiliation gives me a tremendous buzz. I have made subs lick out dirty toilets, made them hump toilets, kissing  them passionately as they did so. I have contemplated dressing someone up in a bridal dress (or as near as I can get) and marry the toilet, with me as a perverted registrar..

And then there is the bath, ideal for urinating over them or giving someone a freezing cold shower. Yes, there is a lot of fun to be had in a bathroom.

I have come across people on the scene who look on this kind of play with distaste, even to the extent of worrying about my own sub’s wellbeing after we gave a demonstration of bathroom play at a kinky house party. He loves this kind of paly as much as I do which has been instrumental in helping to forge a proper D/S bond between us.   I understand that this is not for everyone but it has always been a big part of my kink and I make no apologies  for saying

“Lick out that toilet slave. “

 

Taking to Task

I love setting tasks. They are a means of extending my control over my sub to the times when he is not physically present to serve me. They are also a another way to inflict various humiliations on him and this is something I love even more than a good caning. It is also a challenge to me to come up with ideas for new tasks and I like to be creative. .

And yet my slave has long had difficulty with pointless and demeaning tasks which served no purpose except to humiliate him. So I have extended the range of tasks to include things of practical benefit to him, and above all, to me. As a Mistress I really shouldn’t have to do menial but necessary tasks myself should I?

So I now set a variety of tasks which fall into four categories:

There are tasks of benefit to him, such as being ordered to inspect himself for lumps etc on a regular basis. This is an aspect of me caring for his well being.

Secondly, there are tasks of benefit to me, such as having my shoes and boots polished, my latex brought to a shine etc. I know my slave genuinely loves these tasks, because although menial, he can see a practical point to them. .

Thirdly there are punishment tasks, which are very often boring pieces of written work, lines, essays and so on. He hates these and that is the point. They are punishment and definitely not to be enjoyed.

Finally, there are the pointless and unpredictable tasks I set for my twisted amusement. Often demeaning and humiliating, these are always set with a smile on my face, if not met with a smile in return. These he has sometimes struggled with. Yet I will persist with these frequently irksome and demeaning tasks. They serve no practical purpose but challenge the sub to the core of his submissiveness. He is forced to overcome his reluctance and distaste in order to please his Mistress. He is forced to win a battle with himself and this is the way to deeper submission and, through suffering, to deep joy.

If you liked this please check out the other posts on this subject at Kink of the Week by clicking on the lips

One of These Days

These boots are going to walk all over you sang Nancy Sinatra fifty years ago and there’s a clip of her performing this on YouTube which is a boot fetishist’s delight. I have been a boot fetishist since childhood and love the outset of autumn for the riot of boots that will hit the streets, including, of course, my own. And, like my most of my fetishes, I have carried this over into my BDSM play. Most of the submissives I have played with have enjoyed boot worship and my slave regards it as a great privilege to be ordered to clean my boots. I have recently extended foot and boot play to foot massage and foot worship. Until recently, however, I had never considered trampling.

I was aware of it as a kink activity and have a scene friend who specialises in it. I have, on a number of occasions, watched her trample her sub at public play events and wondered if it was for me. The difficulty I could see was that, being transgender, I had a different build to the lady dommes I knew and was significantly heavier, this despite a year of successful dieting and 10k runs and half marathons. I am a bit squeamish too (really!) and had visions of major organs being crushed under my feet.

So it was a little trepidation that I accompanied my slave to a recent Underfoot play event. My trampling friend was there as was a lady I had met the week before at a femdom event who had come to demonstrate. And I had a go. You can trample from a sitting position, trample supporting yourself on frames and bars, trample to your heart’s content without ever putting more than a fraction of the bodyweight on your human doormat. You can make it sensual, you can mess with the head and, best of all, you can make it hurt. I quickly found out how enjoyable it can be to use my heels to play with my victim’s nipples.

You can combine it too with related forms of play such as objectification and human furniture. Well, a lady does need to rest her feet after a spot of trampling and a human footstool is just the thing. As for my slave, he is still getting used to it and, yes, it does hurt.  We will be doing this again.

It’s Painful but Is It Art?

Playing in public at clubs means that you are going to be watched. There are those who find this a distraction.  I realised early on that I didn’t and remember an occasion, early on in my domming career when I was so absorbed in the scene that I didn’t notice that a dozen people had gathered round, in silence, to watch. It was only when I turned round to select another toy to hit my sub with that I saw them, totally absorbed in what I was doing. But I was more absorbed still and pleased that only my play partner existed fort me in that hour. That is as it should be. We play for each other and not to put on a show. Or do we?

I find that at the big public events, such as the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar or Cirque de Chaos play primarily is about putting on a show. The noise and general business make it difficult to get into the required headspace, on the one hand, and I also found it difficult to read the verbal and non-verbal signals from my sub that I need in order to pace the scene properly. I think I tend to err on the side of caution in these circumstances although my slave would probably beg to disagree. I also worry about losing equipment as has happened a couple of times over the years.

I think that, in a sense, all play is performance, even private play without an audience.   I once had a conversation with a highly experienced pro domme who told me that domination was all in the head and that she could dominate any one of her regular clients in sweatshirt, jeans and Uggs. Allowing for the possibility that there are people out there with an Ugg fetish, I don’t entirely agree. When we play we are taking ourselves out of the drab real world for an hour or two, we are creating our own theatre and the costumes we wear are part of the fantasy we create.  The aesthetics of BDSM  have become increasingly important to me over the last year or so. I have a range of traditional fetish out fits in PVC and latex and so on, but have also played in a schoolmatronly skirt suit, in my lovely Vivien of Holloway repro vintage. The latter can be quite disconcerting. Latex, PVC and boots are the sartorial language of sadism and dominance. Feminine 1950s repro vintage isn’t. It can be hard to come to terms with a girly girl in a cerise rose circle dress and pink petticoat who smiles as he wields the cane and the whip, who hurts and humiliates with genuine relish. It is, as they say, a mindfuck.

The dressing up, the make up, the attention to detail are as important as the planning of the session, the skill in using the toys. It is an act of self giving to turn myself into the Goddess that my slave needs me to be, to help him into the headspace, to lure him into the theatre where he can be his true self, where he and I indulge our fantasies and where the pain and the marks I inflict are balm for the stresses  of daily life. Let the curtain rise!

Not Losing My Religion

Philip Larkin once wrote that, if called on to construct a religion, he would make use of water. When I construct a religion I will make use of kink. For the two have much in common and not just because the word itself comes from the Latin for tying or binding. I mean, if we are talking domination and submission it doesn’t really get more domly than being an omnipotent being does it?

Religions do things like imposing chastity on their adherents, setting tasks, prescribing bodily positions, respectful language, and if, like me, you were brought up a Catholic, there are few things that evoke BDSM rituals more vividly than the humiliating ordeal of confession. Add in the attractive aesthetic elements of Catholicism and you have something that just cries out to be twisted into a kinky parody in the way that much BDSM practice consists of high ritual parodying power relations, reproducing them for pleasure.

Reproducing religious ritual in a BDSM context is something that I find a massive turn on. And here is a fantasy I want to share with you. .

In the dungeon I become a Goddess. I walk among submissives of all genders, who at My approach, bow their heads and genuflect. I take My seat on the throne and they kneel, take out their rosaries and pray to Me

“Hail Mistress” they intone in a rhythmic monotone as clouds of incense rise up, partially obscuring Me from their adoring gaze. Then, one by one, I summon My worshippers to the darkness of the confessional where they bare their souls and tearfully lost their faults and the myriad ways they have failed to please Me.

Crushed and fearful they listen as I impose the penance of lashes with the whip. The others, yet to confess are forced to kneel and watch as I secure the sinners to the cross and write absolution in a criss cross pattern of agonising stripes on their back. I experience a deep joy that explodes into ecstasy as they beg for mercy (there can be none) and scream with pain.

By the time I have punished and forgiven each one the dungeon is silent except for occasional muffled sobs of pain and shame. My arm aches from the effort of cracking the whip time and time again. I am spent. But one ritual remains.

I call out one of the faithful, make him kneel before the altar, hand clasped in prayer. I lie on the altar throbbing with lust and desire. When ordered he will climb up, will pleasure Me, swallow My juices in the sweetest kinky Eucharist and then come down and take Me, his Goddess, all his for the next few minutes of Paradise.

On The Other Side of the Fence

In my sub days I had often wondered what it would be like to be on the other side of the fence during a CBT session. Now I was finding out.

I have been on the receiving end on more than one occasion so knew exactly what was going through the head of my sub who was strapped helplessly to the cross as I slapped on the surgical gloves and laid out the pegs in a neat row on the table. What was going on was what I wanted to be going on, apprehension, anticipation, the fear of the unknown. Above all the fear, for good BDSM play is as much about what you might do as about what you actually do do.  Mindfuckery is at the heart and for the domme a key element in the pleasure she has from the scene. But I was nervous too. This was a new departure for me in my still young domming career.  But I didn’t let my sub see that. Be in control, be composed, be dommely in every word, every movement. Do nothing to break the spell.

I took his cock in my hand, stroked it, felt arousal pulse through it before pulling back the foreskin and flicking hard at the end. He winced and breathed in sharply. I moved my face in close to his and laughed.   Then I got to work with the pegs, a colourful arrangement around the tip, along the shaft, on the scrotum and a few in his bushy wiry pubic hair for additional suffering.

I applied the penis gag and ordered him to suck. I stood back, amused at his predicament, and admired my work. It was artistic what I had done, a Mohican of pegs along the top of his cock, blue pegs dangling like cows’ udders from the bottom, red pegs as sentinels around the tip from which precome was starting to dribble. I flicked hard again and his erection began to subside as he whimpered through the gag. I stood back to admire my handiwork again. A pathetic inadequate cock had been turned into a bold strutting peacock, a creature of savage beauty exacting its due toll of pain.

I left him in that state for several minutes and, to mess with his head a little more, took out my canes, stroked them lovingly, smelt the heady aroma of my cruel rubber flogger, ran the lovely tails through my fingers. A taste of delights to come. I walked up to him to tweak a nipple, whisper in his ear.

When the moment came, the knocking off of the pegs with the cane was pure sadistic delight. I laughed again, removed the gag and could feel the rush of relief going thorough him, and gratitude to the domme who had inflicted this pain and yet shown him mercy. I almost felt that he would do anything for me. He had offered me his manhood to play with. He was mine.

I think that CBT can be one of the most beautiful of all BDSM activities, and not just physically. It symbolism is profound. It is the taking of the organ that is a locus of power and pleasure, often both together,  a tool of the subjugation of women, and remodelling it as the locus of humiliation, of pain and of subjugation to woman. No man who has offered his cock to a dominant woman to be cruelly used for her amusement c an ever be the same again, For it is not just that he gives her, it is his soul.