Cut Nails and Troublesome Mouth

In the car, driving Husband to the train station, looking over at his hands (cause he has sexy Man Hands):

"Oh, you've cut your nails."

"Yes." (Raises eyebrows.) "Does this give you ideas?"

"Nope. No ideas."

"No ideas—like my hand inside you?"

"No."

"You don't want my hand inside you? Fisting you? In and out, in and out—"

"NO THAT'S QUITE ALL RIGHT THANK YOU."

"I think my nails did give you ideas. I think you do want to get fisted tonight. I think that's why you said something."

"I think you should just keep your hands in your lap, over there, while I'm driving."

"That's not going to happen."

"Then I think from now on I should keep my mouth shut."

"You know that's not going to happen, either...especially not tonight."

Fantasies and Vulnerabilities

Ready to hear something surprising?

After all these years, I'm still shy about sharing a lot of my kinks—even with Husband.

I know, I know, I should get over this. The guy knows me inside and out; he knows me better than I know myself. I should have zero shame in telling him about all my blooming fetishes and fantasies.

But it's hard.

It's hard to take that first step and tell him there's something on my mind I'd like to try. It's hard to lay the script fantasy running through my head at his feet, and wait for his reaction.
It's hard to state out loud to myself, let alone someone else, how perverse some of the erotic scenes in my mind really get.

As a submissive who identifies as prey, it's hard to articulate "I want you to force me to do this for you." After all, if I really wanted to do this for him, wouldn't I just do it? Why should I have to be forced? What kind of submissive does this make me, that I have to be forced into pleasing him?
Wait, if this is my fantasy, and about my pleasure—am I not now topping from the bottom?
That's bad, right?

It's not bad, of course. Fantasies are never bad. Sharing fantasies grants any relationship a new level of truth and vulnerability, which makes it even hotter.
Husband LOVES it when I share my fantasies with him. He loves my kinky little mind. He's told me many times over that my fantasies are more hot and steamy than the stuff that comes out of a teenage boy's wet dream.

He also...he kinda loves forcing me to share my fantasies with him in very great detail. I think he gets off on how embarrassed it makes me. That's one of his fetishes, forcing me to suffer through that kind of humiliation, even as he knows it excites me, too.

There's a certain thrill for me knowing that as soon as I say, "Husband, I have a scene on my mind"—or something to that extent—he's not going to let the matter drop until I've told him exactly what I'm envisioning in my head down to the very last detail. He wants to know the tone of voice I'm hearing him speak; which side of the bed I see him on; which hand I see him using for what kind of play; even where his eyes are looking as he's doing whatever he's doing to me.

Of course, everything that happens during our real scene is up to him.
But in a way, that "real" scene is actually the second scene. The first scene starts as soon as I open my mouth and say "I have a fantasy." I'm forced to present all my inhibitions at his feet, to do with as he will.

Last night Husband and I had an amazing time acting out one of my fantasies. I'm not going to tell you what it was, but I will say (with no small measure of pride) that Husband came twice in fifteen minutes, and he came so hard he had to lie down on the bed for a good long while before his legs were strong enough to walk.
I'm not usually one for post-sex cuddle time but I gotta say, I enjoyed it last night.

Afterward, he hugged me and kissed me over my eyebrow (God I love it when he does that) and reminded me, "You shouldn't hide your fantasies from me. I want to know all of them. I want to know everything that goes on inside your head."
"I know," I replied, burying my head in the crook of his arm. "But it's hard. I'm embarrassed."
"You shouldn't be too embarrassed to tell me," he said. "I love you. You are the hottest woman in the world, and I am so lucky to have you."

That's what it's really all about, isn't it? To be vulnerable in front of another human being, strip down our veneers and cover layers until we expose our most fragile and unguarded selves...and be told we are still precious and beautiful to behold.
We are still appreciated.
We are loved.

The Single Word Command

There are few words that turn me on as much as this one.

Growing up in a religious home and going to a religious school, I was required to wear skirts all the time. The skirts had to be of "modest length," meaning that the hem had to fall below the knee; if the skirt had a slit in it, the slit could not travel above the knee cap.

Not only was I required to wear a skirt, the fashion in my school back then was to wear specific GAP long denim skirts, ones which were extremely narrow. They fell almost to the ankles, and had no slits. We girls did not walk; we shuffled. Opening our legs more than a foot wide was almost impossible.

This curtailed our mobility, obviously. But I think that was part of the point. If you look throughout history, one popular way of controlling women is to take away our ability to move.

In fact, we were taught specific ways on how to move—modestly, of course. We were not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, or do anything that might cause the boys to look upon us for too long; that was immodest. We were not supposed to roll up our skirts, not even in the summer months; that was immodest. We were not supposed to sit with our legs spread apart; that was immodest.

I will never forget the day the principal of the school gave the girls a lesson on how to bend down to pick something up off the floor. The trick, he said, was to bend at the knees, not at the waist. That way you're not presenting an attraction toward any male walking by.
Any woman who's ever tried to stand up from a kneeling position this way wearing a tight skirt knows there's a certain art form to it. It takes practice, and a certain amount of grace. Doing it right will make a woman look downright elegant; doing it wrong will see her planted on her face.

As the framework of my life changed and I began to wear pants more often, it took a surprisingly long time for the wicked thrill to wear off. I was doing something naughty, wearing pants; I could open my legs. 
Part of the pleasure was being able to just fucking walk.
But I still saw opening my legs too wide as something inappropriate and indecent. Girls just did not do that. They did not act that way. Not the good girls, at least.

I did not last as a good girl for very long.

Husband figured out very quickly what the word "open" does to me. He had to break down more than a few inhibitions first, of course. I was still very shy getting naked in front of a man.
I could take a dick down my throat, but parade around with no shirt on in front of a guy? Pfft. No way.
Once he got me naked before him, prone, vulnerable, and he would tell me to open my legs...then the sweet struggle would begin.

I used to refuse to open for him. My refusals were dealt with harshly back then. I was not punished so much as shown, time and again, that my refusals were futile. He would do what he wanted to do to me, and get me what he wanted me to do.
Full stop, the end.

But at the same time, he made me feel gorgeous when I overcame that struggle—even when he had to "help" me do it. He told me over and over again how beautiful I was, how attractive, how sexy, how womanly.
He made me feel comfortable with being proud of those parts of my body.

But the struggle has never really gone away. Neither has the delicious suffering—those moments of panic as I slowly ease my legs open for his stare, knowing I am revealing my most hidden parts, acting the perverse and wanton slut.

It is not just my body he finds attractive. It is the struggle he sees etched across my face, the inner fight waging behind my eyes.
It is a fight I am going to lose, and he is going to win.
With his triumph comes control.

Why I Won't Engage With Those Who Have An Anger Management Problem

Because I spent the first eighteen years of my life with such a person, and see no reason to put up with that bullshit anymore, not for one fucking minute.

Look, I know it's often hard, sometimes impossible, to control one's emotions. I know. But there is a difference between losing control of one's sadness, or frustration, or even happiness, and losing control of one's rage. 

Adults in general should be able to control their rage. You get angry? That's normal. You show your anger by going around punching walls, screaming and yelling, and having temper tantrums? That's a problem.
And let me be clear: that's your problem, no one else's.

And yeah, when it comes to kink, there's a double standard here between subs and Doms. Indulging in a display of rage now and again, especially under extreme circumstances, by a sub is more easily forgiven than when the same actions are taken by a Dom.

There's a reason for this: Doms are supposed to be the ones in control. In control of their sub(s), in control of their D/s relationship(s), in control of their lives. If they cannot control themselves, they cannot control anyone else, and should not be entrusted to do so.

I witnessed Husband give into a moment of rage twenty years ago—once. The action was trivial, and not directed at me. But I told him if he ever scared me like that again, we were done, over, finis. 
And he never has.

Emotions are a part of being a human being. There's no way to shut them off. But mastering them, at least to a point where you're not scaring the people around you, is a vital step of maturity.

I get the feeling that some people see no reason to control their rage.
Some people actually get off on their rage. They like scaring people. They like the attention they get, the fear they see in someone else's eyes. They say they have no control...but they do. The truth is, their rage gives them more control, because they have an excuse to act like assholes.
I didn't mean to lose control. 
I just got so angry. 

Fuck that. I don't put up with that bullshit in my life, not anymore.

I can take a lot of emotion thrown at me. I can handle anger, sadness, regret...even hate. I can handle tears. It's hard, because more often than not, when my friends come to me crying, I end up crying with them. But I will do my best to offer them an ear, and help them shoulder their pain.

What I cannot handle are acts of violence borne out of rage—no matter how small. I won't call this a trigger, but I will term it a "trauma button," and anyone who presses this button will see me walk away.

I didn't mean to lose control.
I just got so angry. 

That's too bad.
No, I'm not mad.
I'm just done.

Yeah It's Possible to Do The Whole "Dom" Thing Wrong, And Here's One Way

This is going to be short, quick, and to the point.

If you are a Dom, and you come on to Fetlife to find people who are into the same kinks as you are, or to educate yourself about all the different fetishes out there, or to find the next great party going on in your area...GREAT. Rock on.

If you are a Dom, and you are on Fetlife on a personal journey of self discovery, to see how kink can improve or enhance your life? You have come to a good place. (Not a great place, but a good place. A good place to start, at least.)

If you are a Dom, and you are perusing Fetlife to find submissives who might be a match for you? Have fun. I don't know how good your chances are, but they've got to be better than zero.

But if you list yourself as a Dom, and you are CLEARLY only on Fetlife looking to get laid? I'm sorry, but I don't think you're much of a Dom.

Yeah, I know, there's no such thing as a "real" Dom. People say this because there are a zillion ways to do the whole "Dom" thing right.

But you know what, homage must be paid to the simple truth that there are ways to do the "Dom" thing wrong.

Doms do not say whatever they think a sub wants to hear in their ongoing quest to get sex.
Doms do not neg to try to make a woman feel insecure about herself (and possibly give out the sexy).
Doms do not get pissed off when they get a NO.
Doms do not begin all their conversations with random strangers with sexual overtures.
Doms do not keep coming back to pester and nag at a woman after she's shot down his invitation for sex.
Doms have (gasp!) other interests besides getting laid.

DOMS DO NOT THINK THEY ARE OWED SEX BY EVERY FUCKING SUBMISSIVE ON THE PLANET AS THEIR OWN PERSONAL REWARD FOR JOINING FETLIFE.

You do not get a reward for joining fetlife: not a cookie, not a pair of woman's used underpants (or socks!*), and NO SEX.

So if you've listed yourself as a "Dom," but you're only here looking to get laid, knock it the fuck off. Either change your listing title, or grow the fuck up.

(*STOP ASKING ME FOR MY SOCKS, YOU PERVERTS.)