Vulgarities

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If I were rich…

Though that’s a strange thing to even think about because I don’t now how I could live with being rich in a world like this one. I grew up with some amount of rich and found it mostly not interesting. So another box I don’t tick is the one where the dominant woman is some kind of fabulous creature surround by exquisite objects (and probably called something like Countess Domibitchinanarama). These dominant women with their obsessions with how much designer clothing they can get men to buy them (true fact: that does directly equal your worth as a person) it’s all a bit vulgar isn’t it? Especially with the collapse of capitalism.

Having said all that – I do have some fantasies where I buy things. For him. In short where I buy him everything. Only stopping short of his soul. And then, only in the literal sense.

And when I talk of him – please note: He is such a beautiful man. Sometimes he is my age or a shade older, sometimes he is young and pretty and with all the perceived cache that brings. He’s big and strong and well educated. But he’s maybe a little louche. A little weak in the face of temptation. A little too fond of drink or drugs maybe. (But in a way that is only even wan and romantic and fanciful, never real and gritty and seedy.) And he’s a little too fond of easy softness to get away from me. Me, who pays for everything.

He has expensive tastes he can’t afford. But it doesn’t matter because all the bills come to me. He is the male equivalent of exactly that woman I was complaining about earlier. (And I don’t know whether that is oh-the-irony or the whole point.) Part of him believes that the more expensive the suits I buy him the more I must adore him. Oh, and I do.

His place is only small, but I pay the rent. It’s not lux but it’s decent in a city and a district where he couldn’t afford decent. I never see it. When I come to town I book hotel rooms. I don’t come and see the life I payroll for him. I don’t meet his friends – friends he has to cancel appointments with the moment I arrive. For that’s the deal of course. He has the most wonderful life – but I own him. He is enslaved by the fact that he could never have what I give him any other way. My visits are so rare that in some ways the price he pays is tiny. But in other ways – not.

He comes to see me in his best clothes. Expensive suits and shoes I paid for. All bespoke and handmade. I tell him to take off his clothes and throw them in the bath and burn them. He doesn’t want to. I tell him the clothes belong to me anyway. He says that the suit is special. His favourite. Made by a tailor who doesn’t work anymore. He is such a whore for things that make him look good. And not just for me. He is loose and wanton and I do not care about what he does when I’m not there. I tell him that if he doesn’t burn the suit I will – and I might not be so careful about taking it off his body first. The suit is destroyed some time after that.

Then he is naked. And he is hurt. Staff from the hotel come into the room and I don’t hide what he is. They see him naked and marked. They see him tied up. I slap him in front of them and they know what he is. They know him and I like that.

Public *anything* squicks me down in my heart.  But in my fantasies I love it like a dark ache. Like a slow-healing wound that I can’t stop probing. How bad does this feel now? Feeling like I’ll feel sorry when it doesn’t hurt anymore.

He fucks me so hard and for so long that he cannot stand afterwards. I tell him I don’t care. That his pain and shame mean nothing to me. That my desires are the only ones that count. I kiss him and he looks so beautiful. I’m a little bit in love with him. Or maybe just in love with the romance of the situation. But I’d never tell him that. And I love the way it hurts that he only wants me for my money. And I love all the power I have over him when I think about how much that pisses me off. I hate him for being so shallow. I love it this messed up.

When it’s time to leave I have a new suit brought up to the room. He dresses and complains it is not as beautiful as the one I burnt. I tell him he should be glad to be free now. I am leaving and he can get back to his real life. He says I am his real life.

*

Links of note

In vicarious type making-porn-out-of-coconuts news I really liked this post that explains why the introduction of Wolverine in the film X Men hits several dominant woman buttons at once: Cruel experiments, cage fighting and the fact that it hurts ‘every time’. Guh. Nice.

If you’d prefer to surf to something not so nice: try this link. Ugh. Remember how once I explained how hard it is do make femdom imagery because BDSM pics tends to focus on the sub (because they are the one things are happening to)  but erotic imagery tends to focus on the woman? Cue a huge dilemma for femdom porn producers followed instantly by the raging popularity of girl on girl imagery in BDSM porno stuff. Even prodom websites usually feature girl on girl pics even though the bulk of their business (well – realistically – all their business) is dominatrixing men. (This is because prodoms hate me and hate the fact I might get some secret jollies looking at their websites.) Anyway this a great (that is the sarcastic form of great, btw) solution to that problem.

This is also why there are so few women in femdom 101 – it’s this stuff. This kind of female desire excluding/female body commoditising asscrap being so much more prevalent that how it really feels. This has nothing to with actual female dominant desire and everything to do with a very specific male fetish (that pretty much dehumanises women and is nothing to with being submissive – you like feet, big deal, but it’s not diff to liking tits in terms of submissitude – or cock, it’s not like it’s wrong: it’s just that he fact it is feet doesn’t make it about submission) and the sooner those two things get untangled from each other the sooner you will find actual dominant women (as opposed to women with pedicures and no sense of dignity) exploring this world. Remember this post? Save the world. You know what to do.

By the way, that site has a women click here box. I clicked and it takes you here. Note the pictures of submisive men we get. Ha! Nah – we don’t want to be given any sweeties – we want to be given a chance to be ‘models’.

Note: I am not digging up super-obscure stuff here. I found the link to that on newspaper columnist prodom Mistress Matisse’s blog.

(Just as a point of interest: does she have girl/girl pictures on her website? Why yes and according to her FAQ he doesn’t even offer sessions with women. Um, pourquoi? (French, I know, is more Belle de Jour than Mistress Matisse but I tend to find all successful, pompous, blogging sex workers somewhat interchangeable. Honestly if I based my entire opinion of sex workers on their well known blogging faction – which I pretty much do because where else do I encounter sex workers other than in film adaptations of Frank Miller comic books? – I would mainly think that they were pompous and pretentious. That could just be true of all people who are self important enough to write blogs, though))

But look, tangent over. Way more people read Mistress Matisse than read me. (And we covered that a bit here – esp in comments.) Dominant women exploring this stuff are way more likely to encounter her than me. And then it’s just a small step to follow that link (she’s posted it about 27 times) and change their minds about being dominant forever. Trust me. I clicked that link and nearly decided to try and become a furry instead. At least that’s slightly more dignified.

(I know you won’t believe this but I solemnly swear that I didn’t write that whole fume just for the last two lines. I *swear*. I’m just that good.)

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