I haven’t received a happy femdom story in my inbox for so long. I do love them so.
This is a story of remote connection and D/s that was born out of a shared love of words and, unlike many other happy femdom stories I’ve shared it, is one that illustrates that D/s relationships do not have to be about romance to thrive and grow and to make the participants happy. Thank you both so much for sharing your story.
This is not, I have to admit, a love story. It contains no flowers, no walks along the beach at sunset, and only one candle – the one I once used to drip hot wax all over my body in a month when inflicting pain on myself was the only way to earn an orgasm. It’s the story of a submissive man and a multifariously kinky woman who figured out, over the course of many e-mails, that they would both find it fulfilling to be in a relationship in which her word was law and her wish was his command. It’s a happy femdom story about two people who manage to brighten up each other’s lives even though they live far, far apart, both have other primary partners, and have never so much as kissed.
I met Dilo Keith when she was looking for people to read, and comment on, an erotic story she’d written. The story was a little on the cute and fluffy side, by my standards, and it was about kinky gay men, but I was happy to help because she seemed like an interesting person and I think the world needs more good pornography of (nearly) every sort. Exchanging e-mails led to a longer correspondence, which turned a bit flirty, and almost before I knew it – though more than a year after we started writing to each other – I found myself agreeing to do what she told me. We were communicating on the same wavelength, my submissive side was craving a firm hand, and she was interested in exploring dominance and sadism. Our respective partners imposed some reasonable limits on our interactions, but she still had plenty of options for exercising firm, intimate control over various aspects of my life.
Nevertheless, she started slowly, weaving a net that tightened around me by slow, almost imperceptible degrees. Communication continued to be limited to e-mail. She sent me a photo of herself during our transition from friendly pen pals to dominant and submissive, but it didn’t show her face, so I still had no real idea what she looked like. Even more time went by, as I recall, before she had me send a selfie to her. At first, she mostly just instructed me to provide information. She wanted to know what I fantasised about, how I masturbated, what ways of communicating and giving orders I thought I might respond well to, and what kind of underwear I wore. Pretty soon, she was having me wear and buy briefs in certain colours, which was my first real taste of her control. Over time there were more questions, and more firm, precise instructions.
The two of us have been exploring, with her squarely planted in the driver’s seat, the many ways a dominant can use, torment and enjoy a submissive who lives too far away for regular in-person sessions to be a possibility. I edit bits of her writing, contribute to her blog, and entertain her with reports about things that are happening in my life and occasional links to online content – kinky and otherwise – that I think she might appreciate. I scrupulously follow a list of rules that has been growing steadily longer and more restrictive ever since she started to dictate my underwear choices a couple of years ago. Orgasms and chocolate (sometimes even white chocolate!) are verboten without her express permission, alcohol is limited, and when I’m alone in my apartment I wear a collar bearing her special tag. I call her “ma’am” and “My Lady” in my e-mails, and upon tumbling out of bed I plant a mandatory six kisses – three along each instep – on a photo of her boots before getting on with my day. I sometimes refer, less than half jokingly, to the invisible yoke and invisible chastity belt I wear for her.
Now and then, she’ll instruct me to undergo some self-inflicted pain, degradation or discomfort, and let her know how it went. As I write these words, I’m looking forward to a night in a sleeping bag on the floor of my “slave quarters” (also known as my apartment), a small privation that always reminds me of my place and keeps me appropriately humble. My bed will be right there, but I won’t be allowed to use it. Naturally, her methods extend well beyond imposing indoor camping trips. Discreetly tucked away in the slave quarters are clamps and clothespins I sometimes have to apply to sensitive parts of my body, a plug that has been inside me more times than I care to remember, and a genital restraint that makes me feel very intimately caged and constrained every time I have to struggle into it. And then, of course, there’s that candle. Once in a while she’ll have me send a photo or short video of myself suffering through one of these little ordeals, but for the most part I just write to her about them. I’d been her boy and plaything for nearly two years before she finally had me send her a photo that actually showed my penis, a fact that still amazes me when I think about it.
Not quite all of our contact has been in the virtual realm. About a year in, I found myself visiting her part of the world on business, but she was having a busy week and she and her partner are cautious about meeting new people. We had dinner together one night, and then went back to my cramped hotel room for just long enough for me to kneel, kiss her boots in person for a change, and accept the collar I mentioned earlier. Some months later, we managed a brief visit that involved more contact. Among other things, My Lady and her partner took me to a party where I felt both their canes, and they also had me spend a few hours on two successive days performing useful manual labour. Toiling away under their firm supervision reminded me of a long story about voluntary male imprisonment and forced labour that I’ve been writing for both My Lady’s erotic gratification and my own, an excerpt of which can be found on My Lady’s blog. I found out later that the comparison was even more appropriate than I’d guessed. In the story My Lady is a kind of consultant to the prison, exerting considerable influence on how my fellow captives and I are treated while having little direct contact with us, and on the worksite she deliberately adopted a version of that role by taking a hands-off approach and mostly leaving it to her partner to boss me around. By the end of the visit, in short, My Lady had hit me, bit me, and made me sweat, and I felt well used by the time she and her partner dropped me off at the airport.
There will probably be more visits in the future, but most of what we have is online. I’m the first to admit this kind of relationship wouldn’t work for everyone. It works for My Lady and me because we’re both very verbal, cerebral people, perfectly capable of getting turned on by words, because we’ve found or established a style of communication that seems to suit both of us, and because we’re both prepared to put a bit of effort and energy into making it work. My Lady has a way of expressing herself which is calm, thoughtful and understated, but nevertheless does nothing to soften her unapologetic and sometimes gleeful dominance and sadism, and I find that hot as hell. On my side, I seem to be able to write up my adventures and misadventures in ways that amuse her, and I force myself to be very forthcoming and 100% honest even when this entails confessing an embarassing blunder that I know might well get me punished (by having to write lines, for example). It’s all a bit quirky and unlikely, but it’s also remarkably fulfilling for both of us. It’s a happy femdom story!
Wheldrake and his Lady periodically share their thoughts and experiences at Dilo Keith: Writing About Erotic Dominance and Submission.
This post is part of an ongoing project to share happy, positive femdom relationship stories. If you have a story and are willing to share it, please email it to me (ferns AT domme-chronicles DOT com).
I’m restless today. And angry. And impatient. And annoyed.
It’s free floating, unfocussed, there is not ‘a thing’ to pin it on, though I am still pinning it on a number of things.
It will pass, of course it will. We all have moods, right?
But the short term result is that my usual patient kindness (shut up, I AM!) has been replaced by an intolerant fed up pissiness.
I’ve already written it out for myself, madly scribbling down thoughts and reasons and anger that would tear through the page were I using a pen and paper. Trying to rid myself of it. Lots of external blamey shit that isn’t really the problem but that’s easy to point at and go ‘THAT. THAT IS PISSING ME THE FUCK OFF. AND YOU. YEAH YOU. YOU ARE PISSING ME THE FUCK OFF TOO!’
I’ve directed it externally a bit also. Because ‘FFS! I CAN’T STAND TO DEAL WITH YOUR IDIOTIC CRAP TODAY!’
But really it’s just coming from me. Would be easier if I was angry AT someone FOR something, but it’s like a rage-cloud that is just floating around in my head, infecting everything it touches.
The only thing that is cheering me up is thinking about all the fantasists who imagine that this bitchified version of me would be a dream come true. It would probably take about 2 seconds for them to realise that it’s not fun. Because it’s not. Pissed-off-me just wants you to GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE RIGHT NOW! What pissed-off-me does NOT want to do is expend energy on someone who is so insensitive that they think that me being in a bad mood is ‘fun’.
Because FUCK YOU!
“It’s late,” I said. An obvious ‘end of the evening’ type fact: It was 1am.
He nodded agreement, got up from the couch.
We wandered over to the door. I smiled, thanked him for the wonderful dinner.
I stood a little taller than him in my heels. We were essentially eye-to-eye, standing a little too close. A slight hesitance, both leaning in for a kiss.
It was a quizzical kind of kiss. A question mark. Very sweet, whispering of curiosity. My fingers went automatically around the front of his throat, holding him there.
Soft, his lips. So soft.
Lingering tender kisses, exploratory touch of tongues, shared breaths, feeling his pulse under my fingers.
His fingertips settled gently on my hips. I took his hands and held them up behind his back, hearing the fabric of his jacket rustle, pressing closer then leaning away from him so he had to come forward to get to me. I trusted that he would keep us upright as I retreated and he reached for my mouth. Our bodies joined at the hips, bowing from the waist.
I pulled his hands up behind my back, he used the leverage to bring me closer. Strong. Hard.
I waited for that moment where the sweetness was no longer enough. Perhaps it wouldn’t arrive, perhaps the sweetness would be enough with him. It came on quickly, though: a combination of greedy curiosity and hunger, that rising heat, that moment when he became a thing to break open and explore.
A hand at the back of his head, the other at his throat, pressure, pushing him, micro-movements to get him where I wanted, wanting to feel the life in him. Joined at the mouth. A fleeting thought that I was pushing too hard dissipated quickly.
My hands on his face, first holding it where I wanted so I could shove my mouth against his mouth more easily, gentle tongues belying the force of hard lips, biting, quick clashes of teeth. Then covering his eyes, his mouth, touching those pieces of him, exploratory, dehumanising, intimate and strange.
“So soft,” I touched his lips, tempted to shove my fingers inside him, down his throat, to touch that wetness. Petting for a second instead.
An awkward forced tilt of his head into the crook of my arm, holding him still so I could take his mouth more easily. Uncomfortable: I always like the awkward things.
Thoughts of slamming him back up against the wall, images of his expression if I was to slap him, strobe-light possibilities flashing in my head.
In the middle there I glimpsed the white of his teeth: He was smiling.
“Are you smiling at me?” I whispered without moving away from his mouth.
“I’m smiling at someone,” he murmured.
Since a) I know how much I love it when I get to hear both sides of a story and b) it’s so lovely and c) I haven’t written anything about it (yet), I’m posting his comment here.
A glimpse, as fascinating to me as to anyone else.
There may be some people wondering how this weekend turned out. Ferns will most likely write a blog post summarizing her perspective on events.
For me… I’m struggling to express the profound impact that she has had. Intense, beautiful, confronting, passionate, challenging… and so many more thoughts.
I’ve lost a lot of sleep since, my mental processes in overload. Coming out of a long term vanilla relationship, our reunion was exactly what I needed to remind me of who I was and am. And to wake me the fuck up from a long slumber.
To the Sex Voiced Texan who elected not to pursue something with Ferns: I understand the fear you may have had, and your decision in not following through in meeting her. But you will never understand just what an amazing opportunity you denied yourself.
Phew. So lovely!! *smile*
While our past is our past, I do keep thinking what a gift this reconnection is, and what a turnaround it is from all of the hurtful history that he was carrying with him when he first got in touch. I’m so very glad.
I’ve written a few little snippets on twitter about it, and as my First hinted at: it was a wonderful and interesting weekend. I’ll gather my thoughts and over-share (as usual) soon.
My First arrives today.
This morning he said he got up to this song. Unbeknownst to me, it’s one that he has associated with me for a long long time.
The first time I heard that song was when my last submissive sent it to me. Similarly (and in a weird coincidence), he also saw me, and us, in it.
- For my last, it was a song about passion, kink, power, love.
- For my First, it’s a song about an unhealthy relationship, obsession, hurt, badness.
They are both right, of course.
I said I had no expectations of this weekend with my First. But that’s not true of course.
I expect that we will settle the unknowns, put the past to bed, and see if there is something worth nurturing into the future. What that might look like I don’t know, but if we settle our history with kind sweetness, I will be more than happy with just that.
I’m excited to see him. I think it will be so strange and a bit awkward at first, though I guess meeting at the gym gives us something to ‘do’ while getting used to being around each other. I imagine we will be feeling each other out to figure out how we relate now. That interesting thing of ‘strangers-but-not’.
I’m really looking forward to it.
I can’t stop watching Ronda Rousey in this gif. It’s amazing.
If you watch the YouTube video, the lead-up to this throw is the guy, am MMA journalist, joking with Rousey, an MMA champion, in a ‘ha ha ur only a woman’ kind of way.
“Hurr hurr, I don’t think you have enough strength and can compete with the men, even though I’m a white belt…”
In short, he was being a dick to an elite athlete: She’s an MMA champion FFS, and he was minimising her achievements, her training, and her skill.
I don’t care if he was all aw shucks jokey mcjokerson, and I don’t care that it was probably a set-up for her to demo a throw: WHAT SORT OF INTERVIEWER SAYS SHIT LIKE THAT TO AN ELITE ATHLETE?
I watched it over and over because it’s amazing: She drops him like it’s nothing. I keep picking up details: his surprised expression, the split second his feet leave the ground, how quick and smooth that entire move is. I keep trying to identify the moment he thought, “Oh shit, this is not gonna go how I thought.”
And when I read that she accidentally broke some of his ribs doing this, I tried to feel sympathy for him, but really, I thought, “Serves you right, arsehole.”