Girl on the Net

Writing from the domme perspective is hard. When I’m being submissive, it’s easy to write with a focus on what a dominant guy did to me and how: the words this one growled and the ways he twisted and angled my body so as to best please his own eyes and cock. These hot actions, performed by him, could draw the majority of focus for any given blog post. I know it doesn’t have to be this way – with the dominant as the ‘do-er’ and the submissive as a passive recipient of whatever they choose to do, but it does tend to end up like this quite often. So writing from a subby perspective feels more comfortable to me, because if you focus on someone else when you’re bragging about the sex you had, you can partially hide the fact that you’re bragging in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong, I am still basically a professional narcissist: believing my own sex life to be interesting enough that it’s worth maintaining a whole fucking website about it for over a decade. But still, writing as a dominant feels cocky. Instead of telling you a genius idea that a guy came up with to make me feel used and humiliated, now I’m telling you about my idea, and why I think I’m such a sexy cleverclogs for doing it to a dude.

It’s harder to write consent, too. In my submissive posts you can see inside my slutty little head and know I’m gagging for whatever I’m being given, but when I write about how I ruined this or that guy, it feels wrong to try and guess what he was thinking. I write in all those little verbal and physical consent cues, like when he gulps and nods at a particular suggestion or fully lights up with laughter when he realises what I have planned, but there’s still a worry that I’m projecting thoughts into someone else’s head.

I did get a bit of practice at writing from a dominant perspective when I was shagging Toyboy (I hope you’re doing OK mate. Bearing up through November? You can do it, I believe in yoooooooou <3), but we weren’t exclusive, and we didn’t see each other often. Sure, I took the occasional foray into cocky, dominant posts (like this one in which I broke his spirit with a blow job, or this one where I showed him a brilliant time at a strip club), but the focus of the blog wasn’t ‘on him’ so much as it is now on my shiny new boyfriend, Hot Punk Guy. Besides, even with Toyboy it felt strange to write in that powerful voice and I was grateful for the chance to slink off back to my dominant partner so he could throw me down and fold me like a pretzel, allowing me to write from a place of subby gratitude once more.

So yeah. It’s hard to write dominance. I have to put on a character in order to do it. Adopt the disguise of a person who is more confident than normal me. A writing voice that sounds, to even my ears (and seriously, I bang on about myself for a living), like arrogance. But I’m going to adopt that tone for a bit and see how it sits, because I don’t know how else to tell these stories for now. Unfollow me if I’m getting obnoxious, yeah? Pay me money if you’d like me to continue.

I’m not gonna fuck you for ages

When I left you last weekend, I was on my knees on the bed, straddling the man I have far-too-rapidly fallen in love with, explaining that although it had been three weeks and I was desperate for his cock, I still wasn’t going to fuck him for ages. Teasing and denial is the plan for today.

I believe by this point I might have had him strapped by the wrists to the bedframe, but if I hadn’t then please assume that’s what the interlude was for: I strap his wrists to the bedframe with some easy-to-undo twisty tie things (he has previously expressed some reservations about cuffs thanks to Gerald’s Game) then settle down with my cunt firmly pressed against the thick rigidity of his shaft.

He is now completely at my mercy.

And it is fucking great.

I know I mentioned it in part one of this post last week, but it’s worth repeating: the beauty of any given man (and this one’s stunning to begin with), is drastically enhanced once he’s restrained by his wrists to a bed. Arms spread so you can kiss his neck, lick his nipples, gently bite the inside of his forearms, or push your face into each of his armpits in turn, however the mood takes you. The visual appeal of this position, arms wide as if showing off how powerful he is, yet bound taut to the frame of the bed, exposing his extreme vulnerability? Unnngh. The way it accentuates the topology of his chest and shoulders is exquisite. It’s a delight to behold literally any man in the universe bound and presented in such a way, but THIS man in particular? With his beautiful tattoos and shapely arms and wrists? It’s enough to make a girl come in her fucking knickers.

This is the man I have tricked into falling in love with me wooed. And I’ve told him that we’re not gonna fuck for ages. Instead, I lie down next to him, using the softest touch to tease the shaft of his dick through the fabric of his boxers.

Can I tell you something incredibly cool about his cock? The more lightly I touch it, the harder he becomes. So fucking hot! Instead of having to grip it with force and beat him off like I’m ripping up floorboards, the gentler I am, the more he likes it.

It’s delightful. I could do it forever. Just teasing him with soft-soft fingertips, planting kisses on his neck and giggling. He likes to tell jokes and banter a bit while I’m slowly breaking him down into constituent atoms, and one of the things I love most about him is that he’s funny, so this is fucking wonderful foreplay. Plus it means I get to note the subtle shifts in tone as he moves away from jokes and starts to take me a little more seriously: an extremely sexy transition, by the way. Making someone laugh is exceptional, but there’s still a rich pleasure in doing something so hot that it wipes the smile off their face, causing them to swallow and look up at you with dark and earnest eyes.

So. I stroke his cock through boxers with a feather-light touch and he twitches harder and harder and harder. Only the very tips of the pads of my fingers are making contact with the soft cotton, beneath which pulses the solid girth of his precum-leaking erection. Taut, rigid, occasionally jumping under my hand.

And I stroke.

Adjust my touch so it’s even lighter than before.

Stroke again.

Feel him pulse…

Surely it must be agony, being that hard yet not getting fucked? Eventually I’m almost wincing on his behalf. The thought of that delicious pain – the idea of the man I love fully hurting to fuck me – triggers a corresponding throb of longing inside my aching wet cunt.

When he’s making the right needy noises, I stop. Remind him: “I’m not gonna fuck you for ages.”

I pull his boxers down and off, pausing briefly to run my tongue over the head of his straining prick, allowing myself to taste just how urgently he wants me to sit on it. Then I slide back up his body to kiss his lips again, and grin as he cranes his neck forward to kiss me back. He does this a few more times, and I play with him: subtly keeping just a bit too much distance so that he has to chase me those final two millimetres. It seems so inconsequential, two millimetres, but when you’re strapped to the bedframe and being kissed from above, hurting with hunger for the lips you’re trying to touch with your own… I bet two millimetres feels like an agonising gap.

The Socks

I sit on him again – softly rubbing against his bare cock as I do – and ask if he wants to get fucked.

“You’re only going to say ‘no’,” he tells me. He’s very perceptive like that.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I am. Sorry.”

More 2mm kissing. Grinding. Needy, hurty noises. And I ask him again, teasingly:

“What do you want?”

“You’ll say ‘no’,” he repeats.

“Try me.”

I expect him to request something obvious. I assume he’s going to ask for a kiss or a blow job or ‘just please touch it please touch it’ like other subby guys have in the past. I’ll turn him down, he’ll squirm, then I’ll prompt for another desire, rinse/repeat. But he doesn’t ask for a kiss or a fuck or a blow job. Instead, he goes for something I did not expect:

“Can you put the socks on?”

‘The socks’ being a pair of black thigh-highs. Not stockings: socks. I had cracked out the socks during a recent sexy evening we’d shared, and it’s fair to say they were a hit. It was such an out-of-the-blue request, and it seemed like such a fun idea, that instead of denying him I broke out of character and went:

“OMG, yeah! The socks! What a cool thing to ask for, fuck yeah I’m doing it.”

He looked extremely surprised. Perhaps even disappointed that I’d acquiesced so quickly. And as I leapt off him and hurried across the room to rummage in my sock drawer, there was a part of me that was disappointed in myself too. Is this the kind of dominant I am destined to be? One with no willpower to refuse a hot boy if he asks me to put on The Socks?

Yeah, I guess I am.

Because here’s the thing… I love the socks. I love that he loves the socks. I feel more confident and sexy when I’m wearing the socks.

Cloak of confidence

As he lightly mocks me for having no willpower whatsoever, I resolve to give not one single flying fuck because goddammit… I look GREAT in the socks! More importantly, the socks are like a costume I can put on to pretend I’m more sexy and powerful than I feel in this moment. Helping me adopt a more assertive attitude. They’re the equivalent of my domme voice in these blog posts, or the invisible cloak of confidence I put on when I have to meet new people.

I spend a fair amount of my life daring myself to do stuff: speak at this event; meet that group of complete strangers; turn up at a gig with my best friend and say ‘hello’ to someone who scares me because they’re famous; book bus tickets and go on a week-long mission across Europe on my own; stare deep into the eyes of a man I can’t believe loves me and pretend that I am dominant and entirely in control of his cock.

But ultimately I’m just a terrified girl daring herself to do stuff, hoping no one notices that I’ve no idea how to go about any of it. And sometimes you need a trick or a prop to get you over the initial fear – help you fake the confidence you’re aiming for. A ‘domme voice’ in the bedroom. A pseudonym for your sex blog. A tattoo that reminds you of what you’ve achieved. Or four pints of Dutch courage and a pair of thigh-high socks.

I’m not saying the socks made the rest of the fuck possible, but they definitely made it better. This otherwise-inconsequential costume gave me the courage to be a bit bolder, and the time it took to put them on gave me breathing room to plan my next move. So although I won’t waffle on about how I drew it out, I will tell you that eventually I fucked him. After a couple more hours, a few almost-but-not-quite moments, and plenty of ramped up frustration (on my part as well as his), this particular evening ended with him on his back on the mattress, bound at the wrists with rope. The rope was slipped just under the slats either side of my bed so I could tug on it and stretch his arms out wide for that vulnerable look.

Crucially, with the rope arranged like that, I could wind the ends around each of my hands and hold them for balance as I mounted him – angling the head of his taut, twitching dick in exactly the right place so I could look him dead in the eye as I paused before sitting down. Making direct eye contact and grinning with all the self-assured power that the socks, and the drinks, and my domme voice had given me, I could take my time to register the pulse of his cock and the urgent want in his face before I even thought about giving him what he desired.

Drawing it out. Making it count. Revelling in the power I had to either do it or not. Then finally, slowly, eventually, sliding all the way down in one smooth, long, satisfying stroke. Pulling the rope taut at the same time to keep him in place, then yanking it even tighter as I rode him until I came.

I don’t think I’ve felt that confident arrogant in the bedroom for a really long time.

After we were done, and I released him from the ropes, he looked up with a kind of grateful awe and told me:

“Fuck, that was so hot.”

*puts on domme voice*

You bet it was.