The lull before the new cycle begins.

The last week has been lovely but mad. For the first time since before Christmas things are settling back down which feels nice. I’m looking forward to a days peaceful hiatus before the new year.

I’ve spent lovely time with people I adore. I’ve systematically fed people until they are ready to explode. I have drunk christmasy things like amaretto and Irish cream, but predictably reverted to my true love gin, which aside from being my lifelong preference, definitely seems to go best with steroids (I'm working on producing the definitive word on steroid cocktails). I have got dolled up and danced. I have lounged around in a ridiculous plastic tiara that arrived courtesy of a friend (glamour - I have it). I have spent lots of time laughing and reminiscing and generally having people who love me telling ridiculous stories - ’do you remember in about 1996 when you…?’ (old friends come with such perils don’t they)? N & I have dedicated some serious time to shagging and yet again I am made aware that other people see our sex life as one long romp – we are commonly perceived as hopping off for a marathon bunk up at every opportunity. It’s only when other people reference it that I realise this with a start.

And in amongst all this the first hints of The Annual Planning Summit have commenced. The Summit is a source  joy as it means that we plan to do some cool stuff, but also of trepidation as we have to stretch ourselves and will be held accountable for various failures (mine for example includes ’why the fuck can’t you drive yet?’) which it has to be said is a good question. It also has strong ripples that affect other people. For example, N knows that the decisions made as a result will impact on him and result in various requirements, some of which will inevitably have far reaching consequences.  Wheeeeeeeee!

Anyway, a core group of us band together in various ways, offering support, a boot to the backside and generally helping each other out in reaching our aims, both individual and collectively. The last couple of years has seen me way below par but we are deciding that 2012 will herald my return to business. I can hardly wait, but am also scared as fuck as I’m out of practise at lots of stuff now, and suffering a significant crisis of confidence - definitive proof if any were needed that it's time to jump.

I should add that jumping, kicking and generally launching into my endeavours is my default approach to Life.....

Official undertakings will begin over the next week, but I am already decided that immediate moves will include;

• Dropping the excessive amount of weight I’ve gained from the steroids and Christmas cake as soon as I finish this cycle - ’Hello beautiful, you’re all round, are you junked up darling’? (My friends are so kind and subtle. But seriously, every day the Christmas photos show me looking more and more puffy. It's very sexy I'm sure).
• Getting a new course up and running.
• Learning to drive.  I have the funds thanks largely to other people's generosity (Did I mention that I love them?) I have the license. I now need to get the paperwork regarding my neck in order (for which I have made an appointment next week), then bite the bullet and plan time, book courses and tests - God help me, this freaks me the fuck out for a lot of reasons. I have managed to get to 38 without learning for a good many reasons which I am now about to kick.

Speaking of kicking, I will issue N with his new annual requirements over the next week too. Things are about to be shaken up. Game on :D

Just typing that makes me happy ;)

Blood, Gingerbread and Steroids.

Sadistic Domestic Goddess Tip #48:

One of the most blissful culinary combinations in the world is homemade toffee gingerbread fresh out the oven followed by mouthfuls of blood. The combined flavour is utterly sublime, and very festive. God I love Christmas. 

Needless to say I have been baking, and sampling and am now a little high and very happy :)

Why yes, I do look utterly like the delightful Ms Day as I spread my special domestic Goddess festive cheer!

Ok, now the boring part. I’m on steroids again which should make Yule etc interesting.  I went to the Doctor as I was going downhill so rapidly that it was obvious I was going to be crippled within a fortnight at best, and I thought I’d try being proactive and prevent it getting that far, which last time worked. The Doctor was great, she just took one look at me and wrote me up a hefty prescription which was pleasingly easy. I think I may now be getting the hang of this RA lark.

But enough of this boring stuff, let us return to matters festive, in particular glittery peacock feather slavetails. Thankyou to all of you who memoed, commented or 'loved’ the tasteful and understated photograph of N so chicly adorned for the festive season. I was feeling really ill when I snapped it on a whim, and the overwhelming and hilarious responses made a rough day more cheery. I’m sure N feels the same. He’s currently lying in the bedroom bleeding and recovering following some very loud screaming and asking if I was putting acid on his skin (it wasn’t acid but wasn't that a pretty question)? However, as I haven’t shoved any holly up his arse today or put a disco ball on his balls (the title for that pic would be simple at least, yes?) I personally think that must surely constitute a win for him. And as I said the blood was simply delicious with my gingerbread so that’s what really counts. He lives to serve ;)

Sparkly!

Fa la la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaaaah

Fifth Anniversary

Today marks the anniversary of me officially owning N for five years. I owned him before that really, but this was the date when we made it official, with collars and official promises and all that jazz.

These five years have been quite the roller coaster in some ways, we’ve experienced so much together - some quite amazingly wonderful times, and some moments when we have just bloody despaired. But underneath everything, my owning him also often gives our lives a wonderfully peaceful quality that we both revel in.

We’ve created a new family. We have moved to a new home in a new area and he created me things I really wanted. Our careers and lives have changed unrecognisably. We have run around going ’Wheeeeeeee!’ having adventures, with serious down and dirty, very bad, but utterly fucking awesome fun, causing trouble, and generally laughing and growling a lot.  We’ve fucked each others brains out, and remarkably, despite prediction have managed not kill each other. Quite the achievement.

He’s been reprogrammed mentally to think and respond in all manner of new ways that are miles away from where he started. He’s been isolated, then been thrown back into the world and I watched him blinded by the light and the noise of it out there, desperate to return to my side. He’s been dragged through some trials as only I can do (it’s a talent). He's dealt with me having other lovers of both genders, despite believing for a long time that it would break him if I had other men. He’s acquired a lot of scars, screamed, bled, collapsed, been pissed on, begged, cried, been arse fucked relentlessly, been scalded, been fitted with plugs for long periods of time, been given enemas, been  kicked, punched, slapped, scratched, restrained, face fucked by men and arse fucked by men just because I say so, been caged, been the subject of porn, been beaten excessively, been chained, been humiliated in the extreme, had sharp things stuck in him... and I must have drunk litres of his blood in this time. When I'm too ill to move my head he cuts his wrist and tenderly holds it to my mouth for me because he knows blood will give me a boost.

Five years today

The bad times have been pretty dark, some of our own making, and some just what Life has thrown at us. We’ve both had very significant bereavements and propped each other up through them. We’ve both had surgery. He’s been injured looking after me. I developed a chronic health issue that really blew our fucking lives up, and despite the mayhem that caused we held on by our fingernails and somehow staggered through intact, taking it in turns to drag the other one as needed. He’s wanted to throw the towel in and discovered just what ‘can’t leave’ means in reality when you're mine, and afterwards he’s been glad that I’m such an awesome bitch at the head tampering and the violence.

We love each other deeply, passionately, primally. We looked at each other six years ago and sort of went ’Oh it’s you. Actually I don’t officially know anything about you do I?’ There is a connection based on recognition as much as anything else, a bit like two predatory animals recognising each other through pure instinct and trying to decide whether to try and take each other out, or pair up and form a pack (being natural thrill seekers we initially sort of tried both simultaneously, you know, just for kicks). He doesn’t get all kinds of things about me, but he gets some of the bits that other people freak out about. So ok, yeah, he’s bemused by my flashes of uber-camp, my faith, some of my relationships, my cultural circles – but I don’t need him to get those things,  I have other people for that. His place is to be mine with all that that entails. There's nothing he wouldn't do for me and owning him feels like home for both of us.

…. And with all that and pages and pages more besides, what is the one thing that other people always remember? That I sold his bloody Ducati.

Happy anniversary N xxxxx

It's different when it's mine

I was writing a response to something on FL earlier and I thought I’d try to explain a bit more fully here.

I’m a sadist. That part is easy. I also like control, and preferably ownership. These obviously don’t have to be linked but as soon as you get to O/p they become so for me.

There are so many sadistic things that I like to do to what’s mine, and that gets reflected in myriad ways. Sadism without the context of ownership feels like a different creature to sadism within O/p for me. With someone I don't own it’s just different. I don’t drink just anyone’s blood for example, but if it’s my blood, in the sense that I own it, it’s a glorious, passion filled, life filled intimacy for me.  Take that connection away and the act is unrecognisable for me.

So for me, within the context of O/p sadism becomes more than ‘just’ sadism. It becomes a manifestation of a core truth, an essence, of something to do with authenticity and being who we are, and sharing an energy that we create.

That’s why trying to talk about sadism cleanly, as distinct from O/p doesn’t work for me if I’m talking about sadism within an O/p context. It’s because I am, effectively, talking about an utterly different experience.

I can hurt other people, I can lay all sorts of claim to their bodies, their spirits, their time, their love or whatever it is we are based upon. But unless they are my bodies, and my spirits contained within them, it is not the same from my side of the equation. Can I hit or bite flesh as hard? Yes - but the connection behind that is not in any way the same.  It may be wonderful, but for me it’s not the same.

I want to gulp down blood that I own, not on just anyone’s blood. There may be pleasure in it without ownership but for me, it’s not comparable. And drinking from someone I used to own would feel like sucking on something dead, not the warm fuzzy thing I hear about on FL. It’s the energy and connection that matters to me. As blood floods into my mouth (or whatever the act in question may be) it’s the physical manifestation of a primal, spiritual connection.

I know deep connections can exist without ownership, I have such connections, but this is specific and that’s why I find it hard to talk about sadism as the same thing whether it occurs in O/p or not. Because to me, it just is not the same the same thing. It may be to some people and that's wonderful, but it isn't to me. 

I can get pleasure from being intensely sadistic to people I don’t own, but it is so different to opening up what’s mine, because it’s mine, that it feels like discussing another subject.

Stress relief.

To make up for the angsty post;

After tackling some difficult stuff today, I decided to let off steam by putting N through his paces when we got home. I put him in his cute lacy panties (aside: from the rear it’s actually a very pleasing fuckworthy view, not just a humiliation thing - I just don’t look at the front), spanking him over my knee in a slightly 'girlish' manner, then buggering the ever loving fuck out of him in various positions with his panties on his thighs and telling him he’d make a good wife.

I briefly felt pseudo-lesbian again. It must be all that purple ink ;)

After I’d finished all that and N had secured permission to remove the panties, he managed a sterling job of asserting his masculinity and generally giving me a blissfully good seeing to. This including him going to work on my breasts, which is a relatively recent triumph of his. I never used to like them being so much as touched, (it was like ‘touch the tits I’m going to punch you bitch’), and now he successfully makes me repeatedly orgasm that way. It is without doubt fair to say my man has mad skills in the sack. He has done some astonishing things in terms of eroticising all sorts of bits of me, or touching me in very clever ways (example, he does this awesome nerve ending thing that can make me orgasm and shudder when he does it on my lower back. And if he does his magic stuff on my neck I lose it. He's a fucking artist, literally).  

So anyway, he’s sore and I had a lovely, stress reducing, marathon, orgasm festival.

I might stick sharp things in him later I think. That sounds a nice way to end the day. I haven’t mention that though. Tra la la.

Hello, I seem to have started a blog.

Hello, I'm MT, a dominant woman from the UK. Nice to meet you.
　
Now, at this stage casual readers are possibly already imagining some PVC clad dominatrix strutting archly around in six inch heels, wearing artfully applied make up, a peaked little hat, and a sneer. While I am fond of my lipgloss, and can manage a bloody good sneer on occasion, I am deeply unlikely to be found in a catsuit and skyscraper heels. At the time of writing I am sporting a fetching black tshirt with an 'anatomically correct' mermaid skeleton on bought in Brighton's Kemptown, a black lacy skirt from Monsoon (so edgy!), and men's black biker boots. I imagine the disappointment at this news may be crushing for some, but sadly can't quite find a spare fuck to give despite my best endeavours.

So now we have established that I am not a two dimensional porny dominatrix, who, pray tell, am I? And why do I call myself dominant if I don't even have the good grace to totter around my own home in spike heels and my tits busting out of a corset? Well here, gentle readers, is the abridged version;
　

• Human being, female genus. Aged 38.
• Good at control, direction and nifty with the 'Jedi Mind Tricks' of enslavement. I am successfully bossy.
• Owner of a male slave hereafter known as N, with whom I live in a committed relationship, and love very much. His main duties include making poached eggs, banging my brains out, mending things, loving me and providing nice arms to sleep in, keeping my house infinitely more tidy than it would be left to my own devices, bleeding for me as per my cravings and kink, generally entertaining me, stomping around the house looking sexy in tight tshirts and growling when he's cross, looking after me when I am unwell, receiving pain and humiliation whenever the mood strikes me and managing this mostly with good grace, making the gardens lovely, driving me about much in the manner of Lady Penelope, and making copious amounts of very nice tea.
• Opinionated, and bright enough to pull it off. I can string a sentence or two together, and people sometimes find what I say on various issues moderately interesting enough to pay me for it.
• I'm a Sadist. More on this another time (she said, titillatingly).
• Feminist. By this I mean I believe in the utter rightness of equality for all people, regardless of what they are sporting between their legs. I am categorically not a female supremacist. Female supremacy flies entirely in the face of feminism after all, and, well, the way it's done in BDSM it always looks a bit silly doesn't it? I'm not a Goddess, I'm just an old school, born to rule, woman with attitude (Ra)!

Which I suppose rather brings me back to my opening point. I'm not a FemDom person. I'm not a pro Domme, or a House Domme, or a 'Domme' at all. I'm really just a 38 year old woman with some rather varied life experience, a few thoughts, lots of opinions, a great deal of determination, a slave, a submissive or two here and there, lots of lovely friends, far too many books, and an addiction to Earl Grey. I would also really like to also have shiny hair but that doesn't seem forthcoming anytime soon.

I suppose I should now really cover Why I Think FemDom Stuff Is Bollocks and get that out the way. It's simple really - I'm just not ashamed of being a woman. While I have many flaws as a human being - I leave hair (unshiny) in the plughole of the shower, spend too much time pissing about on the internet when I'm meant to be being productive, and sometimes read texts I need to talk about on the way to talking about them, - the presence of a uterus and inny rather than outy genitals is not something I see as one of these flaws. The truth is that I rather love being a woman.

　

You see, to my mind, the majority of FemDom rhetoric seems to me to have a very low opinion of women - all that subtext screaming out that submitting to a woman is a degrading act is both inane and would piss me right the fuck off. And trying to disguise this tripe by blithering on about how the woman is a Supreme Dominant Goddess usually seems such a craply unconvincing attempt at covering this up, that anyone would think that really it's just an afterthought to try to quasi-legitimise a very fucked up game, having spotted such a major flaw in the 'philosophy'....

I mean, if the best quality person I could find to submit to me was a ‘pathetic little maggot’ then I'd be a pretty shite dominant. I enjoy having people I think highly of submitting to me, that's my thing. It gets me wet, emotionally, politically and sexually.

Speaking of which I also find all the "you have a teeny weeny cock and are a pathetic little worm, boy" stuff cringeworthy. There is a political point coming (no, really), but first the hot stuff; I like fucking. I like fucking very very fucking much indeed. You could say it's my life's work, my calling (when I'm speedily reading those texts on the way to a talk you can usually bet it's because I've been shagging in the time I planned to be diligently working). So anyway, I like sex. And therefore do I want some sexually inept man in my bed? Do I long for someone with a tiny cock? Do I pant with desire and drip down my muscled yet plumptious thighs at this thrilling thought? Does the idea of poor sexual esteem seem likely to you to result in a stupendously brilliant, screamworthy shag? Because it doesn't to me.

I get humiliation, really I do. In fact I somewhat excel at dishing it out. But I like a sexually advanced and depraved man in my bed. I like someone with their Life shit together, who submits to me because they think I'm fucking brilliant, not because they think they're a bit shit, or because they get a naughty little thrill out of lowering themselves to 'submit' to a woman.

　

Really, I find most of this whole FemDom thing about as convincing as telling me that Katie Price with her dysfunctional misery and her sagging silicone and her public desperation is a feminist icon, or that lap dancing clubs with their junked up women who look like orange anorexic depressed drag Queens are havens of female empowerment, or that too tight thong underwear riding up your fanny is sexy and empowering and For Women rather than just an uncomfortable, bulgy-yet-speedy way to get a UTI. Whether the kink the women are servicing is forced feminisation ("degrade me by making me look like some fucked up Eurotrash vision of the feminine. Empowerment baby"!), or whatever, it's just... well aside from being fucked up which is the main point, it's also tacky and I find it really really unsexy. I'm never going to get wet knickers at the thought of a man with hairy stocking-clad legs telling me he has a naughty little maggot between his thighs and he deserves it chopped off for being a bad, bad boy.

And I think that's my real objection to FemDom conventions really. It just seems to me to be a sort of pantomime interactive porn for men, almost designed to degrade women. Lots of men may want women strutting around in spike heels and corsetry, and I don't see that as any different to male dominants who want their chick submissives in white cotton panties and school skirts. And I actually think there's nothing wrong with that, I'm all for people getting their rocks off anyway they please - vive la difference! But if it's only for male fantasy it's not bloody serving me, now is it?

And I like being served. Not as much as I like controlling and being obeyed but I'll take all I can, because I can. I can have what I want, and then some more. I like seeing my man sweat for me while he writhes in pain, or watching his muscles ripple while he works for me. I like him in tight tshirts, and well fitting jeans because he looks shaggable. I like his big strong arms to sleep in, and his lovely fat cock to come on. And more than that, I like my man to be someone I admire and respect, and for the fact I own him to be a reflection of the fact I think he's someone pretty fucking cool.

My kick is owning a three dimensional, intelligent, capable, strong, funny, hot piece of arse who doesn't need to submit to anyone, but submits to me, and totally belongs to me. Who doesn't have to delude himself that I am some pseudo-Goddess poster child for womanhood to deal with me. Who is cool with the fact that I'm a bit fucked up and that means I crave some freaky shit. You see, being a three dimensional woman means I want a three dimensional man to stomp through life having adventures with me.

And being a dominant woman means I want to own him. See? It all makes perfect sense.