I’ve had some conversation lately about rituals, and marking. Specifically as they relate to Dominant/submissive scenes, play and ritual. In particular, the shaving thing. Let’s talk about this for a moment. I’m going to work through this as if it were a dominant male and submissive female, using pronouns that way, but of course your milage may vary.
First, there’s a dom and a sub. The dom wants to show dominance, the sub wants to show submission. One way to do this is for the dominant to exercise control over the submissive’s body. There are a mind-numbing number of ways this can done, but “marking” is popular. Some people use the term “marking” to denote piss-play… I guess that could kind of apply, but I’m not really talking about that.
For me, marking is leaving a mark, showing in some physical way that you have control over a submissive. In middle school we traded hickeys back and forth; this was a kind of childish marking, but a great example. Grown-up marking can involve having her wear specific jewelry, writing on her with a Sharpie, or for the more serious players tattoos or piercings.
It could also include changing her hairstyle, which is probably a bit more radical. If she has a long mane and as a dominant you chop off her hair ( or better yet, have it done at a salon ) and now she has a sporty new pixie cut, you’ve definitely marked her, asserted your control over her body and left a physical sign of this.
Another less public, less intense way of doing this with the natural equipment she already has is shaving her pubic hair, or arranging it in a way that is something you decide, not her.
If she’s natural or trimmed, you could shave her. If she’s bare, you could have her grow it out and then sculpt her in a way thats pleasing to you. This is a sign of control over her body, but it can be much more.
Think of the intimacy that comes with the experience of shaving her pubic hair. She has to open her legs, remain still. She certainly has to trust you ( you’re worthy of her trust, right? ) And then you take this very sharp thing to a very sensitive part of her body, and do your work. You leave a design, so to speak. your mark. If it’s different than how she does it, she’ll notice that. It’ll be a constant remind her in a very private place of your control over her body.
The ritual of shaving alone can be special and bonding, and can show dominance and submission. She gets ready, ;lays everything outdoor him, gets into the proper pose and awaits his tending to her. He examines her, telling her what he likes, what he wants to change, and talks her through it. Whatever the nature of your D/s relationship is, certainly there’s an appraise way to give voice to this during her shaving. Warm and caring, cruel and humiliating. Or whatever your thing is.
Plenty of chance for play, teasing, denial, and discipline here.
Then clean her up, and look at your handiwork. In a few days, repeat.
An old post of mine, recycled from another venue. I hadn’t thought about it in forever, but then the topic came up in a conversation so I thought I’d share it here.
Way back sometime around the dawn of when “normal” people found the internet, there was a great cartoon in The New Yorker. It was a commentary about the new layer of anonymity that communicating online was adding to everyday interactions. It showed one dog talking to another and saying something like “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog.”
Funny. Aside from the obvious cleverness, there was also some subtext there.
Of course we all know that everyone who does anything roleplay-ish online from cybersex to describing taking off an overcloak to founding an entire noble house that exists only as little ones and zeros must have too much free time and not enough social skill to get along in the “real world”.
Okay, maybe not.
There certainly are people doing all of that with too much free time here online, puttering about. And it’s also not too hard to find people who really don’t work or play well with others in real life taking refuge in the online world because the real one probably seems too tough to manage in. Some people even have both problems; they of them seem so normal and well adjusted at first, that when they pull back the Mission Impossible-type mask of normalcy and waggle the bug-eyes and giant-tongue of mania at you like a cartoon circus clown, it comes as quite a shock.
But there are also one or two perfectly normal people out there. Somewhere.
Where the Normal People Are
So what are some possible characteristics of these few people? Let’s run down a list of possibilities. People who are quick to judge sometimes work well with lists, so if you happen to be one of the two ( or so ) normal people out there, you can give this list to a critical friend or loved one.
Still a little obsessed. Don’t judge me… is it strange that I wouldn’t even notice her chest, her hair, or the logo-y hat?
I have long been a fan of the age dynamic, the sensual tension that can arise from a gap in ages.
I know this comes from a variety of places; a differential in experience, confidence. One partner may have had a lot of success in the world, and the other is just getting started in life. Master/mentor, Daddy/little girl, and so on. I’m particularly fond of the taboo relationships – Teacher/student, Dad /daughter’s friend, Supervisor/intern… that power difference, world difference can add a lot of the sensual tension. In life I’m a slightly-older guy, so this fits and is easy to write.
But before I was an older guy I was a younger guy. I had an extremely buxom eighth grade teacher, think Christina Hendricks, and she was given to wearing tight blouses. This had the effect of branding my hormone-riddled brain, permanently gracing me with a fierce lust for “older women.”
So. Much. Naughty. there.
Mom, or the Mom Figure, taboo in an Oedipal way. The difference in experience. The idea she’s “supposed to be” prim and proper, not sexual. God, how I lusted after attractive teachers, friends’ moms, working mom clerks at the checkout counter. It didn’t matter. My young cock would budge in my private school corduroys as I got swept away by MILF daydreams.
As I get older, I still enjoy older women. Quite a bit. But I’m conscious that the4re’s a line somewhere. Certainly “older” changes as I age myself, and I’m surprised sometimes by who and what turns me on. But as I’ve mentioned I’ve sort of diversified in my love of the age gap. But always and forever, I will love the hot mom, the dirty milf.
Is she a bored housewife? Is she trying too hard to hang onto or recapture her youth with clothes, being her daughter’s best bud? Competing with the young girls for attention? Is she the packaged MILF, body a work of art and medical science painstakingly maintained? Is she spilling over with womanly, motherly curves, moving through her sexual prime? Is she pushing the slutty thing a little hard? Snapchatting and sexting? Something’s going on there, maybe broken, definitely delicious.
Dominant MILFs. Submissive MILFs. Subject of blackmail, boredom, bimbofication, master/slave, randy bored suburban scccermoms dallying where they should not? Off the boat older wives and mothers looking out for their sons and daughters but letting their eyes wander? The weary working mom who can’t hide her sinful curves, the echo of wild child still alive somewhere in her eyes?
All of it, and so much more. Hardbodied European GILFs showing camel toe at the beach?
As I’ve said, I’m surprising myself. I think a few stories with older women are in order. Maybe that will help get this off my brain, so I can focus on something else?
Now and then I mostly-lurk on an erotic writing forum where people put up prompts design to attract writing partners. One author caught my eye with her well-styled work. This prompt below was about a lost little waif, mostly minding her own business before getting swept up in circumstance. It was gritty, raw, and spoke of serious need. My reply to the prompt follows. Her writing is hers, mine is mine, and I thought I’d put it here because I enjoy the exercise of prompt-reply, and I enjoyed the way our writing styles seemed to resonate.
And certainly, wherever you live, all characters here are of a legal age to do whatever you think they are going to do. In this fictitious setting with made-up people.
Her prompt – “Lolita”
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
She was there every morning without fail. Just outside the coffee shop, sitting unobtrusively at a shaded table at the side of the building, reading battered paperbacks and sipping coffee, elbow propped on the table, a clove cigarette dangling from the tip of her curved hand. It annoyed him at first, having to walk through her smoke.
He became used to it after some time, became part of his morning ritual, this porcelain doll with long dark hair and almond eyes always in withered lace thrift shop dresses, the cloud of spiced smoke framing her face in lazy tendrils. God, she was lovely. Pale and smooth of face, dark eyes roofed by black arched brows and puckered babymouth, cotton candy pink. She could have been twelve or twenty, the skin still tight enough to crease around her eyes.
Every morning. The smell of cloves, worn paper back, coffee. He wondered about her, who she was, why she was always here. Spring became summer became fall and she became a fixture, peripheral and distant beyond a half smile and quick perfunctory nod. He thought of her often in odd moments, looked forward to those fleeting seconds when their eyes met.
This morning was different than no other. He parked his car and passed through the haze of her smoke. No nod or smile today, her head ducked into her book, forehead puckered in worry, long fingers plucking nervously at chipped sequins that lined the neck of her black gabardine dress. Her hair was gathered into a chignon at the side of her neck, lips stained ruby red, looking for all the world like an old world movie star misplaced into present day in tattered thrift shop clothes. Her eyes met his briefly, slid away, scanned the intersection of the highway. She bent deep into her book, as if to hide her face.
He stood in a long line, swiped at his phone, made calls, bought his coffee. He stopped at a counter at the side of the room to add the obligatory sugar and cream, mind wandering over the things he was to do today. The clatter and bright conversation of the coffee shop abruptly dropped, attention drawn outside.
Several cops stood in a semi circle around the girl outside. She looked frantic, gesticulating wildly toward the inside of the store. He watched with some interest at the scene in front of him for a moment, sent another text. Jesus, he was late. He sipped his coffee, wiped his mouth, walked out the door.
Her face was panicked and frightened, her voice cresting and breaking, thick with tears. “That wasn’t me, I told you I’m here with my father– I– there he is, I told you he’s here, he’s– dad! Dad! Tell them I’m here with you, they think I–“
Him. They were looking at him.
He froze, clutching his coffee in one hand, his keys and phone in the other, mouth open, speechless.
“Sir, we’ve had a complaint that a minor has been squatting at the old mill on Harper Street, a young woman that fits the description of your daughter. Are you….” the officer squinted at the ID in his hands. “Are you Mr. Warren?”
“No!” Her voice was wild, shrill. “My mother remarried and I have her husband’s last name, but I live with my dad now, I—“
The officer peered at the ID, glanced at the hysterical girl in front of him, his gaze resting on the man rendered speechless at the impossible scene he’d just walked into.
“Sir, is this your daughter?”
Silence hung in the air. She watched him, breath locked in her throat, begging with her eyes. Please.
A silent moment.
Coffee steamed in the cup he held. The three radios squawked from the broad shoulders of the police officers, thick black polyester over kevlar body armor. Smokey mascara around the girl’s eyes.
He never remembered making the decision. There was no debate, no mental rehearsal, no review of past wonderings about her situation. No building himself up to do it. No dare.
Without a word he placed the coffee cup down on her table, and quicker than eyes could follow, his open hand caught her cheek.
The sound was shocking, and the force of the slap was much more “startle” than “knock a waif off her feet.” It was the slap for a daughter, from a father who had endured too much of a moment.
His voice was calm, quiet, in startling contrast to the gesture of a moment ago that might leave her cheek red. “Little one. I won’t tell you again. Show elders respect. Never disrespect police officers. They protect us,” he continued, as if instructing the simplest of students. “And they deserve more than the wining and gesticulations of a hysterical girl. And… you look like a whore. Is that what you are, today?”
A tone of care in his voice, gone as suddenly as it had shown just before he turned to the officers.
“I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. She was not raised to behave in this fashion.” And to her, one simple word as he walked away. Leaving the officers to look on.
When I’m not ogling camel toe, tying women up, giving a knowing wink to that tasty young girl wearing a choker, or other assorted perversions, I write the occasional bit of erotica.
Long form, short form, or roleplay. I love writing sculpting scenes with words almost as much as I love doing it in real life. For me they’re like different sides of the same coin, indulging in each making the other better.
To write something for publication I usually use Scriviner, although sometimes I’ll slum it an use TextEdit or Google Docs. It depends on what’s at hand, and what I need to do. Scriviner is a must for longer work, Docs is best for work that’s going to take a while as I can share drafts between devices, and TextEdit is just hand and gives me that idea that whatever I’m writing can be seriously rewritten at any momemt. Kind of like sketching on the back of a bar napkin.
Enter Vellum. I discovered this gem the other day, and I was a couple years late to this party. Vellum isn’t really software to help you write, but it’s hands-fucking-down the best solution I’ve ever used to publish something.
You open up your .docx file with Vellum, and watch a magical transformation happen. If you’ve never published anything as an ebook before, I’ll tell you something – formatting in general, and for each individual storefront ( iTunes, Amazon, etc. ) is a pain in the ass. If you want your work to look polished and special at all, you have a thousand hoops to jump through. Non-fun. But Vellum makes all of this a snap.
You’re a bit restricted here; you have to use a combo of the many styles that Vellum offers. But there’s a ton of variety, and the publishing comes off flawlessly. Your file looks like it was tweaked by a professional, very sweet indeed.
They have an interesting license/payment model. The software is free to download and use, and you only pay when you want to publish. It’s about $27 USD per title, or you can buy a pack of 10 “publishes” or an unlimited license. I recommend downloading the software, being wowed by it, and picking up one publish to start. My guess is you’ll be hooked, just like I was.
If you’ve never published before, you can give it a spin up to the last step without paying a dime, and you’ll be amazing at how elegant your book looks.
The writing… well, that’s up to you. But take their sample docx. file and give it a whirl.
I’ve been spending a lot of time on the beach lately, in various locations around the Mediterranean. My morning commute to work usually consists of a walk from the studio I’m renting along the beach, across some sand to a local beachwear or cafe with wifi. I can do this barefoot, and I have to tell you its an amazing way to commute to work.
Now and then I take a break, either going for a dip or just taking a stroll up and down the sand. I might be getting older, but I’m noticing a great deal more of a particular thing here on the the beaches.
Is there a classier term for “camel toe?”
There might be, but in my 3 minutes of research I couldn’t find one. It’s not a common term or reference in my work or social circles and I don’t watch a lot of MTV, so I’m at a loss for an alternate term. I did however find this Wikipedia entry.
I’ve noticed quite a bit of camel toe lately, on young women and mature women. At first I wasn’t looking for it – I don’t usually spend my moments of walking idyllic beaches staring at the bikini-clad crotches of women I’m sharing public space with – but once I made my little discovery, I have to admit I became a hunter, seeking out the experience, albeit covertly. And it took no effort to be quite the successful hunter of free-sunning camel toe on the beaches of the Med.
More commonly I see it among women who are wearing bikinis, and with those who might from a shallow outsider’s point of view be more willing to display themselves based on their shape and our current definitions of “attractive.”
Having known more than a few women intimately in my life and as someone who pays attention, I understand that there is rarely a single aspect of a woman’s appearance that she is not totally conscious of, concerned about, and meticulous over.
This makes for a delicious insight: sometimes in life, we have an opportunity to put it all out there in a mostly-acceptable kind of way. Maybe there’s no thought about the fact that the labia major are clearly outlined, that intimate and delicious counters are laid not-quite-bare for any passer-by to see.
As if she’s saying “Most of the time I must be proper, and I never have the chance to lay in the warm sun, spread my legs a little, and enjoy the occasional, momentary visual caress of my intimate folds by totally strangers. That would usually be out of the question, totally inappropriate, really, But I’m just laying here on the beach, getting some sun and enjoying the day.”
I’m sure there’s a word for this, too. A word describing this sort of duality, dichotomy, paradox. “I am doing this normally accepted thing, but at the same time I am almost wantonly displaying my sexuality in public in a serious way.”
Delicious, of course.
Asking a few lady friends brings a unanimous answer: “Oh yea, We totally know. And when we’re totally putting it all out there,” is the consensus. “It’s like, you usually don’t like the pervy kind of attention, except when you do, and if I’m showing camel toe the idea of someone seeing me like that, thinking dirty thoughts, that’s pretty hot.”
I love it.
A place and time where it is socially acceptable to give a bit of a wanton display, a play at exhibitionism and an invitation to voyeurism, and play it all off as innocent and innocuous.I am certainly all for the free expression of sexuality, and when it’s something we’re not supposed to talk about or point out, or reat to, that makes it that much more exquisite.
When I’m out and about, every now and then I’ll catch sight of a young woman wearing a choker necklace. You know the kind – instead of hanging like a traditional necklace the choker wraps around her throat. The choker is more than a little reminiscent of a collar.
Of course, this sets my imagination rolling.
I didn’t realize this was a thing until I read someone’s similar take on this. I thought it was just my pervy imagination toying with me, but apparently that’s not the case. And that’s delicious.
I can’t see a girl wearing one and not imagine that she’s some dominant’s owned little toy. She is going about her regular life presenting as a vanilla girl, but one with a secret. People who know what to look for can guess at this secret and suddenly the barista, the bank teller, or the girl next to you on the train has a whole new depth. Her secret is this: she’s submissive, and has been taken in hand. Someone who ( presumably ) knows what their doing has taken this young lass, collared her, and is in the process of training her to be his sweet little fucktoy.
This choker is there to remind her in public, in a symbolic way, that she’s property. In a consensual, yummy sense of course. She might be whipping up your double-frap-whoop-tee-doo or verifying your IRA balance at this moment, but in two hours maybe she’ll be closing the door behind her, without a word stripping down nude, placing her real “working” collar on, and waiting patiently for her Master to arrive home and inspect her.
Maybe once she’s kneeling, she’ll snap a selfie to send to him, all art of the ritual and to verify she’s a good girl. No matter; she’ll likely get spanked for something when he gets home. But it won’t be because she forgot to send the “got home and am waiting” pic.
All this is going through my mind when I see her, out in public.
I also automatically look for thumb rings, because that’s what I’ve done in the past with girls I’ve had a similar arrangement with.
As she smiles at me, I wonder if she has a plug up her ass, something reminding her constantly of her status, keeping her sexuality on edge during her daily life, so that its exploration can be resumed when the two of them are together again.
These objects, these rituals, that’s what they are – constant reminders for her of what she she, her place in the universe as a sexual, sensual object undergoing training and striving for perfection in the the eyes of herself and her owner. And also maybe as an edgy sort of tease, one the dominant is almost certainly aware of and hopefully took care to explain to his little toy:
“Some of the men and women you see during your day will know what this means. they will know what you are, my sweet little pet. They will guess at what you do, and they will spend some moments imagining you doing it. To some faceless master, or to me. Have a good day…”
Of course, it was silly to think I was the only one imagining all this. We’re all way more pervy than we let on, aren’t we?
Here’s the fantasy, the roleplay prompt, the setup for some bit of short fiction:
You’re going to be sold.
The sound of heavy chains clinking, the murmur of the crowd, the odor of wine, perfumed bodies, scents of anxiety and delight, the touch of a critical hand, the rising race of the bidding, the crushing confusing realization of a lack of bidding.
You’ve been captured and interred, and now you’ll be property. Owned by the highest bidder and used any way he wants. Any way he finds you suitable for.
You’ll be an investment. A personal plaything whose only goal is to be pleasing – to the eye, and whatever else needs pleasing. You’ll be a private object of his pleasure, a public display object of beauty for when he looks up from his work, a tool of business to help sweeten the smallest of his business deals, or a bauble to be momentarily gifted to his friends, for favor and amusement.
But first, you’ll be auctioned. Assessed. Reviewed and critiqued by those gathered. Discussed. Posed. undressed and re-dressed.
Then you’ll be stripped, collared, branded, attired as your new owner desires, crated up, and delivered to him for his final inspection.
Your life is his, and your life depends on how you affect his pleasure and disposition – the one bit of power you have left.
I’d love a bit of slave roleplay, how about you? Were you born to this, trained and now finally being sold? Were you captured or otherwise taken against your will, now subject to this ultimate of humiliation, to be sold and owned?
I enjoy ancient riffs on this – Greek or Roman. I also very much enjoy alt-modern setting where slavery is legal, either suddenly because of a change in laws or as an ongoing fact of life you’ve been caught up in. I also enjoy scifi settings, Gorean and others, and can roll easily there.
In addition to “the usual” with Owner/slave stories, I’m down with transformation, Older/younger ( either way ), and/or race play if that’s your thing. Let’s discuss.
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The Determined Writer
If you search for the light, you will find it.
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