Coveted Flesh - For MC

My lust was whored and birthed by the brutal language of Califia. Macho Sluts. Melting Point. No Mercy. Stories that aroused shame and desire so huge it could barely be contained within the walls of my tiny bedroom beneath the 3rd floor eaves of the flat I shared with two gay boys and the occasional tomboy-femme. I hid the books beneath my pillow, worn copies given to me by a butch named Bee. How I wanted her, wanted to crawl naked across the floor for her, raise my ass in the air and…and…I could never bring myself to complete that longing, had not the words nor the experience for the need and fear I balanced carefully in my hands, two fluttering birds whose flight was eminent.

This was the decade of ACT-UP. Queer Nation. 1990, when being a high femme went unrecognized, at least in the homegrown streets of a small town in Maine. My secret jack-off sessions with Califia were a thing to keep silent, my face buried in my pillow, the worn pages of “The Calyx of Isis” juice-stained and damp and coveted. I was a baby femme with the darkest and deepest fantasies, trolling the dyke bar on Spring Street for a butch top to throw me down and use me. I’d like to tell you that happened, but it would be an outright lie. Perhaps that is just as well, for years would pass before I became ready for such submission.

A sometime soft butch named Julia took me to bed one night, on a dirty cot in the office where she worked. She held a plastic dildo in her hand, rubbing it on my clit, and talked about fucking me inside my cunt hard and long with it. I had never heard language like that outside of my secret erotic tales. The friction and embarrassment I felt was unbearable. How could I WANT it so badly? I writhed and screamed on that bed and came violently. I never saw her again, ignoring her phone calls and even the flowers she brought to me one afternoon in a gesture that was equal measures cocky and apology.

If I had only known then what would be awakened inside my skin by the feeling of your rope cutting into my flesh as you dragged me on my knees across the floor toward you, my mouth open and sobbing for your cock, my only desire pleasing you, the only and greatest desire I have ever known. Pleasing you. You. If I had only known then what gorgeous power lay in surrender, in both wanting to be used and debased and hurt, and in being wanted for my flesh and the pleasure it could bring you.

My first real relationship was with a Lesbian feminist named Sarah. Sarah was studious and tomboyish and far too “evolved” (her words) for my musings on femme identity. By this time in my life, I had discovered Minnie Bruce Pratt and Joan Nestle and Stone Butch Blues and I was allowing my heart and longings to slowly flower. I had the language of femme. I had the language of desire. I was beginning to embrace and explore my femme expression – and again allow myself to lust for the kinds of desire I now understood to be within my grasp. I bought a soft pink rubber dildo from Eve’s Garden and was devastated when Sarah wanted me to use it on her. This was not at all what I had imagined when I took it to her and offered it as a gift. Sarah was also my first exposure to kink, albeit indirectly. We were living with her sister Katie and Katie’s husband in the wilds of Maine. Katie and Jeff began a D/s relationship, attending play parties and enjoying lots of kinky porn. I watched it with them and became so slick with horniness, only to be met with Sarah’s icy disapproval. One night Katie shared with me that Jeff had made her stand in the corner for hours with her thumb up her own ass to “punish” her for something. She was delighted with this adventure, and I was breathless, both scared of and aching for it. Sarah was disgusted when I shared this with her.

Shortly after, I began an affair with a mean butch top named Kelly. She was borderline abusive and totally fucked up, but I was so turned on by the way she made me suck her cock and dress in the clothes she picked out for me that the affair lasted several months before I came up for air. It was my first realization that there was a fine line between consent and abuse.

I was scarred by my time with Kelly, and turned to the comfort of a kind and motherly straight woman named Susan. Susan tolerated my sexy femme attire and flirtatious behavior, but neither understood nor celebrated my femme self, let alone all the desire simmering beneath the surface of my skin. I barely understood it myself, but I had tasted it and now felt insatiable. To give Susan credit, she tried. God knows she tried. At one point toward the end of that relationship, she presented me with a gorgeous pair of leather cufflinks. I cried, I was so disappointed, for I knew she wouldn’t know what to do with them or what I even needed, and I was so frustrated at my inability to express that need. I just knew it would go unmet here.

Now. Now, here, I understand what it means to be coveted, to celebrate with you a desire so wanton and so sacred. Here, then, is surrender – the surrender I spent years, a decade, a lifetime searching for and here at your feet it lays/lies. Here at your feet it awaited me all along.

I moved halfway across the country chasing my need for submission, my need to be taken. A geographical cure it is referred to in 12-step circles; I defined it as the butch top I had been waiting for. We met online, and she would concoct elaborate fantasies we would enact when we met in person, role plays that drove me mad. She adored my femme identity, something I had never had in my lesbian relationships – so what if she was hyper-critical and cold? She fucked my ass, made me gag on her cock, spanked me for the first time in my life. Sweet god, I about came undone over this butch.

Here in the Midwest I met a true submissive who lived it daily, my friend Raven who was slave to a Dom on the West Coast. I was floored and awakened by her descriptions of their dynamic, both crying and cumming in turn later when I was alone and could truly hold what she told me in a safe quiet place inside myself. How I craved what she described. Envy and longing and grief swirled beneath my skin.

I began writing porn during this relationship, truly exploring my own desires and discovering the courage and defiance to share those desires at open mics. I felt sexy. I felt myself imploding and exploding in my femme power, a commodity I soon realized I could exploit to get my sexual needs met. I also felt unloved and unvalued. My own butch’s constant criticisms began to feel, again, like a form of abuse rather than like the dominant energy I had been trying to convince myself they were. Blessedly, I had the femme strength to leave fairly early into it and move to Atlanta. Raven’s Dom offered to be my Protector, as She saw me as a submissive alone in the world, an offer I rejected as it terrified me. I wanted to hold tight to my own fragile and blooming power. I had no understanding that to make a choice to hand that power over to someone capable enough to hold it was, in fact, the essence of power itself.

Shortly after I moved, I visited a dear femme friend in San Francisco and she and her butch took me to my first kinky event, a butch/femme social at a local club. Two life-changing moments occurred that evening. The first involved a Leather butch named Tee. Tee was soooooo leather he was flagging red left. Jeans, black t-shirt, leather chaps. So masculine, so sexy, so powerful. I was gaga. I had never seen anything like him in my life. My friend explained the hanky code and what fisting-Top meant and I was terrified. Although I ached and lusted for Tee all night, my naked pussy sopping, I avoided him like the plague, even when he flirted with me a couple of times. I felt like it was impossible for me to handle him, never understanding that as a submissive responding to a confident Top, it was not my job to handle him, but rather to give it up to him and for him.

Simultaneously, I was disturbed by the fact that I was a hot single femme alone at a social and not one butch approached me. I was doing all the damn work. Again, my reliant friend explained the situation to my naïve self. He said I exuded such powerful and confident (read: dominant) femme energy that the butches in the room assumed I myself was a Top and were not interested. My friend was proud of this for me, admiring and praising my femme strength and power. I felt a swirling storm of emotions – sadness, relief, pride, resignation. I vowed then, in that moment, that I would not waste my time on anyone who was not strong enough to come onto me, take me, demand my attention. I would not waste my time on anyone unable to top me, to look past my femme ferocity and find the fragile soft yielding creature longing to drop to her knees.

One year later, I am a collared slave on my hands and knees at 1763, the local dungeon. My Master has offered me as a table for a dessert reception, and my ramrod straight back is being used to serve cake and drinks. There is a puddle of drool in front of me, the bit in my mouth making me gag and tear up. My best friend is trying to whisper in my ear, she fears I am in pain, but I do not respond or even blink. I am a perfect service bottom, and get off on public scenes, exhibitionism, and humiliation. I am in my glory. I feel beautiful. Desirable. Wanted. I feel the eyes of the people milling about the room, the whispers. My panties are soaked. The pain is the biggest turn-on I have ever experienced, and I crave more, always more. A “pain slut,” I am dubbed in these circles, a title I have earned and wear as proudly as I wear the marks and bruises from the whips and knives and canes that are used on my body. Yes, this is play. But it is also a catharsis, a way to feel and shine and desire. A way to be desired, to truly feel it to my core. The pain is the answer to a thousand prayers, a thousand questions, a thousand years of not feeling inside my body. I have come home to myself, a journey that took me across decades and miles and now it is mine.

Never-mind that this relationship was doomed, as neither of us had the skills nor the self-awareness to make a fulltime dynamic like this work. It ended both gently and painfully. I will always cherish it as an awakening. It was the first I ever had of that lust like liquid fire I held inside me for nearly two decades, a smoldering flame ignited and embraced fully. God, we had fun. I celebrated my body as a temple to offer. Such power in that. Such joy. Such devious, beautiful, decadent pain and ecstasy.

This month at the Femme Conference my gorgeous friend M. invited me into an experience she had around her own submission. M. is my heart-sister, a bond we both felt nearly immediately upon meeting, a bond forged by the awareness that we each can hold both fierce femme power and submissive longings in our hands simultaneously. M. is radiant from a public play scene the night before, and I am so honored and touched to be her chosen confidant I am beside myself. This is huge. Precious. A sacred conversation. We are both very aware of this, whispering and giggling and crying in the corner of one of the classrooms. Listening to sweet, dear, beautiful, miraculous M., who has just discovered the fullness of her submission, and is fully and wholly in her body, my heart swells with pride and love and longing. Her marks are gorgeous. She touches them again and again, explaining in glorious detail how her skin came to be branded with them. But what really gets to me? What really tugs at the deepest core of my heart? The value and joy and beauty we both feel, and that M. expresses to me so eloquently, when our flesh is coveted and adored and desired; that richness of kneeling before someone, presenting ourselves as an offering, as a gift, and being received as such.

Mirrored in her transformative experience of what it feels like to be cherished in this particular way is my own desire, my own offered skin, my own aching need. Again, I feel awakened, something treasured inside me unveiled and exposed and blooming. I am opened, as M. has been opened. I am opened because she so graciously offered me the gift of letting me enter this sacred moment with her.

Trust. Within this opening, I think of trust. M.’s trust in me, her trust in her play partners the night before. M.’s trust in herself, for that is the prerequisite of such utter surrender. I think of the trust I place daily into the care of my new husband, into his capable, adoring, powerful and sometimes brutal hands. And I think of tenderness. For both my heart-sister and I, that is how we feel those brutal hands when they touch our offered flesh – as hands that accept and love us with exquisite tenderness even as they mark us with pain.

Rope

Rope

You teach me to tie the knots with painstaking patience in your eyes, your voice. Your hands are on top of mine on the rope, showing me how to smooth it, stretch it, train it to go the way you want it to go. I sit beside you on your couch and feel you watching me, feel the way your eyes are never leaving my face.
You tell me I will learn to care for your rope. I will be responsible for its care, to clean up after you use it, after you use it on me. You tell me that this is important to you, that this is intimate and between us. I am concentrating, hanging on to your every word, your very breath, focused only on my effort to do this task you have given me the way you would like me to. I can tell by the way you watch me that you are pleased.
I am dying. I am touched in ways I cannot even begin to explain to you. I cannot even look at you. I cannot, cannot bear the love I feel at this moment, the submission. I am too shy to speak of it, nearly too shy to speak at all, even the whispers you draw out of me, my face hiding in your neck, my voice trembling. I am utterly overwhelmed with feelings I have never felt before and feelings I cannot even describe, not even to myself in my heart, except maybe to tell you that I have never felt so purely submissive in my life, so purely wanting to surrender everything to someone and I adore that that someone is you and I have wanted that for so long and needed it - yes, it is a need - and I cannot believe I get to feel it with you and I have cried every single time I revisit those moments in my thoughts and I have sat up at night in my bed at home trying to write about it, to capture that feeling with words so I can express it to you but it feels impossible to grasp and make you see.

How to tell you of this? This desire to give you everything.

You are training me to please you, to love you, to serve you.

This is what I know of my heart: your whip lands across my bear flesh, my thighs, my back. An accurate slice, and I do not move.
It is for you that I do not move. I am bowed down on my knees at your power. I am overcome with the intensity of my desire to comply, to acquiesce, to belong to you in this moment as never before. I give over to you, all of me, as if you reached for my skin and imprinted yourself upon it. I love this: that it comes from you and I, I receive it. It comes from you and I get to take it, I am allowed to accept it. YOU allow me to accept it. I would stand there for hours if you asked it of me, each blow you deliver a gift I savor – no, devour wholly and willingly and with such joy that you have chosen me. That your gifts are bestowed upon my skin, that your marks are mine to wear and adore, is love as I have never known.

You tell me to serve you and I kneel before you and offer my mouth for your cock, a cock I worship. Sometimes I suck you off sweet and slow, savoring each stroke, each slip of my tongue along your shaft, each teasing lick of your head, playing at it, working my mouth and I hear you moaning and I know, I know you are coming apart with desire and I am pouring my love, my adoration, my need to please you into every movement, every lick, every suck, every moment of my mouth on you, my mouth adoring you, my opened lips an expression of such devotion and love.
To please you.
Sometimes you force my head down on you hard. “Get to sucking girl,” you growl and I am no longer aware if it is I devouring you whole, or if I am being devoured, your cock down my throat to its base, my lips straining, my mouth working your cock, pumping up and down the length of you, my eyes streaming, my spit gagging me, my jaws aching, my mind racing, a pounding of blood and prayer – please, please let me be pleasing him, let him be happy with me, let him cum, let him tell me I am a good girl, his girl, that I make him feel so good. And I am crying. Please.

To serve you. I live to serve you.

I want my every day, my every waking moment to be of service to you.

I worship you.

I fall in reverent hush at your feet every single time I see you. That is my reaction. That is my truth. That is why I have this heady consuming desire to comply. It is for both of us that I comply. And you never demand, you never assume. You ask. You ask and allow it to come from me. This is not obedience. This is love. It comes from love, my surrender. It comes from love, me on your couch, your rope heavy in my fingers, my little hands held in yours. The power to crush or caress, that is yours. I gaze up at you with a devout heart and the prayer that you will be able to read all of this on my face tonight and know beyond doubt, beyond the need for language that my submission is for you and you alone.

It always has been.

Splash

Your hand fist deep in my cunt in a parking lot, I am bent over the seat of Your bike, You are pumping into me hard, rapid fire thrusts shooting pain like vast magnificent longing through my limbs, I swear to god You are in up to my throat, steel erection barreling into my flesh, I am devoured, devoured and pouring myself into You, soaked in Your need and splashing onto Your hands and the motor of Your bike and this racing earth and there is a tremor deep inside my cunt and I am released and flowing, liquid passion, a flying outward, a wave tearing me open at my core and moving me toward You; I am willing my body, yes, to move toward You. Powerless surrender, utter loss of control – that is what I feel when You fuck me like this, my body no longer mine, Yours and open and I am dazzling fireworks on display.

This, this is the first time I have released for You, surrounded in the parking lot at Loca Luna by passersby and noise and lights and my liquid display. You step back and gasp and I am drawn toward that intake of breath and brought back down to earth. Racing. I would soak that bike a thousand times if You would only leave me there, ass in the air, Your cock in Your hand, Your other hand forcing the juice from some deep unreachable core place inside me I have been unaware until now was clamoring to get at me, at me and outside of me.

“I cherish your release,” You tell me.

And then, later, Your cock fucking my mouth by the dumpster, and it's so big and I try to take it all down my throat to please You and then I am choking and gagging and terrified I am not going to be able to take it and You are slapping my face so hard I have tears in my eyes and I am still not pleasing You and You are hissing "taste yourself on it" and my knees are raw and I just peed down my legs and onto my 8 million dollar shoes and I am humiliated and horrified and ecstatic and so turned on I feel I may implode or explode if You don't cum down my throat but I don't want You to yet because I don’t want it to end. Ever. Don’t take that cock out of my mouth where it feels so perfect and delicious and fits, as big as it is it fits, and I crave it, crave it as far down as You can fuck. And then more. And then You are done and lifting me off my scraped up knees and into Your arms, those strong arms I could curl up into and just stay there forever or at least as long as You would keep me, and I feel so precious and safe and beautiful, I feel gorgeous despite the pee and tears and stained dress and bruises and dirt and cockroaches in my hair and then I am kissing Your neck and moaning and You slam my back against that filthy horrible dumpster and I need You all over again. It never ends, this need. Nor do I want it to. And again, You are in me, Your hand and face and desire asking me for something I am not clear yet how to give You. You are tearing me apart, a ferocity of hands and pouring and Your arm drenched by a need that has carried me this far, carried me to the limit and now beyond, and I am sobbing and I hurt and I give it to you anyway, it spills out of me as if it has been there all along, a desperate tension on the verge and You only had to ask, demand that I make it Yours which is all I have ever wanted all along and how can I find the words, how can I find the answer within my own body if I do not even have the language or the knowledge, if I do not have Your hands and Your eyes and Your need?

And yes, all of this is running through my mind and heart and cunt along with blood and juice and my tears pour, pour down my cheeks and I can not even whimper Your name.

No. I am screaming it.

You tell me you want to see if I can release for you without being on display, without a public scene, just because YOU want it. For you.
I am for you.
I have waited a lifetime for what you make me feel. I have held desire in my body, cradled and screaming and restrained, for decades. My need, my need confined and undelivered.
“Don’t fight me,” You say when I am tightened up, locked down, shut off from my own desire. Your eyes never leave my face. Your hand is in me so deep I am split open, coming apart. You hold me to this earth. You open me, open me, and I want nothing more than to give of myself and show you this, this sudden unlimited surging inside me. And I release, every time, for you, yes, and for me.

I release.

Yield

Yield
Snapshots of Femme Power

1.
The first time you asked me we were in Boston, our first trip together. You were leaning back on the couch, the lights of the city spread out behind you, and I was crazy in love with you. “Kneel down and take my shoes off,” you said it, you did not ask, it was not a request. As if it would cross my mind for a second not to comply. I would do anything for you, anything you asked of me, give you anything. I knelt. I felt terrified, a trembling, quiet and below the surface of my skin. I felt elated, wings opening in my chest, a taking flight. Such a giving over of power – mine? - someone’s. Such an acceptance of my place with you. Such joy. Such desire to surrender to you. Such devotion. Such heat, an ache between my thighs for you, for your need, for your power to grow when I kneel before you. Such submission, yes, that moment feels enormous with submission. Such tenderness, private little devotion, a wife’s endless care of her husband. All of that in my head and heart and cunt, all of that and more and you pulled me up onto your lap after I removed your shoes and I buried my face in your neck and I know you did not have any idea that I was crying while I hid my face against your skin. I was too afraid to show you, show you all I felt and longed for in that moment.
I die still, now, it evokes such feelings in me to kneel at your feet and remove your shoes…and you have only made that request (command?) of me once since then and I wonder why…and I ache for it.
I worship you. Worship your strength, your vulnerability, your care of me, your cock, your power, your love. I worship you when you are taking care of me like the femme princess I am, a doting and adoring husband. And I worship you when you are occasionally demanding, precise in your needs and wanting them met. I am on my knees for you constantly, a bowing down to you in my heart, a melting, a surrender.
To be allowed to kneel before you and do something as intimate as removing your shoes? Mmmmmmmm. Allowed. That word stirs images of dominance, of waiting in deference, of receiving a gift, a gift earned and cherished, a gift I long for. I am grateful, so grateful in that moment - I am moved, touched, raw, turned on, flooded with lust and love.
Such tenderness moves between us at times, I feel it as a held breath, intimate energy that connects us. “This is rare, isn’t it?” you asked me one night. Yes. Yes. Rare it is indeed to find someone you ache to belong to. It makes me shy at times, that ache, shy with fumbling fingers, fingers that tremble a bit when I undo your laces, slide your boot off your foot, lay your foot back down on the floor gently, reverently. Both times you have asked me, I have wanted to cover your feet with kisses, move my mouth across your skin, show you how I adore you like I do when my mouth is on your cock, reverence. A whore at the feet of a prince. A wife at the feet of her husband.
2.
I take your cock in my mouth and you tell me I have all your power, all the power you possess in that moment. “How does it feel to have all the power in the world over me?” you ask me and I do not know how to answer. Like everything I have ever wanted. Like nothing I could ever want or know what to do with.
At the Eyedrum, I knelt in the hallway outside the theater, my hands on your legs to hold me up while you fucked my mouth. Your back was against the wall, your hands in my hair. My heels scraping the ground, my knees raw on the cold cement floor, my jaw stretched wide. I felt completely vulnerable, yours, open and receiving and powerless to refuse you. I cannot say no to you, cannot bring myself to deny you. Anything. Anything you asked of me I would give you when I am taking your cock, on my knees for your cock, offering you my mouth for you to use and take. My mouth is for your pleasure. My mouth worships your cock. Feel it when you fuck deep down my throat – feel that I worship you.
In this moment, this moment when I am on my knees for you, when I am taking your cock, I feel my vulnerability as if it is stitched across the fabric of my femme desire. You are pouring yourself into me. You are forcing my mouth apart, my jaws open, my throat closing around you, gagging and gasping and unable to breathe and desperate for more. When I am kneeling for your cock I am pliant, open, accepting you and taking you and taken.
Taking you. Can it be, then, that it is YOU who is offering? You told me later in the night that when you fuck my mouth, I am taking all your power with each thrust. You are wrapped around my finger, you would do anything for me. I shivered. Fear. Pleasure. Desire. I long to own it, own that power over you, the thought of bringing you to your knees with desire for me. The thought that I have you – you belong to me as completely and irrevocably as I to you. Yet I am seized with confusion at the idea. Power. How, then, to own that power when I am simultaneously offering my body to you out of the deepest love, respect, and desire to please? There is submission inherent in the thrust of your cock taking me, possessing me, using me. There is power inherent in the thrust of your cock entering me, tearing into me, claiming me. Can it be that there is power too in the taking of your cock, my mouth open, accepting? I am allowing myself a new openness, a fresh understanding. I am pulling from you your vast need, your desire, your lust – you are powerless to stop it, the rising of your excitement, bubbling up and out of you and down my throat, the shaking heat of your body, the clutching of your hands at my hair, my skin. I am pulling your power from you with each jackhammer thrust down my throat, your cum and my spit and tears, my knees ragged, our hearts pounding a crescendo – yes. Yes. YES.
3.
You have given femme back to me. Denied and stifled for years, it lay beneath the surface of my skin, dormant, a scream fermenting in my throat, a breath I drew in and forgot to release. Tentative at first, it has slipped back to me through the ways you touch me, the ways you fuck me, the ways you care for me, the ways you command my femininity. My response to you, a persistent tugging at my femme heart until it sprang open and unfurled into you and stayed there, lodged and cherished in your arms.
I am your princess. You require nothing of me but beauty and love. I watch the ways you strive to earn that love. I watch your care of me, the ways you ensure I am taken care of, worshiped, and I feel angelic and enfolded in something unspeakably delicate. I must attend to this always, I think, cherish it. Appreciate it. I must. I must.
I think for you, it is the same, although we do not speak of it, the way your vulnerability is masked behind incredible strength, the way I pull you to me and hold you in my arms is suddenly home. For both of us, home. I trail my fingers over your shoulders and you tell me you adore my touch, the ways I know how to touch your body, without hesitation, without fumbling, without need for you to teach. I know. I know you, and I know how to be your femme. I know you, and I know what you need. I take your cock in my mouth, in my hands, and I draw your desire out of you, taking your cum in my mouth, spilling on my hands, between my legs, and it is the same. No hesitation. I belong to you and you to me as if a fixed constellation.
“Such power in my touch, in my hands, the absolute femme power of my touch draws out your masculinity.” This is an awareness I felt but could not name, could barely bring myself to hold inside my heart, until you put it into something tangible and handed it to me and I felt the delicacy of femme contract and solidify inside me and I was no longer afraid.
The power of my hands on you.
I asked you once what you thought our dynamic was, how you would describe the way we move together, what you would name this energy that flows gossamer between us. For it shifts, a dance I have come to crave, the reciprocation of devotion a constant, a base from which we move in and out of power, a handing over and acceptance; an offering and a taking. A taking care of each other I have never had and now, now, it is mine – mine and yours, ours. “Femininity and masculinity are the only things that never shift.” Your answer heralded my truth, my desire.
You call me your little kitten, say I purr like a kitten in your hands. Clabbered cream, I melt at your touch, I fold into you, I release my need for control in the safety of an embrace I can no longer make do without. And this, then, is the crux of my femme power – to allow you to hold me together until I feel ready to take it on again, your presence beside me the root, and I the cherry blossoms decorating your branches with fragrance.
4.
You lead me in our ballroom dance class and it is a constant struggle for me to allow, I am fighting you, unable to relax into you, unable to let go, unable to give you my body. Surrender. My will. Is this about trust? You tell me it is, but I FEEL trust for you, implicitly. I feel emotional risk when you are taking me, when I am opening up for you. And in that risk lays my trust – for I want it from you, want to go there with you, want you to take me there. I want to yield, to follow, to learn to follow your lead. It feels fragile to me, this need to yield. I need to practice this, this alone, far more than I need to practice the simple steps we are learning together. A fine art, to learn to yield. Grace. To yield with grace is to belong completely to you.
I love being in your arms moving about the dance floor, the subtleties of your touch as you guide me. I feel you, every cell of my body aware of you against me, the push and pull of your arms, your hand on my back, your breath. You are patient, coaxing, laughing with me when I fall apart and trip all over your feet. I cannot tear my eyes from your face, for therein lies my safety, my trust of you, your sparkling adoring eyes. I watch you, the intensity of your focus, your concentration, the pride when you hold your hand out to me. And I think, never have I loved him more than at this moment. And that love makes me yearn to please you, to give in to you. My disappointment in myself when I cannot follow you is all encompassing. And I wonder, can this be learned? Can I learn to let go of my fear and relax into you so completely my body responds to yours without barrier or reluctance? Or is it innate, the surrender this dance requires of me, innate - and my struggle lies in recognition, a tapping into of some primal way to move when held to you.
Our instructor Julio has quickly acquired an understanding of us, our Queerness, your masculinity, masculinity that still stuns me into silence, your power. He teaches you how to hold me, and yet we know, you and I, exactly how to move together, move into each other. You are the frame, Julio says, and I am the picture - your strength setting off my beauty.
Your strength setting off my beauty. Your power setting off my fragility.
We have gone here, into this conversation. I feel like a small delicate bird in your arms and I adore it. I adore it because we both know I am strong and fierce and exploding, and you offer me a safety that allows me to let that go and become your kitten, soft and mewling. And there are beautiful perfect moments of time during which I am able to step away from my frantic racing mind and give in entirely to the feeling of being wrapped into you, cradled, no need to control, just moving where you lead me. Heaven, those moments. Priceless treasures. Heaven because you are so dear to me and I could dance and twirl in your embrace for hours. And heaven because it is so rare for me to be without fear, to move through the world without the awareness of my need for self-protection. THAT is innate, that need.
With all my heart, I want not to protect myself from you. I dream of the kind of trust that will spring me open, unleashed and unafraid and moving on the dance floor, an angel with your protective wings surrounding me, lighter than the air you move me through, laughing and sparkling up at you, sparkling, following you without a hint of resistance to every place you take me.

5.
My mouth crushed to yours, soft and yielding. Yielding to you, yielding to your strength, yielding to your mouth, yielding to your arms. Soft. Available. Soft and yielding beneath you. You tell me you love how I feel when you kiss me, how available I am. And I am. Yours. You kiss me and I crumple, fragrant petals crushed in your palm. You kiss me and all of me moves to my mouth, my essence, my being, my love for you – you kiss me and I pour all of that into my return. Available. You use that word and I melt golden into you. All I want, to offer that availability to you. All I want, to make you feel more loved than ever you have been in a lifetime. All I want, to show you I belong to you, to kiss you like I may never kiss you again.
Surrender. My mouth bleeds surrender.
All I want.
6.
When we met, you told me I was irresistible. That you simply could not stop yourself from approaching me, you were so drawn to me, the way I moved, my energy. I asked if you were intimidated, and you said sometimes, sometimes – I was such a powerful femme. Coming from you, I felt that as a celebration of my self, I felt as if you saw ME. You welcomed my power, my femme energy, it made you hard, appreciative. You said you were bowed down on one knee before me and I could not breathe.
I have been called an ice princess, unapproachable. Cold, those words portray my way of being in the world as cold. You tell me anyone who is afraid of me is a lightweight. You tell me I am warm and melting like butter on a morning muffin. You call me your sunshine. You say your day is without sunlight if your eyes cannot feast upon my face. I turn into you in your bed in the morning and feel the warmth of our bodies, the heat, the beams of our radiating light blazing in my core.
Ice princess.
The first time I heard those words, it slayed me. I felt betrayed, betrayed by my crippling shyness. Betrayed by my newly felt and newly owned femme energy and power.
I was at a Trans conference in DC, the first time I was brave enough to move through the world with a high femme presentation that mirrored my heart, my core, my identity, my desire. I could not wait to flaunt the deliciousness of femme power in public, to try it on, feel it out, experience it.
I was so young and so shy I could barely leave the hotel room. Quick dashes into workshops, back to the room to hide in between, dinner alone. I was there with 2 Transmen I barely knew, one whose advances I had turned down during the trip. He told me at some point during the weekend that no one would approach me because they thought I was an ice princess, cold. Unapproachable. Transguys were saying this to him about me, he said, laughing. I was destroyed, too new in my femmeness to know how to take that on, make it work for me, too shy to behave any differently.
Years later, at a Butch/ Femme Ball in San Francisco, I asked a dear friend and fierce Old-School Butch why no one was talking to me, when I felt wholly as if I was oozing femme sexuality and appeal, confident and secure in who I was making myself into. He said I was such a powerful femme, I gave off “top energy” and most of the Butches at the event were Tops looking for submissives. My friend was proud of this for me, admiring and praising my strength and power. I was horrified. A submissive at my core, I ached to be taken by one of those Butches and forced to my knees, I longed to be broken, slapped down off my 5 inch heels. I was tired of always being the one to take a Butch on, ask for his attention, the seeker rather than the sought.
Again, “unapproachable.”
I vowed then, in that moment, that I would not waste my time on anyone who was not strong enough to come onto me, take me, demand my attention. I would not waste my time on anyone unable to top me, look past my femme ferocity and find the fragile soft yielding creature longing to drop to her knees.
And now, many years and a lifetime later, you, in the lobby, a smile that cast a spell upon my heart I swear to god, taking my hand in both of yours. I was on my back the moment I saw you approaching me. Courted, wooed, swept completely off my feet, floored, blown away - every cliché one could imagine – it all comes to this single moment in time – you saw deep into the very core of my decorated femme body. Secure in your own incredible powerful strong Butch self, you do not need my power. Your confident adoration allows it to expand in this room and surround us, an inferno, pouring heat, your beloved princess, warm and blazing and encircling you with my light.
At last. At last.
7.
Unwavering devotion. I offered this to you one morning and you said you both feared and craved it. Unwavering.
In the evenings, after your long day at work, I like to play at being your housewife - serving you dinner, baking you cupcakes, pink apron tied around my waist, cleaning up in your kitchen. I kiss your face, the top of your head, your neck. I curl in your lap and whisper to you silly stories about my day, my arms around your neck. I feel the tenseness in your shoulders and rub the parts of you that hurt, the parts of you I utterly adore. You take me to your bed and I am so full of love and devotion. Your wife. We both know I am not playing. We both want it to be true and real.
You reach for me late at night, one arm around my waist, your head in my lap. This is an unspoken dance we both know to our core. This is where you come to rest, perhaps the only place you are ever truly able to rest, the only place you are safe, the only place your Queer butch masculine self is recognized. Seen. Cherished. I wrap one arm around your back, my hand finding the strength held there, smoothing you, soothing you, my other hand reaches instinctively for your hair, twirling my fingers through it, rubbing your head for hours sometimes while you sleep. I cradle you. You are cradled. I listen for your deepening breath, a sound I have come to know as well as my own skin. I know the exact moment you drop off. I know how your body moves, tiny movements nearly indiscernible that tell me you are dreaming. I whisper to you when you are in this place – a place far far away from me in your deepest dreams; a place intimately close to me that I have created, wrapping you in my love. I whisper – I love you. I whisper – I am yours. I whisper – my prince, my husband. I am worshiping you with my murmurs, my hands, my arms, my lap where you come to escape. I know you can feel me, I know you are taking in my words, barely a breath, taking in my love, taking in the ways I care for you.
Always you stir again, roll over, kiss my mouth before you sleep again, this time on your side. I am always crushed at this loss, my lap bereft of you. Always, I long to stay awake through the long hours of darkness, cradling your head, cradling your dreams, listening for the secrets released in your breathing that are mine to hold. Unwavering in my vigil.
8.
I am fucked up about power.
You told me once that I make it sound as if all you do is take, take from me, as if I felt precious only when used by you. You use me and I feel desired, loved.
It was true in the beginning, my ideas of power and subjectivity firmly implanted in my brain, my behavior, my beliefs. I was worthwhile only when submitting to another’s whims and needs. I lived with the fear that I was only worth fucking, not worth loving. I wanted you to love me. More than anything, even in the beginning, I wanted you to love me. But I was so hellbent on my struggles with submission I could not see what was happening between us for what it was – that you desired my femme power, drew it out of me. That you craved caring for me, taking care of me, treating me like a princess, your princess. Did I feel precious only when you were taking from me – my body, my submission, my offering? Yes. Yes, but only because my fear was closing doors even as you were flinging them open.
You tell me true submission lays in the allowing of you to give. If I want to please you, you said, I should defer to your desire to take care of me, treat me like your princess, give me anything I want and need. Submitting to your will = allowing you to treat me as you wish.
I am fucked up about power.
When I think about power, I think about giving all of mine to you, yielding to the strength and power you wield seemingly so easily, power that brings me to tears – sobbing when you fuck me and beat me, quiet tears in my eyes throughout my day when I think about how beautifully you love me, how perfectly you treat me.
I am so afraid I do not deserve such beauty.
I am fucked up about power.
I ache for sexual submission, physical submission – I crave emotional submission, so I tell myself, but only on my terms and is that, then, submission? I am resistant to emotional submission, mistrustful, afraid to give over emotional power outside of fucking. I know I have strange ideas in my head of what constitutes power, what constitutes giving up power, who has power. I have warped ideas about power - from years of being collared, a consensual obligation that in no way worked for me – from years of listening to voices of negativity and self-doubt clamoring in my head. I am so afraid to have any power, I am horrified at the mere suggestion of it. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve to have it, part of me craves being seen as a good submissive and how can I then be a power femme and a submissive simultaneously? It is a learned response, these mixed up notions about femme and submission and the roles I can allow myself in my own life. I am relearning my own power around my femme identity in many contexts, shifting in and out of it still, but mostly, now, owning it.
With you I have it all. I know instinctively I can trust you and can go there with you…am learning to go there with you, slowly, a slow melting, a creaking forward of faith, a progressive undoing of my fear and resistance.
It is all about who decides. And if I am allowed to decide, if it is an offering stemming from a choice made by me and me alone, than it flows from me eagerly and without hesitation.
You do not require my submission, do not demand, do not impose limits. Rather, you accept it so appreciatively when I offer it to you, allow me the space to defer and the safety to need it. Devotion. Never obligation.
I spoke of reciprocal devotion to you and you asked if I felt that between us, you longed for it you said, you longed to possess it. It ensnared your heart, the thought that it could be yours.
Yes. Yes.
I feel an opening in my fear at this, a devoted wife who places herself in her husband’s hands, who defers to him, who takes care of him from a place of worship. I am opening because it feels safe and tender to me, our mutual care-taking, the ways you allow me to express my adoration, the way I am learning to trust that you truly want to dote on me – need to dote on me, get off on it – the way I am learning to love it and count on it and trust I will not lose it. It will not be taken from me, no, you belong to me as assuredly as I to you.
I adore this mutuality, revel in it, feel it as a blossoming of my truth, feel it as a growing into of self. I am letting go of this strange panic I used to feel when you waited on me, this sense of not being good enough, this sense of “shoulds.”
I am so strong. I am beginning to believe I am so strong and adored and I deserve that adoration that you wrap me in every single moment of our lives together.
9.
I sit across from you in your favorite chair and paint my toenails blue, a color you chose ages ago, before I even belonged to you. “Paint them true,” you said. This is a ritual that has filled me ever since with utter adoration and acquiescence, a ritual I love for the way it feels like an act of service. Serving you. I am wet and dizzy at the thought. It is my private little devotion.
It is a femme ritual of seduction.
I know when you watch me apply polish to my nails, it makes you heady with lust. Hard, hot steel shooting through your cock, you are shifting uncomfortably on the couch and seething with desire. And I am ignoring you completely, focusing entirely on coating my nails with dripping paint, biting my lower lip, my tongue at the corner of my mouth. I hear the sudden intake of your breath. If I were to glance at you, I would see your hand resting on your swelling cock, and I may not be able to control my own mounting desire. I do not want you to see how I am slick and breathless with my own need for you. I want to pretend I could not care less that you are in the room. And this, this I know makes you even harder, my pretended indifference, my seeming unavailability – I am far too busy at the moment to banter and toy with you. Is this a roleplay? An exchange of power? And whose power is it exactly? Mine over you, your huge swollen cock, your visible need, the way my femme rituals slay you with longing and buckle your knees? Or is it yours, the way we both know the polish will not even have time to dry before you will growl, “come over here, woman,” and I will go to you immediately, your hands grabbing my forearms, and press my heated body against yours, my own knees crumpling, my mouth raised up to you, an invitation.
10.
I let the silk strap of my camisole slide off my shoulder before I remove it, pull it slowly over my head, turning from you coyly, my soft curls spilling over my shoulder. I know you are watching from your bed, up on one elbow, your gaze raking over my body, your breath suddenly jagged. Swelling beneath the sheet for me, yes, I do not have to look at you to know you are hard with your desire. I know you are imagining the butter-cream of my skin, its scent, how my hair feels between your fingers. I let the fabric of my slip catch for just a second on my tits before I pull it over my head, turning my body again so you can catch a glimpse of your name tattooed on my breast, bending at the waist so you can see the curve of my ass. I ask you, “Darling, will you tie me?” and move toward the bed so you can do the straps of my slip for me. Your fingers linger there for long moments, your hands on my back, and I tremble for you. My breath is caught in my throat, I am holding it, aching. We both know I will crawl into your bed, warm and pliant, and open my legs for you without being asked. I will shift so you can enter me more easily, wrap my legs around your waist and raise my hips so you can slide in to your base and we both will feel you deep, deep. And I will clench my tight pussy around your cock, squeezing you to me, until you cum again, again, spilling inside me, filling me, filling us both with far more than just your cock. Yes. This is unspoken between us, and in the meantime, your fingers on my ribbons, my eyes meeting yours over my shoulder. In the meantime, you grab at my curls and press them to your nose, inhaling my perfume. In the meantime, I have you exactly where I want you, exactly where you long to be. In the meantime, you are mine, utterly mine, wrapped around my finger, we both know you would do whatever I asked. What will I ask of you? I will ask you without words to accept the offering of my skin, to accept my heart, my femme desire, to hold me to you, to cherish me. I will ask you to take this, the gift of my surrendered power, and cradle it in hands that do not need it, no, you do not have a need. But I want it to be yours - I want to be yours - and because in this moment I have you on your knees, you will take it, take me, allow me the space to yield.

Brazen

I want You to hurt me.


Every time You touch me, it is like this: my need expands and moves beyond me, outside of restraint, and I feel utterly incapable of controlling it. I am dissolved before You. I am disintegrated into a river of liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless You hurt me, use Your hands on me with a violence I recognize as Your love, a violence I know to my core I cannot make due without, and I am left waiting. Sobbing and waiting for Your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.

The first time You marked my face we had been fucking for days. Hard, You fuck me hard, Your cock entering and claiming me as if You had waited a lifetime for my cunt and my need matches Yours every time. My need for Your cock. I need Your cock. I push You with my hands and plead "no" sometimes because it is so big it hurts me and You call me Your whore and make me take it anyway and in that moment, the moment I am just taking, I would do anything, anything for You. You fuck me without lube and sometimes, sometimes it takes my cunt too long to open up for Your cock and You want it now, in to Your base now and You slap my face and tell me to hurry, You do not want to wait for me.
The first time You marked my face You were slapping it in the front seat of my car, Your other hand gripping my hair, slapping me while I sobbed and calling me filthy and I felt cradled and precious and I was Yours. The next morning there it was, purple and blue, Your hand splayed across my cheek, Your mark, Your love. Possession, I thought. And I was both terrified and elated.

You hurt me and I am terrified and elated.

I have craved. For an eternity it seems, I have craved. And I thought tenderness happened at the moment when I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now, now I realize with stunning certainty that I was wrong. I was so wrong and so I lived without. Tenderness is the moment I break and You push me beyond, beyond my fear, beyond my limits, tenderness is the way You carry me straight into my craving and stay there with me while I struggle and then a moment snaps inside me and I am flying, flying toward You and You knew all along I could take it.

I have never been so safe in all of my life.

You call me Your whore. Beloved whore when I have pleased You, and I swear to You I feel as if I live to please You, to hear You say those words, to see the look on Your face when I know I have been a good girl for You, when I take Your cock, when I make You cum down my throat, when I spread my legs for You without being told, when I open up for You, when my cunt is saturated with my longing for You, when I am available - my heart, my body, when I show You how I need You. Other times, You call me filthy whore. I am a filthy whore because I beg for Your cock, You tell me, because I am a gaping cunt of insatiable need, and I cry. I cry because I want You to tell me I am good. I cry because being called Your whore creates, awakens a massive desire inside me that I both adore and fear, a desire I am at times unsure what to do with, how to hold it, how to call it mine. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, to be debased, to be hurt, to be told I am used by You only for fucking. And I cry because I worship You and do not know how to make You see, make You believe, make You know what You are to me.

I cry because I want so much. Everything. I want everything.
.
Every time You touch me, I sob. I sob....I am relieved and home and moved and broken and terrified and safe and so turned on I am not even sure how I can be anything more than heated flesh, an inferno of longing, a vast vast need molded into skin by Your hands and cock. And when my need reaches a ferocity I am so afraid I am incapable of holding, I reach for Your eyes to remind me I would do anything to please You. Hurt me, please hurt me - I tell You this one night after dinner, a dinner during which we were nearly fucking at the table, so hot and hard was our desire for each other. Hurt me, I need it, I need it. Again, I am sobbing. I cannot even look at You, do not reject me now, with all this need and no where to go with it except to You, because I understand in my gut You know what to do with it, what to do with me. And You take me to Your bed and punch my face, my mouth, and shove Your cock in, bury it in my cunt and ass and I am sobbing in my hands and in Your neck and all over the bed and I can taste blood in my mouth. Your fist. And then time stops, inexplicably, You are in my cunt so deeply I cannot move, pinned to the bed beneath You, the full weight of you, You are holding me to the ground. Gravity. My gravity. And Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy tear-streaked, make-up stained, puffy and bruised face and I know, from Your eyes I know, I am so beautiful. And You are whispering - my princess, You whisper. And I am precious.

Brazen

I want You to hurt me.


Every time You touch me, it is like this: my need expands and moves beyond me, outside of restraint, and I feel utterly incapable of controlling it. I am dissolved before You. I am disintegrated into a river of liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless You hurt me, use Your hands on me with a violence I recognize as Your love, a violence I know to my core I cannot make due without, and I am left waiting. Sobbing and waiting for Your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.

The first time You marked my face we had been fucking for days. Hard, You fuck me hard, Your cock entering and claiming me as if You had waited a lifetime for my cunt and my need matches Yours every time. My need for Your cock. I need Your cock. I push You with my hands and plead "no" sometimes because it is so big it hurts me and You call me Your whore and make me take it anyway and in that moment, the moment I am just taking, I would do anything, anything for You. You fuck me without lube and sometimes, sometimes it takes my cunt too long to open up for Your cock and You want it now, in to Your base now and You slap my face and tell me to hurry, You do not want to wait for me.
The first time You marked my face You were slapping it in the front seat of my car, Your other hand gripping my hair, slapping me while I sobbed and calling me filthy and I felt cradled and precious and I was Yours. The next morning there it was, purple and blue, Your hand splayed across my cheek, Your mark, Your love. Possession, I thought. And I was both terrified and elated.

You hurt me and I am terrified and elated.

I have craved. For an eternity it seems, I have craved. And I thought tenderness happened at the moment when I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now, now I realize with stunning certainty that I was wrong. I was so wrong and so I lived without. Tenderness is the moment I break and You push me beyond, beyond my fear, beyond my limits, tenderness is the way You carry me straight into my craving and stay there with me while I struggle and then a moment snaps inside me and I am flying, flying toward You and You knew all along I could take it.

I have never been so safe in all of my life.

You call me Your whore. Beloved whore when I have pleased You, and I swear to You I feel as if I live to please You, to hear You say those words, to see the look on Your face when I know I have been a good girl for You, when I take Your cock, when I make You cum down my throat, when I spread my legs for You without being told, when I open up for You, when my cunt is saturated with my longing for You, when I am available - my heart, my body, when I show You how I need You. Other times, You call me filthy whore. I am a filthy whore because I beg for Your cock, You tell me, because I am a gaping cunt of insatiable need, and I cry. I cry because I want You to tell me I am good. I cry because being called Your whore creates, awakens a massive desire inside me that I both adore and fear, a desire I am at times unsure what to do with, how to hold it, how to call it mine. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, to be debased, to be hurt, to be told I am used by You only for fucking. And I cry because I worship You and do not know how to make You see, make You believe, make You know what You are to me.

I cry because I want so much. Everything. I want everything.
.
Every time You touch me, I sob. I sob....I am relieved and home and moved and broken and terrified and safe and so turned on I am not even sure how I can be anything more than heated flesh, an inferno of longing, a vast vast need molded into skin by Your hands and cock. And when my need reaches a ferocity I am so afraid I am incapable of holding, I reach for Your eyes to remind me I would do anything to please You. Hurt me, please hurt me - I tell You this one night after dinner, a dinner during which we were nearly fucking at the table, so hot and hard was our desire for each other. Hurt me, I need it, I need it. Again, I am sobbing. I cannot even look at You, do not reject me now, with all this need and no where to go with it except to You, because I understand in my gut You know what to do with it, what to do with me. And You take me to Your bed and punch my face, my mouth, and shove Your cock in, bury it in my cunt and ass and I am sobbing in my hands and in Your neck and all over the bed and I can taste blood in my mouth. Your fist. And then time stops, inexplicably, You are in my cunt so deeply I cannot move, pinned to the bed beneath You, the full weight of you, You are holding me to the ground. Gravity. My gravity. And Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy tear-streaked, make-up stained, puffy and bruised face and I know, from Your eyes I know, I am so beautiful. And You are whispering - my princess, You whisper. And I am precious.

Collision

COLLISION

Your cock fucking my mouth...by the dumpster...and it's so big and i try to take it all down my throat to please You and then i am choking and gagging and terrified i am not going to be able to take it and You are slapping my face so hard i have tears in my eyes and i am still not pleasing You and You are hissing "taste yourself on it" and my knees are raw and i just peed down my legs and onto my 8 million dollar shoes and i am humiliated and horrified and ecstatic and so turned on i feel i may implode or explode if You don't cum down my throat but i don't want You to yet because i don’t want it to end. Ever. Don’t take that cock out of my mouth where it feels so perfect and delicious and fits, as big as it is it fits, and i crave it, crave it as far down as You can fuck. And then more. And then You are done and lifting me off my scraped up knees and into Your arms, those strong arms i could curl up into and just stay there forever or at least as long as You would keep me, and i feel so precious and safe and beautiful, i feel gorgeous despite the pee and tears and stained dress and bruises and dirt and cockroaches in my hair and then i am kissing Your neck and moaning and You slam my back against that filthy horrible dumpster and i need You all over again. It never ends, this need. Nor do i want it to.

And yes, all of this is running through my mind and heart and cunt and i have to fuck myself hard, hard, until I cum all over my hand, blood and juice and my tears pour, pour down my cheeks and i can not even whimper Your name.

No. i am screaming it.