Thursday, February 11, 2010

The Joy of Part-time Slavery: #1 Your femdom fantasy isn't the real you

OK, well, probably not the Real You.

(I've introspected and researched enough to get the answers I need. Now I'm going to finish up by setting them out here, partly to see if they make sense, and partly because I wish somebody had told me this stuff when I was younger. I'm going to talk about the sub side of femdom only, since that is what I've experienced, and I'm not going to cite sources, though go ahead and comment if you want me to link to books etc.

So, here we go....
)

I think most of us fantasise about femdom long before we ever seek it out, and these fantasies have roots in the time our sexuality emerged, when they simultaneously disturbed and enticed us: disturbed because we often imagined being on the receiving end of evil; enticed, so it turns out, in part because they disturbed us. It also helped that they were easy and, yes, safe.

Guess what? The primitive part of our brain can't tell the difference between real and pretend. When we see a horror film, we really do experience fear. We keep going back because, since we consciously know we're safe, we can enjoy the mental arousal triggered by the rush of fight/fly brain chemicals.

In the same way, sexual fantasies that disturb, scare or shock us also arouse us mentally. Some people get hooked just on this: transgression. It's why Internet porn addicts download more and more extreme material. They've no real interest in sex with deceased donkeys for its own sake, but the buzz gets them off, this time. (Next time, the sheep will have to watch...)

Most of us, though, just find that dark fantasies have the edge over romantic or cosy ones. Being tortured by the class bitch is so much more interesting to imagine than necking with a girl we like--

--it's also easier to imagine. Apart from a lucky - or tragic - few, most teenage boys have to wait a horrible long time before they have the experience with which to build a vanilla fantasy. Girls are just unknown territory. How would a seduction go? What would it feel like to touch her? What would she say? What would she be like naked?

In femdom fantasies, the girl often remains fully clothed. The action stays in the easy-to-imagine realm of torture and restraint - it's on TV daily, and you just have to watch Batman or the Addams Family to pick up a few props. Better yet, the intimacy is mostly that of the lash - and we've all felt pain.

It's also a safe fantasy... no, really... it's an escape from that unbearable emotional longing for love, and it doesn't set you up for a fall. Realistically, the class bitch isn't going to tie you to the school railings and torture you with crocodile clips (sorry!), but if you allow yourself to imagine that the unattainable girl in the next desk might actually kiss you... well, then you'll start obsessing about how to make it happen, and bitter experience suggests you'll only get hurt. And, if you do succeed - what if you upset her or come in your pants!?! RUN!!!

Femdom fantasies are also safe because they resolve all the mixed messages we get about women and heterosexuality:
  • "Raw female sexuality is the ultimate beauty, but women's experience of sex is tangled with emotions."
  • "The only appropriate sexual partner is a strong woman, but strong women don't just give into a man's lust."
  • "Desire is good, but selfish gratification is bad."
  • "Women can and should demand satisfaction, but a woman who does things for you may be doing it because she feels she has to. (Shame on you)."
  • "Women should be assertive, but a man should dread being a bully above all else."
  • "The female orgasm is all powerful, but you can never tell whether she's faking it for your sake."
How much safer to imagine the girl in control, making you manfully earn her favours through pain and humiliation!

So, as soon as the arrow of our hormones points at the fairer sex, we start wrapping them in protective femdom fantasies, and then we masturbate, and the brief satisfaction triggers a chemical longing for more of the same. Eventually, we train our brains to skip a link, and the evil of femdom becomes erotic...

...and it feels good. (I wouldn't change it for the world.)

Looking back, your inner slave (I'll use this as shorthand from now on) is not the Real You. It's just a refuge you built in order to cope with being a horny, inexperienced, stressed-out teenager. You probably also vanished into first person shooters for hours on end, but you didn't rush off to join the Marines, did you?

The truth is, for most of us the vanilla world has much more to offer than that of consensual full-time slavery. The parts of our brain that are not wallowing in a musky dungeon are wired for building, creating, and companioning... for earning a very broad satisfaction with our lives, for carving a place in this generation and contributing one way or another to the next. (This is a good thing, because full-time femdom women are probably thin on the ground; but I'll come to that in another post.)

However, your Inner Slave is still real and part of you - try and see how long you can ignore it for - so what do you do about it?

To be continued...

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Evening in Aqua Sulis

The cymbals clash. Electric stringed instruments I still don’t recognize twang, drums rumble, setting up a vibration in my chastity belt.

The Roman girls throw overhead claps and dance. Long gowns flounce around many-hued legs, some long, some short and curvy, all smooth as marble.

It's like being at a toga party, but the gowns are richer and wilder – shimmering silks and printed cottons - and the girls actually do all chatter in Latin as they crowd around the bar where male slaves scurry to fill their drinking cups.

If you watch carefully, you'll catch a flash of steel beneath the men's short-hemmed tunics. Welded on steel neuters their groins, just as it does mine.

This is Aqua Sulis.

It should be the English town of Bath, but in this alternate Earth, both the Roman Empire and real chattel slavery flourish. The spa town is dedicated to Minerva, the virgin goddess, so that long ago it was decreed no penis should blight its streets.

When it became illegal to castrate a slave – in these days of universal Pax Romana, such men are no longer prisoners of war, but self-bonded for a fixed term of years – the city authorities instead "gelded" their much-needed male workers with steel cages.

Cunning tavern keepers quickly learned they could earn extra money by renting out chaste young men to visiting ladies who were less than chaste.

Then, a decade ago, the railroad connected Londinium with Aqua Sulis, and the Virgin Goddess's city became the fleshpot for debauched young women freed of parental control thanks to the Empire's belated industrial revolution.

Now, divorcees come in carriage-loads to wash away the stain of the one arranged marriage owed to their parents. More accurately, they have the marriage licked away by the tongues of slaves, willing or unwilling – they need not care which. And, if their failed alliance has left them loaded with anger, where better to shed it, but on the back and buttocks of an amusingly helpless male, who no doubt would be just the same as the despised ex-husband... were he not writhing under the lash.

Angry women, though, are the minority. For most, the attraction is more innocent. This is the place where families send their wayward daughters to take the waters so they can also take their pleasure and still return virtue technically intact, and the place where single girls and women come - in all sense of the word- because they can.

In this walled city, a Roman Citizen of the gentler sex can drink wine until the world spins, and weave a giggling path by gaslight back to her inn, with no thought of danger from stray males. Better yet, if she has a denarius or two, she can satisfy her every desire, with no risk of disease or pregnancy.

If this is not what nature intended for women, then it is surely what they deserve.

The music stops and this week's mistress sways towards me, red hair wild from the dancing, every swing of her hip a dripping with new sensuality. Without a word, she strides past and I follow her out into the warm summer night.

She turns off into an alley, then presses into wall and simply sheds her gown. Pale skin flashes in the moonlight. The darkness mutes her russet curls, but I know what to do. I kneel on the rough cobbles and crane my head back to kiss her vulva.

The music swells from the tavern, and her hands press the back of my head. My tongue parts her pubic hair and I taste salty sex.

Above me, she gasps, and the sound echoes inside my chastity belt, setting my penis throbbing hopelessly against its steel prison.

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