Clit-Orations

A femme-domme changes into her costume in a phone booth — and emerges, ready to take on the world. Up the ass, of course.

Image via.

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I am the baby of the family, youngest sibling to three brothers. A surprise baby, I was born years after anyone had any idea of having more kids. My eldest brothers, Mark & Saul, were out of the house before I was five and even Jeff’s a whopping eight years older than I am.

Growing up, everyone called me “Baby Girl” — including people outside our family, who called me “Baby Girl [Surname]“.

Until I turned twelve, that is.

It was at that time that the candy giving changed. Even if my body hadn’t quite blossomed (and some might still be waiting for my ittie bittie titties to grow-in — but they won’t, ya’ll; that’s the way they is), there were subtle changes… I became not only longer in leg, but in tooth, as they say. I started to not only know the score, but what the game was all about.

It wasn’t the magic number “12″ or maturity’s hormones which had me growing up, but life at home.

Momma caught Dad sniffing some other woman’s panties.

All hell broke loose, as you can imagine. Mom left and took up with men years her junior who she treated like slaves — and they only adored her for it. Dad bellowed and stormed around, rather like a wounded boar. He put himself inside the bottle, and then sobered up when he realized “his Patsie” (her name is Patricia, and he’s always called her “Patsie”; it is not to mean she was a patsy) wasn’t going to come back to some slob she’d have to take care of. Now & then she “comes home”, let’s him wait on her & submit to her, and then, when he fails her, she’s off again with some buck with a proper attitude (and some money doesn’t hurt either).

It’s been a decade of watching my parents perform this strange dance of submission, denial, and love — which literally continues to this day. The details of which may become another post; but for now, let’s return to me.

Finally seeing my parents’ relationship for what it was, how it worked, and what it meant was not just an eye-opener about them or even relationships in general — it was self-illuminating. At that moment, their relationship did not die or really even change, but become crystal clear to all of us. And it helped me see myself better.

I wasn’t going to remain anyone’s “baby girl” — I was far too powerful for that. And it all had to start with a name change. At the age of 12 I became what I could; I made them stop calling me Baby Girl and call me Miss Angel.

“Baby Girl” didn’t die some tragic death, wasn’t part of childhood’s innocence lost and all that crap; “Baby Girl” never really existed, you see. She was an idea, or the ideal, of others; but she wasn’t me.

Now I seethe when I’m called “Mistress” or “Goddess” because those are generic terms for generic women, in generic roles. I don’t “play” that way; I have my own games, my own rules, my own role. So you will call me The Celebutaunt or Mock-tress or whatever name I tell you to address me by. Got it? Good.

1 Comment | Tags: panty sniffing, power play, submit to your mistress, trailer trash

Just a snippet from Mistress Magick’s brilliant post, Pseudo-Subs: Fantasy Wankers:

Top sign that you might be a Fantasy Wanker:

Do you keep changing the conversation or redirecting it back to your own desires/fantasies?

Real Submissives focus on their Mistress’ desires, revealing theirs as she is interested in hearing them. It is her job to weave them into their play in ways that they can both enjoy.

Fantasy Wankers focus on their own desires, but think that their dreams should automatically be a “service” to a Mistress, because it is in their fantasy. In reality, She may have not interest in that activity whatsoever. These are often the guys who should go to Pros, in that they are expecting a service: to have their fantasy acted out exactly as they desire.

Many Fetishes can fall into this category, in that they need their fetish to be done in an exact way in order for them to enjoy it. Even though they may be very sincere, they aren’t actually submissives, because they aren’t submitting to the desires and service of their Dom/mes.

This gets a hearty, “Amen!” from myself, and, I daresay, the rest of the dominant females here at Clit Orations. But that’s not the only reason I share it.

Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of questions along the lines of, “How do I get my wife to dominate me?” Or, more accurately, they whine, “You’d think they’d want to boss me around and make me do stuff…”

But you see, that’s the problem; many of you male subs — especially those whining thus — are not really dreaming of doing her bidding. You are dreaming that she’ll do your bidding, bossing you around just the way you want it.

In BDSM circles, this is called “topping from the bottom” — and it’s an exhaustive subject, both in terms of the vast material and conversations going on about it and the dull, annoying repetitive energy a professional Domme like myself must put into it.

As Mistress Magick points out, this wishing vs. reality can be a chronic problem for any fetishist. One one hand, there are (usually quite) specific requirements to your kink and you dream of having them met; on the other, this rigidity can spoil things when the fantasy is taken out of your head and into real life. And when you try to take this sex fantasy into your vanilla partnership, the rigidity only adds performance anxiety to the other pressures and concerns.

As Mistress Magick also states, this is one of the reasons many male submissives seek the professional paid services of a Femdom — for the chance to live out their fantasies. But…

Not every professional Femdom, Dominatrix, etc. will provide that service. Or, if they are willing to deliver your fantasies and not expect you to submit to their whims, they may not be willing to provide the specific submissive fantasy delights you dream of.

After all, not all subs &/or sissies are alike, so why would Femme Dommes be?

It’s best to ask some questions, shop around even. And you must also be open to listening to what the professional has to say; if she’s truly a professional, she knows what she’s doing.

For those of you who have “played” with other Mistresses, professional or not, please kindly remember that trying to recreate those experiences with another partner is not likely to succeed.

I don’t think there is a woman (or man) anywhere who enjoys being compared to another and found wanting. So if & when you decide to take your submissive sex fantasies to your wife or real life lover, kindly remember your place as well as hers — and give her the chance to lead.

1 Comment | Tags: dominant female, how it works, power play, real world fantasies, sex fantasies, sexpert wis-domme, submissive husbands

Ouija
Originally uploaded by Bohemiart

I’ll admit a certain kinship with ghosts and legendary creatures — as well as those who hunt them. I have a fascination with the thin walls of this world — or more accurately, their parting. I enjoy watching where they rip, and peering past such improbable, flimsy, restraints into what lies beyond.

I love where science meets faith and they challenge one another, head on; but unlike like rams at rut, the challenge is more probing and filled with awe. It’s like sex. Like good sex.

I like questioning what’s here as well as what is, if anything, beyond; and I aspire to create or recreate such possibilities for myself.

But I am no latitudinarian when it comes to the current use of the word “Gothic” and have even less use for those who call themselves “Goth”; for the most part they’ve taken all the quest, questioning, and longing out of it.

Gothic isn’t all dark pessimism; like the architecture, the true philosophy of “Gothic” reaches for the heavens.

More than a stone skeleton of columns and flying buttresses, the arches and spires orchestrate and conspire exploration of limits, suggesting a soul, if not flesh.

Ogive arches simultaneously point to heaven yet acquiesce to the burden, directing the force & weight of the burdens of such an improbable reach. They are designed to both create the light & provide the structure. Thus the imposing structures are as uplifting as they are intimidating.

Spires, like the obelisks before them, were as much spears as prayers. Each spire a show of strength, a demand, an impotent quest… A phallus thrusting for admission, the aching alms of humanity constructed in entreaty and defiance. And wonder.

Lacking in spires leaves one emotionally, and literally, without aspirations. This is why, even when spires were lost quickly — within just a few short years crumbling & falling from their heights — they are etched in our minds. Their visual ambitions are recalled; remembered not for failure, but honored for the balls & glory to try.

When those self-described Gothic persons only see or believe in “darkness” and “gloom” without reaching, without romance, they’ve made it as base as fucking.

It is true that you must omit light to have utter darkness; but to believe it is simple to do, to ignore the battle & dismiss the conquest is folly. Where light probes dark, where dark resists & envelopes light, where one forces the other to give way and submit, this is where the beauty of possibility lies.

Simply starting from, or existing only in, darkness is to miss the the contrast, the interplay.

slivers of light, shivers of delight
despair in the dark, declare in the dark

When people forget to reach for (let alone acknowledge) the light, they miss the beauty. But I thrill at such purpose of discovery.

I find it stimulating how the unknown curls into a ball to protect itself from the parry and thrust of intellect, how beauty cannot be dissected & replicated as the sum of its parts, how seeking is as much about the love & adoration as it is the desire to know — it must be, for we know we are doomed from the start. We are either doomed to remain ignorant, doomed to our discoveries and have the magic removed, or doomed to only have more questions. We know this, and yet we continue anyway.

I arouse at the intercourse of light and dark, finger tips of one penetrating the other, in the push-comes-to-shove exploration of faith and science in the pursuit of truth… Where force may oft be best plied as a reverent whisper, and the brute force of denial may result in our own scream of anguish. And either may be the surprising key to open the door.

This is why I like power play, power exchange, BDSM, whatever you call it. It’s probing, challenging, illumination, squelching… The twisting turns of our bodies and souls. The awe.

It’s where the spill of release may be as readily achieved by a soft moan in the ear as it is by a cruel word spate in harsh tones… a feathery touch on a tender place, followed by the hard crack of leather.

Tell me you “can’t come that way” and I’ll apply my knowledge of you, leveraging your grey matter as well as your physical parts at precise points, until I have you drooling like Pavlov’s dog from your genitals — the orgasm at the end of the world, rending the fabric of your reality.

For you, the sub, it is in the darkness of subspace that you find illumination, salvation, and the desire for more; the soft grey veils part, exposing glimpses of additional mystery. For me, the Domme, a chance to regain, however slight, access to the very same. Even if only in my subs eyes and sighs…

Oh, heavens — this devious angel has long missed you.

I continue to reach.

Gothic BDSM images by Vlad Gansovsky.

1 Comment | Tags: about Nikki Nines, art, Gothic, how it works, myths, power play, real world fantasies, sexpert wis-domme

When I was a little girl, do-gooders would give me pieces of candy. It was supposed to be a nice thing to give the poor kids. I took it, and enjoyed it. But as I got older I noticed the look in my momma’s eyes — the look in all the mommas’ eyes when their kids were given candy. It wasn’t just the shame that comes from knowing others have decided your kids are poor and needy, but the fact that they’d rather that the well-meaning person would hand out bags of rice or otherwise give something that would help more than the five minutes of sweet sugar.

I continued to accept the candy.

As I got older, I also started to notice the ways giving candy changed.

My short Daisy Dukes weren’t a fashion statement — or a sign of promiscuity either. They were shorts that were too short but there was no money for better fitting shorts. But I saw the looks. And while I didn’t, at first, understand it; I knew there was a wistfulness, a question, a begging in their eyes…

And that’s when I began to feel the power shift. Shift to me.

Now I had something they wanted and they quickly became the needy ones I could hand out sweet stuff to.

Like the do-gooders who gave me candy, I gave out small pieces here and there, but never enough to really address the full hunger.

Trailer park girls are smarter than you think. We know we can’t say, “Give me a computer and I’ll give you a blow job.” The average guy will automatically believe there’s never been a blow job worth that. The trick is getting him to believe it is. So you tease and deny, increasing the desire and then the value of the blow job. The blow job becomes nearly unobtainable, and suddenly, just seeing your pantyhose-covered ass is worth a pc.

Even when he knows what you’ll do with that pc.

And when you’ve got the pc, you dump him. Because now you need the cable guy to get you hooked-up for free. The computer guy, who’s been wanking to his mental images of your ass all week, sees the cable guy leaving, and assumes he’s gotten a blow job — his blow job. He begs that he deserves one. But you laugh at him, tell him to email you pictures of his wee willie to impress you first, and shut the door.

Now you’ve got two men vying for you and the value of the bj increases wildly.

And you’ve got photos of pathetic penis to leverage into who knows what else.

Like money.

No Comments | Tags: financial domination, no angel, power play, trailer trash