Femme Daddy 4 Femme

Sugar, a pale, fat queer with freckles, black lipstick, and black eyeliner, reclines against the wooden headboard of a bed. Their hair is cyan and short, falling to their ears. They are wearing a black babydoll that is split down the middle and red underwear. They are gazing directly into the camera, head tilted to the left ever so slightly, and holding one tail of a black suede flogger in both hands in front of their face, biting down on the middle of the tail.If you’re looking for something sexy, have a sweet and true story snippet from my first sexual experience as a femme Daddy. (Which is pretty fucking great, y’all.)

[CW: Sexually explicit, DDLG, orgasm control.]


“Oh, Daddy…”

She’s squirming beneath me, the pitch of her voice octaves higher than usual, her breathing ragged and her hips rotating, supple lips parted, lashes long and dark over her cheekbones, eyes rolled back beneath her eyelids. I press my hand harder into her cunt through her short shorts, applying the pressure to her vulva that I know she craves – firm, unerring rubbing, massaging the legs of her internal clitoris, sending warm satisfaction through her groin and tingles into the head of her clit as it continues to swell.

“You have to tell me when you want to cum, babygirl.”

I shift the layers of my skirt to leer over her, press the Die Cast against her clothed cunt, and lean into it, savoring the feeling of her body shuddering under mine. She immediately takes her mouth off the pillow and tries to muster the words. It’s cute, her incredible responsivity, the soft noises she makes, the way she begins to pant so easily when she’s swamped with lust. I drag the long nails of my other hand up the bare inside of her upper thigh. Eventually that sweet, small voice comes back out.

“Now, please, Daddy…”
“Okay kitten… bite the pillow then, Daddy’s going to make you cum.”

She stuffs the fabric into her mouth as I turn the Die Cast up, squeezing one of her breasts and rubbing the wand up and down her vulva. The Die Cast is already starting to numb my fingertips, holding it as close to the head as I am, but it’s worthwhile – I know it won’t be long before I get what I want from my girl. Her muscles are twitching and she begins to tremble beneath me, her quickening breath beginning to hitch in her throat. I bump the vibe up another notch.

“Oh, that’s a good girl… Cum for Daddy, babygirl.”

She lets go, squealing into the pillow, convulsing under me as I hold the head of the toy against her, watching that sweet expression on her beautiful face – her curls falling over one of her eyes and obscuring everything but the black, sharp tip of her flawless winged eyeliner. When her convulsions slow and she curls in on herself, I turn off the vibrator. We had five minutes to get that orgasm out, and I want us to be prompt about her departure so I can respect my roommates’ boundaries.

If I didn’t have to send her home, I’d keep the vibrator on against her cunt, hitch up my skirt, and ride it down into her until we were both exhausted and soaked. I’d part my outer lips and show her the slick, convulsing, pink parts of me, dripping after the languid and intensely hot making out, the feeling of her tits in my hands, the frustrated, whiny way she whimpered, “Daddy…” when I bit her earlobe. I’d let her stroke and probe, show her how I liked it, let her explore every curve and crevice I had.

And then, I’d give her my Sailor Moon pajama shirt to change into for bed and hold her afterward, my naked body against her, kissing the back of her neck and lacing my fingers through hers until we fell asleep together in a room reeking of incense, make-up, perfume, and sex.

The Gap

I’m thinking I have to stop giving blowjobs before my Tinder dates touch my genitals, if I ever expect to get my vagina touched.

Another (“different”) man
zips up hastily,
kisses me, and
leaves again.

Rides off
on his horse
(of promises),
easily broken.

The asphalt
beneath his tires
glitters (with apologies)
in his wake.

I didn’t want him to stay
forever, but I wish he’d stayed
long enough
to make me cum

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Rescuer

[This is sexually explicit. CW: Mentions of caning, knife play, chain fisting, watersports, and PTSD.]



to the guy
for whom i was going to write an erotic poem
you ghosted me after our 3 overnights:

after you
charmed me with
a calculated sadism
balanced by a wickedly sexy,
affectionate, daddy smile.

after you
vibrated my core,
showed me the secret of
weighing liquid
in troy ounces,
cooked me eggs.

after you said you would
work with me through
my trigger, to
find life past it, where i don’t
have to stop
every time i get so hot
my body rebels.

after you
told me you
“fucked kinky, dated vanilla”
whatever that means…

probably that
you’re actually much
too normal
for me to slut around with after all.

probably that
you give time to the
girls you can take home to mom.
and i promise you,
i don’t wanna meet anybody’s mother

probably that maybe
something didn’t click, that you went
through the motions
(kink dynamo
daddy extraordinaire
sensual sadist)
with amazing efficacy of demeanor
that had me slightly smitten.

probably that
i could see a way
where our two minds could meet
and we could learn
and laugh
and fuck, but
you couldn’t.

but really, i think,
after you saw
red wine, secondhand, on
your white marble floor,
after you saw
my undignified husk,
convulsing, sick and
teary-eyed, on the warm
wood in the bedroom

of your
white picket fence home
next door to soccer moms
who don’t know
you put a chain in my cunt
you put a cane on my ass
you put a knife on my skin.

i don’t think you could un-see it.
i don’t think i could un-feel it:

still, now, retroactively, mortified
that i did this all over again.

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Pinball Wizard

[CW: This is sexually explicit.]


to the guy
who made me melt by
catching my eyes and
with an affectionate grin
while his cock was in my throat:

when i danced and
shit talked your router while i
adjusted your wifi settings
(only because
i offered)
you stuck your head in from
the balcony, and, with
understated gusto, said,
“i like you.”

the time you spent
plying my nipples with fingertips
while I stroked your cock
in traffic
surprised me with how much
intense pleasure
i derived from
my breasts

i love the way you deftly
wind my ponytail around your hand
before you pull my hair.
i savored the way
it made my
like electrical static
as you controlled my head that way
and sucked my lower lip ’til
i whimpered.

and i love that,
while you didn’t use dominant words,
you still expressed it
with firm, decisive touch,
guiding me to what you wanted,
and never pushing back
if i had to pull away.

i sucked
the shaft of fire
between my lips
as you watched.
trent reznor singing,
“there is no fucking you
there is only me,”

as I pumped my
fist and
moved my
lips and
curled my
over every vein.

i rode you
until my knees protested,
twisting and writhing
as you squeezed my tits,
making my cunt clench around you,

until there was no you
there was no me
there was only fucking you
and I could live in that moment

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Tiger

[CW: This is sexually explicit.]


to the guy who kissed
like his presence in my life,
which is
fucking THERE:
occupy as much of me
as you desire.

when you held me
you cradled me
in your arms, with
no stress, no hesitation.
our embrace had
no preparation
no trepidation
only desire
tinged with tenderness,

while your tongue
made your presence known
behind my lips
and in my brain.

every night i
cup my hand over my vulva while I
think about your mouth and
your arms around me as i grew
hotter and
squirmier and
needier and
deliciously small in a way
that almost felt new.

i remember
the quick dip of your hips
as the tip
of your cock
hit delicious places while
filling the hungry, empty spaces
in my cunt,
zones of intense pleasure
i barely remembered i had.

and my thumb traces
my lower lip
as i think about it wrapped
’round the head of your dick,
tightly across the edges of your
latex-shrouded cock
slick with my juices.

condoms would all taste better
if they were me-flavored,
but every night i put my fingers in
my mouth, and I think,
“they’d probably be better
if they were you-flavored.”

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Freedom Fighter

Hi gang!

One day I will write a long post about my move and my new life. I will not be doing that today.

This evening I did a video interview with Nicholas Tanek of Your Kinky Friends, so check it out here! We discussed gender, kink, my most embarrassing sex story (CW for vomit), my favorite toys, sex blogging (with some advice for new bloggers!), and some delicious word association. Also, if you enjoy the work of everyone taking part in YKF, give them a follow on Twitter: @FriendsKinky

The other thing I’ll leave you with is the start of a new series: Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates.

CW: this is sexually explicit.

to the guy who kissed
like he wanted to crawl inside me:
i want you inside me too.

i want to relive
the way you seized me
through my anticapitalist melody,
and kissed me like
you couldn’t resist me,
all-consuming –

everything you’re doing is
(so good) on the mouth,
making heat flood every
inch of me
south of the
waist, where your hands wander
up my skirt again.

i want to pull back
your foreskin,
you’ll spread your legs
to let me in
to the warmest,
part of you,

like i want you inside me too.

The Little Vagina That Couldn’t: A Depression Story

If you ever look at my website, you can tell when I’m not updating. You have eyes. Old posts linger. Your feed reader’s section for my website never has updates. You don’t get e-mails with new posts. It’s because of my mental health – specifically my depression.

When some of us (who shall remain nameless even though it’s our blog) are depressed, brushing our teeth is too hard. Taking a shower is too hard. Getting out of bed is a cruel joke, but eventually has to happen. So as you can imagine, writing is not my first priority when I’m depressed. But when I feel like this, do you know what’s even further behind writing? Sex. Sex with myself. Sex with other people. It’s all a disaster waiting to happen. I will cry if you try to have sex with me right now. It is an inevitability.

I just don’t want sex anymore. Which sucks because I still love sex as a topic and an abstract thing. I still love my dildos. I still love the sex educator/blogger/positive community. I love making my partner feel good and participating in intimate activities with him. But my body has zero interest in these things anymore, and it’s spreading to my mind. When I do say, “Gee, maybe I should masturbate to see if I still have genitals,” I just use a vibrator, remember that my genitals exist, and then just feel largely ambivalent about what I just did to myself. Actually, that’s a lie now. I am too dysfunctional/tired/lazy to charge my vibrators (don’t laugh at me). I have been masturbating with my hands for two months.

It’s so frustrating because I don’t know why. I know why I’m depressed (my brain chemistry blows), I know that my depression and/or medications are probably affecting my libido, but I have no real explanation for the loss of mental interest in my own sex life. My best theory is that my body being so disinterested and uncooperative has just deterred me from the whole rigmarole. Maybe I am so eager to avoid bawling every time someone tries to go down on me that I am just training myself to avoid the activity altogether.

I’m working with a therapist and seeing improvements in some areas of my life, but we’re not really focused on my sex life right now because I have a whole ball of other trauma/issues/anxieties to address before the luxury of my genital interactions. I mean, if I have to prioritize things I need to fix with my mental health care professionals I think the pecking order is:

  1. Addressing my executive dysfunction so I can take care of myself like a normal human instead of living like a feral child who is too lazy to even hunt for food and has resigned herself to living off whatever she can find that doesn’t need to be cooked. Like ants or crickets. Or slices of cheese rolled up in turkey. Or individually-wrapped chocolates. And forget utensils, because today I drank applesauce with a straw to avoid washing a spoon
  2. Eliminating or dealing with restlessness and other GAD symptoms
  3. Assorted coping skills
  4. Getting me driving again without having a panic attack at the very thought of it
  5. Leaving the house on my own
  6. Whatever is left
  7. Sex

It’s not that sex isn’t important, it’s just that being a functional person who can go to the grocery store is probably more important. My husband understands, so it’s not like my relationship is under stress because I’m not masturbating or letting him go down on me. In fact, my relationship is great.

Don’t worry. I still have notes from older toys that I can write reviews for. And maybe one day I’ll get a hankering to use a dildo! So there’s writing to be done, I just need to be capable of doing it, and I’m working on that. After all, I’m writing this. Gold star for me!

That Time We Didn’t Dye Her “Down-There”

I’m the queen of hair dye.  Fact: It was invented for me. (That’s not a fact.)  My hair has been every color, usually two at once, and one time (my high school graduation) it was even painstakingly dyed with every color of the rainbow (actually, we left out indigo, so it was more like ROYGBV, but indigo never really counted in the first place).

So naturally, I was the go-to for all things related to hair dye, just like I was the go-to for all things sexual in nature, such as “What’s a good lubricant for anal?” or “What’s a good trick to use during a blowjob?” or “What is ‘scurvy’?” (Hint: not an STD.)  It made a lot of sense to combine these two, so I often talked about how I would dye my pubic hair once I eventually let it grow out.  Just picture it: a perfect expression of my theoretical “uniqueness” hidden in my panties.  (Did I mention I was voted “most unique” in high school?  Yeah, that’s the user-friendly superlative for “green-haired crazypants with no friends.”)

Anyway, one of my friends was well-known for having girls’ nights at her place, and several of us were planning to head over there and hang out.  For some reason or another, my friend and I decided, on a whim, that this would be a great time to dye her pubic hair purple.  I brought the vegetable dye and gloves, and she brought her trimmed box.  It was at that point that our hostess returned and banged on the bathroom door until it opened to reveal four girls crowded around a toilet in a half-bath, two watching while I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and my friend hitched her leg up on the toilet cover.  It was quite a sight.  Our new arrival pointed out, “Do you really need her to dye your pubic hair?”

Well… now that she mentioned it.  No.  It’s a one-woman job, really.   I held the dye pot instead.  Imagine the balls that my friend had to smear the equivalent of Gooze all over her pubic bone with an audience of four.  The exhibitionists out there may scoff, but even I prefer to dye in private.

Here’s the end of the story, even though I’ve already spoiled it for you: It didn’t work.

She was a dirty blonde, and her pubes were slightly darker than her hair.  We were using a pretty dark violet that we thought would work.  After letting it process for 15 minutes, we got nothing.  Her pubes didn’t show the slightest hint of purple.  Given how long I process my hair (all day) I would have made her leave it on for an hour… but an hour of sitting in the bathroom not hanging out with your friends is pretty boring if they’re all in the next room.  I’ve also had little success dying my ex’s goatee, and since the hair texture is relatively similar, the only thing I can figure is that more coarse hair needs a longer amount of time, or we should have thrown caution to the wind and used some body hair bleach beforehand.

As someone who wants you to keep your body in good shape,

I don’t recommend:
  • Bleaching your genital region before you dye.  If you want that done, it’s a better idea to ask a professional about it… and let a professional do it.
  • Directly dying your genital region. Instead only dye the hair on your pubic bone.  The dye could irritate your vulva, penis, or scrotum.
If you dye, I do recommend:
  • Using a mild vegetable dye rather than a highly chemical dye.  (You may get better results from non-vegetable dye. Maybe that was my problem.)
  • Rubbing vaseline over your vulva or penis – it’ll keep you from suffering from Blue Waffle (sorry, sorry, too gross, I know, I’m done) or Gangrene (hah, get it?) Cock.
  • Using latex gloves to keep the dye from staining your hands.  Do you want to explain to your grandmother that your hands are pink because your box is?
  • Following the instructions on the dye box.  This is pretty straightforward.
  • Doing a patch test and a strand test beforehand.  Rub some dye in an inconspicuous place like the inside of your arm or back of your leg and wait about 24 hours.  If you don’t have an allergic reaction, you’re golden.  For a strand test, try snipping some of your hairs and dying them to see what the color looks like.  These are both standard procedure for your head, and since you want to be twenty times more careful with your junk, you probably don’t want to skip them.
  • Using something to apply the dye carefully.  I’m more of a throw-caution-to-the-wind person myself, but do as I say, not as I do.  This is less of a safety advisory (as long as you avoid your genitals and stick to the recommended areas) and more of an aesthetic advisory.  Many guides I’ve read recommend using dye brushes or cotton swabs or balls.
  • Going to a salon that offers bikini waxes if you’re unsure about your ability to do it yourself.  There’s no shame in having a professional do something that you might botch up.  Do you cut your own hair, do your own home repairs, and perform your own oral surgery?  Most people will answer no to these things, so there’s no shame in adding another to the list.
  • Trying one of the pubic hair dye kits that are out there.  Try Betty Beauty if they’ve got the color you’re looking for.
  • Dying when your hair is long, then trimming (if you so desire) once you’ve finished the coloring.  This is the exact opposite of what I recommend for the hair on your head.
  • Preparing yourself for comments such as “Oh, did you have sex with [Barney / a Smurf / Godzilla / the devil / a pig / other creature with a color that corresponds to your pube color]?” if you share the joy of your dyed hair with other people.  This can be expected with the hair on your head, and so I just know that the one friend you have who thinks they’re a comedy genius will make this remark if you tell them about your pubes.  (To all the comedy geniuses out there: we’ve all heard it before.  Really, asking me if a Smurf jizzed on my head?  You know the answer is “right before he fucked your mother.”)

Keep in mind, I’m by no means a professional hair stylist or salon technician.  Like I said above: when in doubt, go to the people who know what they’re doing.

Has your pubic hair ever (deliberately) been a funny color?  Are you considering dying it?  I know you’re out there, people.

You, Your Family, And “Coming Out” As Something

One of the most frequent discussions that I see among the sex blogging community on Twitter is, “What if my parents find out?” “Do I choose to ‘come out’ to my family and friends?”  I also see this fairly often in the kink and poly communities, where I find many people lamenting that they have a “vanilla life” and a very small “kinky (or poly) life,” and never the twain shall meet.

Yesterday, Blacksilk posted something along those lines, examining how she manages the sexy aspect of her life differently around two different family members.  This got me reflecting on a few times when I ‘came out’ to my parents about different things, and I’ve been blessed with two very accepting people who have simply opted to laugh with me along the way about most things.  I’m thankful for that every day.

I’ve always lived in a house where I was pretty sure my parents knew everything, even if they didn’t actually know everything.  For starters, Momma Sugarcunt tells Poppa Sugarcunt just about everything that I tell her, even though there was a reason I didn’t tell him.

Case in point: My dad IMed me on Facebook and asked if I was coming to a family event a few hours away, because my grandfather would like to see me.  My extended family is extremely conservative in every sense of the word, and I have always  been the black sheep because [I didn’t grow up there/share no common interests with them/dye my hair/am the most socially-liberal and thusly generally politically liberal person they know/fill in the blank].  (I also just un-friended the entirety of them on Facebook, because they have never contributed anything positive to my wall or messages, just as they have never contributed anything to my life except food, judgment, criticism, and awkward reunions where I inevitably go sit alone.  So after one of my cousins decided to argue with me about equal rights for marriage, then ignored the analysis of scripture that I handed him after he took an accusatory and dismissive tone and asked if I had read the Bible, I was done.)

Since I last saw my grandfather, I had acquired all of my current piercings: Tongue, eyebrow, nipples, and clitoral hood.  I replied and said, “I’m not sure he’ll be as happy to see me when he sees my tongue and eyebrow.”

My dad shot back, “He’ll get over it, just don’t tell him about the other ones.”

I was, momentarily, baffled.  While I told my mother about my genital piercings, I didn’t tell Dad.  Because my dad doesn’t really want to know, and I didn’t really want him to know!  There are plenty of parents who would rather not know about their child’s genital piercings.  He said my mom told him.  Thanks, Mom.  I’ve kind of come to accept that if I tell my mother something, she will tell my father at some point, regardless of what her intentions may be.

So obviously, I’ve got a pretty open relationship with my parents, and have conditioned them to be immune to shock and awe. If anything, I think my dad is probably most astonished if we go somewhere and I -don’t- embarrass him by being openly inappropriate.

For the most part, when there’s something that most people would hesitate to tell their parents, I don’t sit down with my parents and have “a talk.”  I never want to make “a thing” out of it.  I don’t really feel like I should have to explain it.  It just is.  It’s a fact about me, part of my identity.  It all comes out in passing.

If you’re hoping for stories with drama, conflict, and resolution, these are not the stories you are looking for.

How I Came Out As Queer (Sexuality):

I was pretty much positive that I was queer from around the time I was 10 or 11.  I never dated many people in high school, so I never had any girlfriends or transgender partners to bring home.  I long-distance dated two girls in middle school and high school… but it never came up because it was long distance.  Hell, I met a dude when I was 15 and held on to him until I was 20.  So my chance to act upon my sexuality didn’t really come until I became a part of my college’s GSM community and met a beautiful lesbian.  We dated, and while that relationship had some setbacks, we remained roommates until I quit school and moved out of the dorms in March.  At some point in the first month of our relationship, I was at a doctor’s office with my mother and mentioned in passing that I was dating her.  My mother raised an eyebrow, then she shrugged, and that was pretty much the end of it.  Both of my parents had already met her.  Mom inevitably told Dad because she was pretty sure he wouldn’t care.  I carried on and never spoke to him about my relationship proper, but constantly made jokes about administering cunnilingus.  (And usually didn’t realize that I’d done it until someone pointed out that I said it in front of my father.)

After my relationship with my roommate ended, the transgender woman that had been coming home with me very apparently became my sexual partner.  We both stayed with my family many times, and were openly affectionate.  We slept in the same bed in my parents’ house.  I was constantly covered in bruises from necking with her.  We chastely kissed in front of them.  I bought her panties once or twice when my mom and I went shopping together.  Most people thought we were officially an item.  (We weren’t.  She wouldn’t date me.  After we had sex a few times, she told me she loved me, and I guess that was as a friend.  First she said she had feelings for me, but was confused because “she’d never been this close to someone before.”  Then her excuse was solely that she was confused.  Then she needed to be single to pursue her identity [that was true].  Then she didn’t feel “like that” about me.  I spent a lot of time snuggling, fucking, and mothering her when I wanted to smack her.)

Then I dated some cisgender men again and my sexuality has really never come up since.


How I Came Out As Queer (Gender):

I didn’t.

I can’t explain it well.  My parents won’t get it because I don’t get it.

At this point, I’ve gone from being at a happy medium where I understand my feelings to a point where there are days that I can’t stand my biological sex.  Porn makes me feel… strange (and I think it’s because of my vagina), and my vagina feels wrong sometimes.  Or it makes me feel ashamed sometimes (but not all the time).  My initial desire from high school onward was that ideally I’d have both sets of genitals, fully-formed, with sensation.  We can’t always get what we want.  Now, I don’t know if I’d rather have a penis instead of a vagina.  Genitals and gender identity aren’t always interdependent on one another, but when something starts feeling wrong about my genitals on an instinctual level, especially when I think about mutilating my genitals or what it would be like if they weren’t there, it leads me to question whether I’m right with my genitals, and whether my fluid identity is really appropriate or not.

I haven’t made an effort to hide my gender identity from my parents, and I don’t really have a pronoun preference.  There has been absolutely no reason to bring it up.  I can’t solidify anything.  I don’t even know how I feel, so I can’t rightfully tell them how I feel.


How I Came Out As Kinky:

I’m pretty sure they figured this out from all the times I mentioned or joked about it in passing.  And then later, because I would rage about BDSM portrayed in popular culture… and correct the assumptions.


How I Came Out As A Sex Blogger:

My mom actually fronted me the cash to set up my first year of hosting, so I told her straightaway that I wanted to start a sex blog, and talked about affiliate programs and reviewing toys, etc. She wasn’t shocked or appalled, because that’s how my mother is – she certainly knows more about the fact that I’m sexual than my dad does, because while he’s aware, we don’t talk about it. Neither of us wants to. And that’s cool with me.  But I wasn’t going to tell him about my blogging.

About a month after I started reviewing things, I was staying with my parents in the interim between summer and fall semesters. I set my desktop up at a desk in the living room, which was pretty much the only space available to me.

I got my first review toys from Babeland and Goodvibes during this time, and I was so excited when they came that I showed my mom, then lined them up on the desk so I could take a photo.

This photo, actually:


I didn’t realize how close it was to 5:30 until my dad walked in the door and I heard him in the kitchen.  I had a giant dildo, a butt plug, and a vibrator sitting on his desk.  If he walked in the room at that very moment, we would have been living in a sitcom and I would have been surrounded by 15 more dildos.  (Those were upstairs in a box.) Instead of that happening, I swept the toys into the box they arrived in and hoped he wouldn’t notice when he walked in the room.  And then he walked into the room and looked at me (I think I was blushing.  I don’t blush easily), then looked at the TV, then looked back at me.

Now is the time to give you just a tiiiiny bit of background info that is pertinent to what happened next.  I do not like leaving my home.  I do not like going shopping.  We don’t even have local stores that carry anything that I want or need other than groceries.  I do like shopping on the internet, and have a wide variety of hobbies (making jewelry, knitting, collecting cephalopod items and geeky t-shirts… also sex toys) that the internet caters to pretty damn well.  So when I got my first debit card, I proceeded to use it when I had money to purchase these things.  Because of my purchases of beads (handmade focals, small bags of gorgeous beads from de-stashes on Etsy, massive quantities of things from sites for jewelers and beaders), I had a LOT of packages, but I wasn’t necessarily spending a LOT of money.  I was living with my parents until I finished getting my AA at a community college.  It got to a point where they were very displeased every time I got a package.

“Stop ordering things!”

SO.  With that background info in mind, wait for it.

Dad said, “…What’s this?”

My rectum clenched and I started acting accordingly.  “IT WAS FREE.  IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.”

He was asking what was on television.  Not what was in the box.  “…but now that you’ve called my attention to it…”

My mother decided to come downstairs and be helpful by saying, “What’s the matter, you don’t want to show your dad your big, black dick?”

“She’s too embarrassed.”

So then I had something to prove, so I grumbled, “No I’m not!” and yanked the Rippler (the big dick that isn’t black – she misinterpreted the color.  It does come in a sleek black, though!) out of the box.  I waved it in his face and said, “LOOK, it’s harness-compatible!  That means I can fuck somebody in the ass!”

And that was the end of that.

My parents don’t read my blog.  Although my mom said, at one point, that she’d like to look at it, but that’s because she’s being encouraging and I am perfectly OK with the fact that she isn’t badgering me for the address.

Anyway, it got to the point where I didn’t even put my dildos away when my parents visited me… and still wouldn’t, if they did.

When I Came Out As Mentally Ill:

I’m truly grateful for my parents.  I really am.  They have never denounced or disowned me.  My dad even told his brother to fuck off when he was harping on my hair at a family event.  (My uncle bitched about my hair every time he saw it, so my dad was understandably as sick of hearing it as I was.)  My mother has told me that she’s proud of me for standing up for my beliefs and speaking my mind.  My sister is 15, and is growing up to be an open, honest, thinking individual.  My brother isn’t a bad kid, either.  I have the most incredible family.

The only thing I would tweak about my parents is their view on my mental health, because they don’t understand my mental illnesses.  I’ve been diagnosed with Bipolar II and a general non-specified anxiety disorder, because I just don’t quite meet the DSM criteria for Social Phobia.  If you (my dad) have never suffered from depression and think that most mental health professionals are quacks and assholes (because you worked with some of them… like my dad did), then you (Dad) don’t understand why someone sleeps 18 hours a day, avoids family and friends, and literally can’t get out of bed or leave the house sometimes.  Especially if you’ve seen that same person act “normal” (because they’re in a safe and comfortable environment, like their parents’ house), or better still, bouncy, vibrant, and vivacious (because they’re having a hypomanic day).  When that person doesn’t want to go to school every day (high school and community college), stops going to classes (despite previous enthusiasm about them), and spends most of their time in bed, it looks like laziness or a lack of priorities.

It’s easy to tell someone to “pick themselves up by their bootstraps” when you haven’t felt that way and don’t have an intimate understanding or acceptance of mental health.  It’s easy to tell someone “you’re only as depressed as you want to be!” (Mom.  After I told her my therapist was recommending medication.  After our house burned down.) if your low points aren’t so bad that suicide looks like the only option you have to “fix yourself.”

These attitudes haven’t been very good for me.  They aren’t good for my sister, who is depressed and has panic attacks when fire alarms go off.  They aren’t good for my brother, who could use some anger management and coping skills.  I started exhibiting symptoms of depression (and I knew that) in middle school.  I was also surrounded by peers who liked to fabricate mental illnesses (no, I am not misjudging them or trying to undermine them.  Factually and diagnostically, they didn’t have them) and parents who talked about the “attention-seeking stunts” of their coworkers’ children.  I had a score in the highest range of a depression inventory when I took Health my freshman year of high school.  I did my senior project on depression, and my mentor (a school counselor) said, “Have you addressed the fact that you have a lot of these symptoms?”  Teachers overlooked my writing, my attitude, my behavior, and the fact that I slept in every one of their classes, probably because I performed well academically.  I never asked to see a therapist because I wanted to be left alone, and I continually told myself that I was just being a stupid teenager.

I am my own advocate for my mental health.  My mother seems like she’s becoming more receptive to at least hearing me talk about it.  But honestly, if it’s just my mental health that my parents aren’t convinced about, then I’m not complaining.  I wouldn’t trade them.  Because for the most part, they accept who I am.  I’ve had friends whose parents have denied it, accepted it but pretended it doesn’t exist, disowned them, insulted them, and tried to convert them.  I am privileged in comparison.  I never really felt like I was “coming out” to them when I told them about any of this, because I was blessed with a family that didn’t make me feel like I had to hide it.


Has anyone else been this fortunate?  Have you come out to your peers and family?  How did you do it, and how well did it work out?


I’m definitely a self-proclaimed brat.  If I’ve got a smart-assed remark, I just have to get it out there, because I’m hilarious and the entire world must know it… even if I’m supposed to be an obedient little girl.  (I’m only a “girl” when I’m a little – never a boy – but my gender associations when I play certain roles are a can of worms for another post entirely.)

Because of my own mouthiness, I certainly don’t take (much) lip from the slutling… but I let him get away with it sometimes.  I have to let there be allowances somewhere, right?



After I shaved down the slutling’s pubes last night (part one of ongoing project: sissification), I was pretty eager to rub my tongue all over his newly-smooth pubic region.  The plan for today was that he was going to have to earn the right to cum.  I rubbed my face all over his groin, sucked him until he almost couldn’t stand it anymore, and then made him get dressed so we could go about our daily business.

Later, as he sat in his room, I instructed him to act on his desire to watch porn.  As it is every time we play the orgasm denial game, he was told to watch something he really liked, masturbate, take photos for me, and was not allowed to cum under any circumstance.

He did me one better and sent me a video.

That warranted a reward, right?

I mean, that was truly going above and beyond the call of duty.

I plugged him up, pulled out a pretty pair of panties for him to wear, and was going to bestow a treasure trove of delights upon him… but then he fucked it up.

As I was lightly slapping his ass, he said, “Master, are you going to keep patting me, or are you actually going to spank me?”

Oh hell to the no, slutling.  Master don’t play that.

I wailed on him.  I spanked his right ass cheek so extensively that I couldn’t feel my hand.  I threw in a couple blows on the left for good measure.  When I finally got tired of exerting myself by punishing a mouthy little slut, I opted to take the easy way out and introduce the slutling to a slightly more severe brand of impact play, by bringing in the Rippler.

Except I wasn’t going to fuck him with it.  That would be too kind, since he was begging me to peg his ass.  The point of this wasn’t to gratify him.  I was just going to give him what he’d asked for – a real spanking.

Is the slutling going to mouth off to Master again?

I didn’t think so.

spanked slutling