Archive for the ‘Bitchfest’ Category

And Contrariwise

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Oh, my relationship with all-things-Wonderland runs deep, and stems from as far back as I can remember; traipsing about my grandparents’ mansion as a young girl, pretending that I was wandering a world far from this one.

It’s no wonder that my masterpiece would be a derivative works — for those unfamiliar, known as Hunting Alice, soon to be an audio drama series and broadcast on the Internet.

This, strangely enough, is not about that … exactly. This is about something else. Deeper. The roots of Roulette, in some sense. While I am always aware of myself, I do have momentary lapses of … treason? No. Season? Hmm, not quite. And ‘reason’ doesn’t cut it, since they’re not always unreasonable; but they do change me.

There are many people milling about in my head — many of which whom are my own creations, and present themselves in my fiction works. But sometimes, I get a bit too method. Certain characters, unfortunately, are so deeply ingrained within me that when something triggers them (or someone) it’s all I can do to keep firm hold of myself. It’s just so otherwise natural to slip into the masque of someone else.

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Itsy Bitsy, Teeny … Weenies.

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Dude.

What is up with guys with average-sized dicks wanting ‘small cock humiliation’ ? Seriously, it’d be like me emailing strangers and wanting them to laugh at the fact that I have no breasts. Or wear a training bra. I get the fascination with, and intrigue resulting from the fantasy of humiliation and degradation, but honestly, people. Can’t you at least have the defect you want to be ridiculed?

When I finally amass enough of a cocktail of boredom and fed-upedness to go on FCL, (not because it isn’t sometimes a pleasant experience, but it’s mostly a I-get-jack-for-it type of minorly pleasant experience — depending upon who’s on at the time) the weirdest thing I get are the average to above-average cock guys who seem to be secretly dreaming of having micro-cocks and having girls laugh at said micro-cocks. It kinda reminds me of an old magazine article from something I read as an adolescent about the stomping fetish — where guys imagine being the insects that the women stomp on in a variety of footwear. (I thought it was bizarre then. I find it equally so now.)

Anyway.

I wouldn’t mind the experience if they’d at least get into the roots with me. Were they humiliated by girls on the playground when they were sporting a much smaller member? Did it turn them on, because they’re naturally submissive? Is this a feeling they’re trying to recapture in their adulthood because sex has otherwise become stale? Do they have a genuine problem with normal channels of arousal? Or is it just a kinky enhancement?

But, noooo. They never want to talk about that. They just want to be ‘humiliated’ because of their perfectly normal-sized cocks.

… Beats the fuck outta me. Your guess is as good as mine.

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Men Marry Bitches? Oh, REALLY?

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So, my favourite socio-pundit, Blanche Black, is at it again. This time quoting Sherry Argov. You may remember her. She’s the chick who believed so heartily that women love bitches that she wrote a book on it. Zoom. Best-seller. At that point, she realised that love wasn’t enough for the fairer populous. No, no. If that love doesn’t come with a price-tag — typically with diamonds (and don’t get me started on why that in itself is insanity) accompanied by wedding bells, it’s just not bringing it home. Of course, Argov couldn’t stop there, so she presented to the world this past summer her magnum opus: Why Men MARRY Bitches.

Oh, dear, christ. How can I ever hope to express the full extent of my conflict over this?

Because:

A) It’s largely true — and it works.

B) It shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t.

See, I’m rather living proof of this, since my mother’s earliest lessons involved manipulating men. I was too young to realise that it was … well, kinda wrong, and that the world didn’t really work that way. (I know. Funny coming from a domme, isn’t it?) The truth is, I don’t believe in either (or any) sex being superior to the other. Both genders have strengths and weaknesses. Really, they fit together quite neatly, once you get past the cosmic joke of all the internal conflict. And even that’s not true in every case. Quite honestly, dominant women and submissive men get on very well in tandem. So long as they both remember to respect and appreciate each other.

But … it doesn’t seal the deal.

Nope.

Sad, that in this day and age, we have to look at tying the knot as a business transaction, but really, isn’t no different from any other sales conversion. You’ve each convinced the other that you’re worth the contractual agreement, because of your fancy advertising or dollars poured into market research, so you sign on the dotted line. It’s true that men don’t marry nice girls. Nope. They marry bitches. They like nice girls. They enjoy nice girls bringing them coffee and sharing their office space. Cleaning up their desk and ensuring that the blinds are open when they come in and closed when they leave. They probably even appreciate those women who take the time and effort to make their lives a little easier, to see that they feel supported, valued, and loved.

But do they seal the deal with a nice women?

Natch. (more…)

Spun out from Akasha’s Web?

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Now, I’m typically not one to sling mud. There are better things to do with my time, and it’s not exactly the most lady-like. (But then again, there are times that I’m hardly that, too.) But it’s been increasingly obvious to me that those who would qualify for a Mistress Akasha Support Group could easily keep me in business for years. It’s one thing to write a lot of erotica and run online training programmes. It’s another to lead individuals from those programmes to believe they are somehow separate from the others; ‘special’. Furthermore, when she has no intentions on following through on any of her promises. Ever. (Which can be a very frustrating thing. I know.) For some, it’s sheer obliviousness, or the result of oppression, being commitment-phobic, and so on. But for others, it’s a whole other ball-game.

For one, Akasha is a narcissist. Pure and simple, she lives in a fantasy world of her own creation to escape the fact that she has never had the capacity for true intimacy or to find real happiness. And God knows why; her life is fine. It has been for ages. And yet, she continues to use, abuse, and discard men. And men continue to let her because it’s ‘hot’. Sure, the concept may be veritably on fire, but the reality will leave you cold. Because that’s all it is and should be: fantasy. Subs are attracted to her because she’s a ‘true femdom’. Fine. Great. And no doubt, many submissive man’s idea of a female dominant is cold, hard, calculating, cruel, and selfish, but the even colder, harder truth is that such a person makes a shitty girlfriend. And probably an even worse wife.

Think about it. You’re a submissive man, and you’re in love. Finally, you’ve found everything your heart has ever desired: strong, independent, successful, beautiful, popular, and an uber-domme with dozens — maybe hundreds — of men at her feet, or dying to be there. Clearly, you’re more into her than she’s into you, but that’s okay, because she’s at least giving you her time and attention, which means you have more than a snowball’s chance in hell of winning her affection. Perhaps, one day, after your trials and tribulations, she’ll be so proud of your selfless suffering, service, and devotion that she’ll love you as deeply and entirely as you do her, since you were the one man who proved to her that you were everything she wants and needs, and now she’ll be forever yours, and you’ll both live happily ever after in femdom bliss.

Ahhhhhh.

But, wait — come to think of it, I hope you really like waiting, because that’s what you’ll be doing a lot of, and for an indefinite amount of time. That’s right, indefinite. As in potentially — make that, likely — never-ending. Waiting, waiting, waiting for her to call or email you back. To want to see you again. To pay attention to you at all. But this is what you’ve wanted — right? The chance to prove to your one true love, that woman you’ve always been waiting for since you were a young boy with raging hormones, that you’re all that, the bag of chips, and the super-sized beverage? Because it’s in your sweet nature to want to be of service. To give of yourself so completely. You’re sure if you just put in (though, after awhile, it feels more like ‘do’) the time, that you’ll be rewarded with all of your dreams and desires coming true.

Sigh. You poor boy. I don’t know how to break this to you — well, okay, I do, but you’re going to have to really brace yourself — but … she’s just not that into you. Don’t take it personally; she’s just not that into anyone. She can’t be. The only one Mistress Akasha loves is herself. Period. And if it stands in the way of her being able to satisfy the one who means most, then she will do it. Unfortunately, that person is often you.

Now, you’re probably wondering who the fuck am I to be targeting a ‘legendary’ woman who has contributed to BDSM and femdom erotica for over a decade. What could I possibly know, and why would I have such a decidedly nasty approach? Well, the truth is, I don’t know her. We’ve never once met, and have only passed each other on various boards and forums. But once upon a time, my boyfriend was one of those madly in love and carelessly discarded after a year or so after an intense relationship he hoped would last his lifetime. We’re not talking about faceless subs in a chatroom or enrolled in her online training programme. We’re talking flesh and blood, visage a visage, real deal. So, forgive my overly catty tone. I’m sure you can understand. (Although why she let him go is something I never will; nor will I ever do. Of course, in that regard, I can always be grateful to her.) (more…)

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‘ … CALL ME!’

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In the immortal words of Deborah Harry — CALL ME!

NiteFlirt, through which I take calls (and clients) is suffering some major downtime due to some snags in switching over the server to a newer technology platform (don’t get me started) but … never fear!

/begin victory

I HAVE FOUND A WAY!

/end victory

If you want to call me, (and you KNOW you do) then …

GO HERE NOW.

All of my listings are there, just take your pick. I’m also REALLY PISSED right now, so if you want to be berated and bitched out, well, you just may get your wish, you lucky, lucky boy.

Stupid NiteFlirt.

I’m done for now. I think …

CALL ME, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

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An Open Letter to the Economy

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Dear Economy,

What the fizzuck, yo? I’m going more broke than a joke. (And jokes, in case you were unaware, are seemingly penniless. … Don’t mention it. Here to help.) Apparently, you’re worse than De Sade. And that, my friend, is hardcore. Unfortunately for you, I’m not a submissive, so we’re having a difference of opinion over this whole you-torture-me-senseless thing. I’m sure a bunch of people are loving it — but I’m not.

I’m a Libertarian, which you may not know. The less market manipulation the better, because I know you’ll sort yourself out eventually, no matter what we do. But, damn! The waiting! You’ve already taken two of my most amazing clientele away from me until sunnier skies — on the same bloody day — and now I get to deal with further inflation, and an exhorbitant bill.

Sigh.

No wonder a lot of pro-dommes are leaving the biz. It’s just too difficult to make ends meet.

In your debt, (you asshole)

– MR

EDIT:

No, no, no, no, no. I couldn’t do THAT. I mean, I’m a hard-working woman. I EARN my living. I don’t sit around eating bon-bons and expect someone else to pave my way. And hey, when your health sucks and you can’t do much, (like mine has for the last 5 months) then you’re pretty screwed. I couldn’t possibly start asking for hand-outs from the financial dom guys …

No way …

Even if all they’d really, really have to do is, say, send a little here and there through my Donate button. And, depending upon who donated the mostwell, maybe they’d get a photo, or … a free 15-minute phone call, or … something to show my gratitude …

Maybe

P.S. You may have something there …

Hopeful,

-MR

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The Price of Beauty: Exploring Financial Domination Dynamics

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“Hey you, what do you see? Something beautiful, something free? Hey, you, are you trying to be mean?” – Marilyn Manson; ‘The Beautiful People’

NiteFlirt is an education. But I don’t have time to relay everything, so here are the Cliff notes.

All of these women with lens-flare tits and sparkle-cunts designed to entice men to engage them in phone sex — usually for large amounts of money, though, not always in the category of Financial Domination. Of course, I receive these calls myself at times, being a psychosexual counselor and dominatrix. It never ceases to fascinate me how much time, effort, and cold, hard-earned cash, these guys are willing to blow on these spoiled brats.

Now, being a writer of transgressional fiction, I’m always challenging normatives and established idealogies. I also avoid the good guys versus bad guys cliche; my protagonists tend to be anti-heroes (and heroines) and reformed villains. My actual villains are never so black and white. All characters are shades of grey. But something stood out to me very quickly throughout my earliest investigations into characterisation:

Sexual attraction has no moral compass. None. Zero, zilcho.

This is largely why it’s tough to distinguish the stereotypical idea of a dominatrix from a fictitious villainness. They’re all voluptuous, drop-dead gorgeous, powerful, cruel, and hell-bent on destroying the hero. And, okay, I’m far from a psychoanalyst, (read: neo-Freudian) but if the hero’s hot, and the villainness is hot, those two are definitely going to want to be getting it on. Why? Because that’s just the nature of things. It’s very basic social and interpersonal psychological theory: those who are of acceptable (though, that’s variable) age, desired sex and gender, differing bloodlines, and of relative physical attractiveness (especially if the levels of physical desireability are closely in line; just as you tend to see long-term coupling between those who are about as ‘attractive’ as the other) are highly likely to experience sexual attraction to one another. (more…)

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Defining ‘Domme’

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Like anything, BDSM has its own terminology, and as such, there are many terms for what it is I am: female dominant, domme, and domina seem to top the list. And, while we aren’t the majority, I have met some wonderful fellow dommes, dominas, and fem-dommes. I’ve also seen plenty similarly identifying for which I find the moniker indeed questionable. So, in a concise manner, I’m going to share my thoughts on this marketing phenomenon; perhaps, even concluding with my assumptions for it being the way it is.

While phone sex lines are perennial, phone domination, or ‘phone dommes’ are very much en vogue at current. Does this mean that there’s increased ease of finding a genuine female dominant or professional dominatrix at the end of the line? I remain sceptical. While there’s a good number of us pro-dommes hanging out on such third party services in our off-hours, (I have an account with NiteFlirt), the bulk of the listings are barely legal bottle-blonde with IQs to match their body weight. Hordes of ‘bratty princesses’ with stereotypical head cheerleader dispositions wear slutty clothes in demeaning poses, with market-ready femdom phrases, but deplorable grammar and not a spell-checker in sight. (It’s ‘dominant’, honey, not ‘dominate’. But don’t worry — you aren’t.) It almost seems a joke with how much these photographs have nothing to do with the femdom-centric phrasing.

And a word on age. I’m a young domme, and I’ve got a decade on these girls. (more…)

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Chaste Not, Want Not

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Like many others, I hate assholes. I’m an enforcer, or ‘punisher’ personality, as they say, so I’ve come to terms with my own driving inclination, and at times, need, to take vigilante action against those I’ve perceived ‘doing wrong’ according to my own subjective morality. (That’s a crucial element, incidentally.) Of course, this was more of an issue in my adolescence. Eventually, I grew up; in doing so, I learned that there’s a time and place for everything, and as much as I’d love to don skin-tight latex and set about punishing all of those men in the world that deserve it ( … hey, wait a minute … ) I have to accept that this is neither sane nor very feasible. (Though, what woman doesn’t occasionally fantasise about being a dominatrix superhero? I mean, I know I’m not alone in this.) All jesting aside, there are those less evolved and immature enforcer types who’ve not yet gotten the memo. Recently, I had the (mis)fortune of briefly working with of them.

Now, I may be opportunistic when it comes to flexing my own punisher-muscle, but I’m hardly petty. So, names will be ommitted to protect the guilty. (The very, very guilty.)

Our story begins on a typical day — of course, for a pro-domme, that could be anything. He contacted me in the usual way, and I gave the benefit of the doubt, despite such fantastical nature of his claims. Plus, it’s always a bonus when they can spell correctly and utilise proper grammar. (Of course, so could Ted Bundy. Moving on.) Well, I was intrigued, although I can’t say I really wanted to work with him. Something felt … off. So much so that I contacted a friend of mine, the lovely Guinevere the Severe out of NYC, who heard my concerns and gave wonderful advice which supported my own suspicions: it really didn’t matter what everything else seemed; if I felt even the slightest bit off, it was hardly worth the money from the business transaction.

So, I kept that in mind and proceeded with caution. (more…)

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Did I miss the memo?

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It must be ‘Loser Day’ on Skype. Have I mentioned how much I really, really cannot stand getting unscheduled, unsolicited calls from BMFs on Skype? Not only that, but they’re rude, and hell-bent on wasting my time. How do I know? They’re always lying about payment (‘oh, I just sent it’ — that’s a famous one) and having read my website (‘oh, I’m on it now.’) Whatever, fuckwad. Then they seem so put off when I explain I’m a professional and don’t take random calls off Skype from total strangers. Right. I’m the loser here? Doubt it. Unless you count wasted time; then, indeed, I am losing.

Fuck!

Can’t people read? Ever? Are the rules that tough to follow? Do I need to hold a fucking ‘BMF Conduct Class’? Probably not. I’m not yet to the ‘pro bono‘ level yet, and there’s no doubt those assholes couldn’t pay a single cent.

Meanwhile, I’d say that ‘being sick sucks’, although that’s the sort of thing that Captain Obvious (who will not be named) used to say back when we had conversations over IM. Which we don’t anymore. Since I called him out on his propensity for statements that had me replying: ‘Really? No shit, Sherlock.’ I can’t say I’m all that surprised I never see him online anymore. Oh, the mystery.

Still. Being sick does suck. I’ll be back up and running soon. At present, however, I’m really wondering who opened the fucking BMF flood-gates. And whether or not they’d be a dear and kindly close the fucking things. Enough’s enough already. If I have ‘BMF Fridays’, don’t worry, boys, you’ll be notified. Until then —

FUCK OFF!

Have I made myself clear? I think I’ve made myself clear.

Jesus. Assholes. Fuck!

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