This one comes from my YouTube channel where I’ll often receive questions on a variety of subjects relating to femdom. Sadly, I can’t often get to them in any sort of reasonable time-frame, so I’ve taken to answering them here and sending a link to the individual making the enquiry. So. Onward.

This comes from Germanic, Lovecraftian, ‘satanic murder artist’ ( — I don’t make this shit up) Stein und Stahl Productions:

‘ Hi there. I saw some of your videos and I just wanted to ask you, do any women actually enjoy dominating men, or is this all just for entertainment? Based on all of my experiences, and what I’ve read, it seems like most females are naturally submissive. That’s not to say that there are no exceptions, but it’s hard to believe women would like using your type of therapy or want to stay with their man after dominating him.

Please don’t take this as flamebait, as I’m honestly curious about this and am willing to admit that I’m still learning about the female psyche. I guess what I’m most curious about is, how many women actually get aroused, or in anyway enjoy, dominating a man? Please write back, thanks. ‘

Good question, actually. (I appreciated the clarification that he wasn’t looking to start a flame war, too. It’s hard to tell sometimes.)

The truth of the matter is, while there are indeed stereotypes – and they do exist for a reason – there are of course exceptions. In general, it’s true that I, too, have found most women to be sexually submissively oriented. That’s not to say I don’t have some genuine domina sisters out there – but they are rare.

It’s been both my experience and observation that sexuality is fluid in both men and women – especially orientation. Women typically aren’t into the honking mass of muscle and machismo that’s represented in bodice-rippers, and men respect women who will gladly show them how the cow ate the cabbage. But, bear in mind, there are many factors involved as to how – or why – someone will be oriented a particular way: childhood background and parental / familial modelling, personal experiences past pubescence (early dating and courtship rituals – first and second-hand) role models outside of the family, culture, heritage, and level of guilt.

Yes. Level of guilt. For example, my husband and I were determining that a surefire sign of kink in someone’s makeup is if they come from a culture that killed a fuck-tonne of people. Yes, I’m completely serious. (Japanese? Kinky as all get out. Germans? Yeah. No more need be said!) So, cultural guilt does seem to factor surprisingly heavily into whether or not someone’s going to be something of a freak. Of course, not always. Beware of making your strokes too broad.

So while it seems sociologically sound to state that women – in general – tend to lean to the submissive, that’s not always the case. You’d be surprised how many men secretly long for a relationship with a dominant women. And, yes – culture counts. You’re much more likely to get your wish if you’re from an African-American or Hispanic background – where machismo and bravado are just for show. The leading ladies of these gentlemen are required to be strong maternal figures who can hold their own. If not … problems occur: domestic violence, for instance, as resentment becomes an issue – quickly.

But, I digress.

The question was: do any women genuinely enjoy dominating men – and the answer to that is a resounding ‘yes!’

Those of us that are truly dominant in nature – small in number as we may be – very much enjoy the opportunity to top and rule our men – and sometimes feel angry and trapped without it. Really. I may not spend every moment of every day (who does?) dreaming of devious things to do to my husband; but if I didn’t have that option, I’d be deeply depressed – and repressed. I know this, as I’ve been there in previous relationships.

Bottom line: know your kink and don’t repress it. It always re-emerges at a later date, and with serious consequences if you’ve not allowed yourself any room to explore it with your chosen partner in your current lifestyle.

In summation – yep, there are us dominant women and sexual sadists out there. We’re just not the majority, and it takes being a particular type of man to gain our attention. Sadly for those lost subby boys out there – that’s the last way to our hearts. Just like submissive women, we want a strong man who can hold his own and won’t be a pussy. We like a challenge, deep down. A man to call us out on our bullshit. Why? Because it’s even more special and legitimate when he’s willing to lay down his masculinity and be our ‘bitch’. Yeah, it may seem somewhat fucked up – but that’s a rather rare kind of love which I’ve found to be especially binding.

I wish you the best of luck in whatever journey you’re currently on.

And, as always, if you’ve a particular question that you’re burning to ask, there are multiple ways to contact me, as well as to enquire into working with me.

I have no idea why I’m suddenly getting ambushed by Mort Fertel — otherwise known as ‘the marriage fitness expert’. There must be a cookie that’s lodged itself in my browser somewhere …. Anyhow, the fact is, I am. EVERYWHERE. And in these adverts on every other page, (or the mailing list I, yes, signed up for — which is probably why, and I’m seriously going to get on them if that’s the case) he gives advice regarding how to save your marriage, or the keys to success, or what makes a good one, etc.

Guy seemed interesting, so I checked him out. Turns out some of his advice is pretty strong, while most of it’s common sense.

But he did say one thing in particular which struck me.

Say you’ve decided that your marriage is a no-go. (I’d have to question why you ever married to begin with, but that’s me.) From that day, count another 364 before you decide to involve the law and begin proceedings. Yep. One year. Take that year, he says, to work on fixing your marriage — putting in the last-last ditch effort. Even if it still isn’t there by Day 365, a rather curious anniversary, it’s an investment you’ll have made in your next relationship, or future marriage.

Really, the marketing is sound. Suck in someone desperate to fix their failing marriage by convincing them that this is the tried-and-true method and it’ll only cost you X $. (That part’s also rather sleazy, but I digress.) You’ve created a demand – a need – for this service. And you’ve given an urgent enough reason as to why you can’t throw in the towel now; you must wait a year – and enter the programme.

And I’ve read and heard it’s a pretty good programme, so who knows? Seems mostly common sense, again, and I’m not sure how ol’ Morty would take our crowd.

But the truth is most of us crave Mr or Ms Kinkster but need Mr or Ms Socially Acceptable Spouse Material. Rarely are the two natures found in the same person. Rarely, I said; not inconceivably.

I can’t tell you how many calls I get or clients I’ve had who’ve been in dead-end marriages with a spouse whose sexuality differs so greatly from theirs that – forget Mars or Venus; they’re from Neptune. And I’ve wondered: how the hell do these people do this? How does loneliness drive them to become so securely bonded with a mate that doesn’t even share their core values of sexual expression?

I’ve heard straight from the horses’ mouths that they flat gave up. Rather than become so disgruntled (and insane) like, say, the cult of True Forced Loneliness, (Google these guys; seriously; talk about people from another planet. The ‘leader’ of this ‘movement’ recently found the Brandi Belle and Mike video from the ‘femdom counseling’ porn series — still astounds Mr P and myself how many people think that’s real counseling, incidentally) anyhow, they find partners that are socially acceptable and they’d be proud to bring home to Mom.

It’s not surprising then that, some time later, the need’s not gone, and they now have a partner who has no idea of their ‘former’ sex life. Sad. These men tell me they’re in a marriage; I tell them they’re in a denial. You can’t keep your spouse in the dark about your sexual desires and be married to them. That’s not marriage. I’m not sure exactly what it is — but it ain’t marriage.

And, of course, marriage ebbs and flows like anything. We go through periods of intense sexual bonding and cycles of separation. That’s natural. Nobody’s fault, and no one’s to blame. Nobody feels 100% attached at the hip all of the time. We’re individuals in a relationship; otherwise, we’re relating in a dysfunctional manner, seeking to fill a void in either one or both. That can work in one or two areas of the relationship – but not at its core. If you need whacking, and they to whack — then you’re filling a need. But if they just need SOMEONE — ANYONE! — and you’re there — and you’re both okay with this — that’s when you’ve got a problem, and you tend to end up on mine — or someone’s — couch.

And the moment you think it’s over, and you’re ready to get out — take a year. That’s good advice. Too many damned people getting divorced because they don’t take marriage seriously. And I know some of you are going to be pointing fingers and saying, ‘Oh, look who’s talking; the woman who’s de facto poly!’ And to you, I must say: fuck off. I take my marriage very seriously, otherwise, I wouldn’t be married. I wasn’t one of those gals in school to get her MRS. I was dedicated to my career (and still am) who accepted that getting married and having (some type of) a family might be part of the picture. I’m very glad that it is.

So, do yourselves a favour. Throw down the gauntlet (as in, take the gloves off and just put those bitches away; don’t offer a challenge, as in the traditional meaning) and take a deep breath. You married each other for a reason — right? If it was the wrong one — well, you’ll know by year’s-end.

In the meanwhile, do what you can to learn from the potential mistake you’re in so that you both end up happier the next time around. Who knows? Maybe even with each other.

Be well, my freaky fiends.

Your most mental mistress, Roulette.

(Yeah, you try rhyming something with ‘marriage’ that isn’t ‘carriage’ or ‘disparage’ that sounds halfway decent; wearage? Dare-age? You see my point. You’re stuck with something that sounds like the backwater cousin of the language abominations which brought us ‘suckage’ and other-such greats.)

I digress. But I do that.

Greetings and salutations, my … erm, kinky monsters? Evidently, that’s the latest from the japevine. I think it’s cute, and while I don’t believe that men will steal my creativity via my vag, ( … seriously, that Gaga’s got quite an interesting take on life) I appreciate the compliment, and it’s somewhat valid. I do have a degree in forensic-psych and a background in crim, am still – for all intense per poses – still a profiler. (Lotsa monsters in this noggin. And, no, the bloody lambs haven’t stopped screaming yet. But I’m workin’ on it. I’ll get there.) So, the monsters thing is rather apt in my case. And you are kinky li’l basterds, ain’t ‘cha? Well, as you know, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Of course, to be part of -my- monsters’ ball, you’ve got to distinguish yourself. So, we’ll work on that.

Lessee … where on earth to begin? Well, Dodgson was a fan of the beginning, so, in Carrollian homage, let’s follow suit.

(And the white rabbit. As, ladies and gentry, we are about to take yet another trip down the rabbit-hole — further than you’ve been before. It’s like spelunking. Except you don’t die. Hopefully.)

So, the topic today is marriage and nonmonogamy. Quite the topic, that. Riddled with complications and raised-eyebrows and whispered hushes of, ‘They’re -what-?’ from the peanut gallery. (Of course, never forget it’s the peanut gallery that’s most suited to feed the ‘invisible’ pachyderm procession collecting in the middle of your living room. After all, they’ve got the goods. You don’t. Ergo? Beware the peanut gallery.)

-headdesk-

Yeah. I don’t even need to say it, do I?

I’ve been getting to spend a lot more, much-needed, long-overdue time with my co-star — be it legitimately, or in our own unusual psychodrama, in which we all play a role. He does this to me. Like ECT — minus the succinylcholine. And, well, the electroshock. (Though, it can be rather paralysing, when he does this thing … with that damnably unique voice of his …. Goddamned ex psy — o-o-o-okay then! Public blog, Rou, public blog. Look likely now! … Yeesh. Brain’s extra fritzy today.)

So … yes! It is still quite the jolt to the mind and senses. A much-needed reconnecting of certain synapses that’ve begun to atrophy due to lack of usage. The only sort of thing one can get via someone who’s ever-so-slightly mad — in the most delicious sort of way.

My husband keeps me sane. My co-star keeps me from being too much so. Somewhere, in the middle, it works to produce just the right balance of madness and stability. And therein lies my genius.

… Hey, my freaky fiends. Anyone see my point? It was here before my mind wandered onto the next tangent. No? Damn. Hate it when that happens. Be on the look-out for the obligatory ‘living with fibro’ post. It’ll be upcoming — unless I forget about it.

Bud-um-ching!

… No, seriously. I could. (But probably not.) Though, I might. It’s happened before. (Not that badly.) … There’s always the chance for –

‘Kay, I’ll stop now. You get the joke. And if you don’t, you are deprived! You must get thee to the works of Izzard; now, I say. Now!

Now, then. Nonmonogamy. Does it work? Specifically, could it work for you?

Raise of hands for the marrieds in the house. Guy in the … back. Wait. That’s your wife? … Shit, man. I’m sorry. I guess I see why you’re here.

Ohhh!

Somebody stop me!

(… Mental note. Second cup of coffee’s enough. Third unnecessary. Right, then.)

Seriously, though. A lot of us have rings on the third-finger-from the-index-on-our-left-hands. Y’know. ‘The Ring One’. ( … or the One Ring? … I must ponder this. … Later. Before I look even more like an ADHD-coke fiend with a nicotine buzz. Second ‘fiend’ in the blog? … What’re the chances of -that- echo? This is a most fiendish blog, indeed.)

The ring, as we know, symbolised that you’ve become someone’s property. (And when I say ‘you’, I mean the one with the vagina. Yeah, you. You’re now his. He gets to treat you like he does his whores. Or his cattle. Or his Rolodex. Because you’re just an object from which he derives pleasure, gets his shirts ironed, and bitches about how much you suck in the sack while fantasising about sugar-tits down the street who ‘would so blow him’ if ‘you’d just let him’ …. Shit-God-damn, your husband’s an asshole. But I digress.)

But you get the gist. Since time immemorial (and in memorium, depending upon which way you swing on the space-time continuum; hyperdimensionalists in da house!) — we’ve been the lesser, though, fairer sex. That ring on our finger meant that our pleasure came from one place — and one place alone — and at his discretion, while he could fuck the meter- or milkmaid whenever he got the yen for it. And, m’dear, that ring was also a clear sign to everyone else that you were off-limits, and he was entitled to this bullshit.

Ohh, how times have changed — and are a-changin’ still.

Hang on. … A tightness in my chest? A shortness of my breath? … What’s this — what’s this? Is your faithful pathfinder along the road of all things mad actually suffering the first stirrings of … panic? It’s true, the path is not an easy one, for those who choose to take it. This is a river that cannot be forged alone, nor can the map be constructed solo.

It takes serious teamwork. But if that’s the sort of duo you are, then you’re a dynamic one, indeed, and I applaud you.

So, another show of hands. Who here is married and nonmonogamous?

… Yeah. Smaller crowd, isn’t it? That’s how it goes, sadly. We’re a sliver of the population who doesn’t get much respect, understanding, or even acceptance from society at large. We’re freaks. Sluts and whores. Home-wreckers and adulterers. We’re vile. We’re wrong. We’re … evil.

‘Do you think I’m evil?’

I guess it’s the likely path for a transgressive writer such as myself, married to a professional poker player and pornographer. The truth is, we’re livin’ the dream — and together, and doing what we want to be doing, without hurting anyone in the process, and loving each other completely throughout it.

Shit, if that makes me evil, then where’s my robotic arm and cat?

(Do-do-do-do-do, inspector — keep restin’ peacefully, Don Adams. The one, the only Maxwell J Smart. …. 99 was such a sexbomb before they got hitched, too. Then she was all super-whiny and hormonal, and — ohhh, the ’60s. Would’ve been nice to’ve been alive then — but I’m cool with having missed it, too.)

Anyway. In other news — ever throw someone under the bus? Don’t do that. It’s not nice. It’s today’s ‘secret phrase’, I guess. So far, it’s been used … thrice. By me. So, I’m not sure if that counts. Brains like certain words and phrases and tend to overuse them at times. Today, it’s bus-throwing — erm, under-throwing. Throwing under the bus. I’ve been thrown — twice. By men I worked for. … Let me tell ya about that sometime. It’s quite the story. One of them I married. And found out only years later that he actually hadn’t. The other one … well … let’s say he’s not gonna be on my friends-list anytime soon.)

It’s amazing, the power of sex. It makes us do crazy an inane things. But — what if — there’s something else going down? Being a rather recently renewed firm believer in karma, soul-centred shit and all that jazz (yeah, yeah, I’m back to my roots; perhaps, it’s because of my mother’s favouring the ganja before I came along — but I don’t think so; this had been going down before she went green with a metaphysical mindset) — I get it. Sometimes, dare I quote the Nolfi re-imagining of Dick’s ‘Adjustment Team’ (called ‘The Adjustment Bureau’ — overall, good film) there are ‘remnants from a previous plan’. … Y-e-e-eah ….

Oh, and incidentally, if your hubs or beau starts saying that he’s got a ‘lot of karma’ with this one chick he’s bouncing to bang — see it for what it is (‘boobs’), set him straight, and call it a day. But … in that off-chance that there is a rare configuration of the planets coming into effect …. we-e-ell, that’s a bit more complicated, mes amies.

Distress, disagreement, and disconnect fundamentally do not a happy marriage make. Period. And, yes — sex is the barometre of a relationship. If you’re having it — then life is going to be brighter-and-lighter feeling, and your sero-surging brains are going to be digging the intermittent oxy-rush ( -tocin, that is) that comes from looking long into your lover’s eyes, and breathing in the totality of their being.

First and foremost, you need to having a strong sexual relationship with your spouse. You married them for the reasons that country songs, easy listening stations, romantic comedies, and Nicholas fucking Sparks ( — love him, hate him — that’s just how it is) exist. They rock your world — and it would be vacant, empty, and you lost wandering aimlessly within it — without them.

And if that’s not the case — take a look at that shiny band o’ gold you’re sporting. Contemplate very seriously as to why you’ve got it at all. Because you’re not married. You’re just hitched; legally-bound to another for some purpose other than love. Or … maybe you had love. (And it was a gas.) But something happened on the way to heaven, and — well, fuck.

What the hell do you do now?

For better / for worse is looking a lot like ‘whatever for?’ and you have no idea how you got into this contractual obligation with that person who was supposed to swallow your load — while also somehow managing to kiss your kids with that mouth. ( … Like, really? How did we get to be this fucked-up of a society? … Anyway. Begone, Miss Manners! Your services are not welcome here! But only in the voice of Patrick Stewart. It’s just funnier when Picard says it. And — somehow! Much! More! SERIOUS!)

Alas, this is usually when the trip down the aisle ends with a stop in divorce court — on the way to The Next Big Thing. And that’s what always got me — and why I told myself, ‘Self, if you ever get married, it’s going to be for keeps, and come whatever else — you and that man are going to turn old and grey together, regaling each other from the comfort of your rocking chairs about ‘your good ol’ days’. In my case, it looks like part of those tales are going to be, ‘Remember when I used to fuck you with that huge strap-on? Ahh, those’re the days.’ Of course, ideally, I’ll be referring to last Thursday. But my point remains valid.

When we do have sex, it’s a gift from the fucking sex gods. Honestly. And, no, I’m not all that wild about the idea of sharing my perverse Olympian with other members of the sisterhood. It’s gotta be about more than sex to me right now, and I seem to be the person he was meant to do this crazy dance with — even though, it turns out that he needs to share the stage with another actor in my case. So long as we don’t crush each other’s toes, the composer doesn’t go flat — the band can keep playing on, and we can put on a hell of a show. Even if, first and foremost, it’s for each other.

We’re on a hell of a coaster, strapped in, clinging to each other and screaming, ‘OH, MY GOD, HOLY SHIT — ARE WE ALL GOING TO D-I-I-I-I-IE!’ and yet, laughing all the way. It just so happens that it’s a third-seater, and I have even more protection from the edge of this madness, another hand to hold, another voice with which to scream in unison, and — oddly enough — further protection from somehow slipping and falling to my death.

Even stranger than that, once we do get off, ( … okay, okay, yeah, yeah, get your giggles out now; jeeez — buncha grade-school kids …. ) there’s this wonderful exhilaration of, ‘Damn, that was awesome!’ and the desire to throw my arms around them both and thank them for not only giving me the ride of my life, but doing so safely, to where we don’t get hurt. Now it’s to the point where they can give each other brotherly slaps on the back in those ‘man hugs’ ( — must be said in that ‘manly tone’, y’know; ‘MAN HUG. Hua!’ and we can comfortably walk arm-in-arm without anyone feeling neglected or growing resentful. Even if there’s a subtle refrain of: ‘I love you … you love me … how’d we get to be po-ly … ?’ in the back of my brain. Because, honestly, for such straight-and-narrows like ourselves, (minus my husband, the-pre-established-freak) — it’s rather mind-blowing.

So. What’s love got to do with it? Everything.

Some women, like myself it turns out, as the evolution of interpersonal psychology is teaching us, are rather dual. (Men, too — you’d better believe it.) For whatever reason, we’re wired to need this and that — simply because it’s so damned hard – impossible, one might say – to find this and that in the same person. This is especially evident – and likely – if you’re also nonmono and there’s quite the discrepancy between your partners. Each satisfies a major facet — and I’ve got two that’re central.

When I’m balanced – I’m dynamic, productive, euphoric, and capable.

When I’m not –

Yeah, that was old-time B-monster movie castle-thunder crackling. It’s not just your imagination.

Shit. Gets. Bad.

As my initial theories will support, I believe the healthiest way to go through life is balanced — and in our collar of the forest, that’s being something of a switch. We’ve all got the anima and animus. Some of us have just forgotten one and come to favour, feeling more at home with the needs and methodology of the other. I’m a domme because, yes, I’m dominant. Why? Was I made this way? Not entirely. I feel I’m always going to be dominant. It’s next-to-impossible to get me to submit to you. The more likely response is a raised eyebrow and a scoff. The more extreme of that is breaking something. Of yours. Besides your ego. (Or your mind. Depends on how I’m feeling that day).

It’s quite the luscious mix of words and tricks — to downright gank from the Shins. (Great group. Wonderful lyrics.) I’m not exactly sure what set that off in me, but it does it once in a blue moon. Actually, less than that. Pick a geological event that occurs every thousand years — and you’re closer to the truth. Just like the fact that I knew rather inexplicably that Mister P was the man not-yet-my-husband. I raged and railed against it. I thought, back when I had a dream a month into our relationship where we were writing a wedding guest list, ‘What the fuck, subconscious?’ But there was something about him, his life, who we are, what we’re about, that was cluing me into a deeper truth.

This is the man I need to marry. The man I love above all others. The one who completes me.

… Imagine my shock and confusion when I realised that, in order to truly be the woman deserving of him, that I needed to build a relationship with an entirely different man who would quirkily fit into our life in the most unusual, yet crucial way, bolstering us both — and allowing me to feel truly complete.

These things are a work-in-progress. They’re fluid, and they change. Love is the constant, communication is the key, and happiness unlike you’ve ever really known — can be the reward. You just have to play your cards right, know when you’re in check, and never fold unless you’re in zugzwang.

Got it?

Excellent. You might have a chance in hell at understanding what all of this is about. And, if that’s so, I invite you to tread carefully, with your eyes wide open, ready for anything. Because it very well could be the ride of your life — and the one thing that saves you and yours from becoming another statistic.

How decidedly contrary, you say? That’s how it works. Just as Carroll said –

– we’re all mad.

Welcome to the party. Pull up a chair and don’t mind that someone’s been there before you. Jealousy is the manufactured emotion, stemming from some ev-psy programming, and largely rooted in insecurity. If you know your place is at the table, then maintain eye-contact with the one that brought you. If it just so happens that you both leave with someone else who arrived separately — it could be so much the better. Who knows? Only you.

I wish you the best of luck in your own adventures beyond the looking-glass. Just remember — it can be sharp. So don’t break it. The shards are a motherfucker with which you do not want to deal. So, hang on, and don’t get splinched (Props to my girl JK).

Who knows what magnificent undiscovered worlds await you?

Tesser well, my fiends.

Available In: MPEG HD, Quicktime HD, AVI, iPod, Quicktime, WMV, Video on Demand

Lily starts by forcing her against the table and kicking her legs apart as she frisks her. She then takes her dress of and starts to handcuffs her before she takes our her crop to abuse her feet and tits.

Before too long, it’s time to fuck. Lily starts by playing with Ela’s pretty pink pussy to bring her to orgasm. She then takes out a double sided dildo so they can both get themselves off. She scene finishes with Ela going down on Lily.

Available In: MPG HD, WMV, DivX, iPod, Quicktime , Video on Demand

Diary of a Dominatrix #46: Jerry’s Restraining Order

Diary of a Dominatrix#45: The THC Event

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Diary of a Dominatrix #44: Rekindling a Polyamorous Marriage

She teaches Cheyenne that she needs to be in complete control of the relationship and teach her man his place- under her ass and feet. Mistress Roulette shows Cheyenne that a humble man is a happy man, and what better why to keep him humble than forcing him to get you off after licking your feet? First he is forced to try to go through Couple’s Therapy while Cheyenne is sticking her stinky feet in his face. Then Cheyenne straps a dildo to his face and forces him to watch helplessly as she rides it to orgasm, all the while discussing her relationship with Roulette.

Available In: AVI/DivX,, iPod/iPhone, MPEG, MPEG HD, Quicktime, Windows Media , Video on Demand,

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