Hand colored image of a vintage kitten with a whip, with lots of pink — including porcelain roses. Dominatrix Earrings by PersephonesBijoux.
Trailer Trash Angel proves she’s so not your Angel with it comes to phone sex, relishing in creating very twisted fantasies. This is especially clear with the Halloween Challenge she posted this year, in which she instructs callers purchase two of these Dobby the House Elf masks which submissive male callers will wear while performing on cam for her. Why two masks, you ask? Angel says, “One for your ugly face & another to hide that sad little sock puppet cock of yours.”
That sort of twisted Harry Potter cosplay seems humiliating enough ~ but Angel takes it even further:
you may just impress Me if you find an even smaller one to put on that wee willie! I mean, there are options, like taking the head off a Dobby figure and placing it over that button-cock of yours. Look, this one even has a sock! And a diary, symbolic of your loser confessions.
Hey, it’s also poseable! So get two of those; I have other bad ideas…
If you think that Malfoy was cruel and sadistic to poor little Dobby, well, you just haven’t met Me yet. I assure you, I’m far worse. I can make a loser pig cry on cam in less than 10 minutes. …And yet, they beg for more!
Via the number one phone sex Tumblr site, I found this post and then the fabulous shop called Female Supremacy, which features some fab femdom fashions ~ as well as a number of items for their submissive partners. These are a few of my favorites…
Bonus: If you’re not familiar with Zazzle, you should know that there are numerous style and color options ~ for both men & women ~ and you can customize the shirts, complete with pet & power names!
I’m a writer who examines sexuality and other topics as well. In general I consider the term “sex worker” to be reductive whether it’s applied to a person who sells the services of his or her body, or dances in a strip club, or gives a handjob in a massage parlor. Is a New Burlesque dancer a sex worker because she strips down to pasties and shakes her bottom? She’s not a sex worker to me. She’s a stage performer. Likewise, I’m a writer whose main subject is sexuality, and not a sex worker.
In the cases of actual sex for money, from my own experience and from what I understand from my reading, it’s not just about sex in most cases anyway. It’s about companionship, loneliness, connection, the fulfillment of embarrassing desires, among other things. Why don’t we call them “loneliness workers”?
When I went to a brothel, it was often out of loneliness as much as horniness. After my father died in 1977, I visited one girl in an apartment brothel for six months and it took the edge off my mourning and gloom, as well as gave me an opportunity to explore my femdom and foot fetish fantasies. So to me the term “sex worker” sounds like something out of the dystopian movie Metropolis, like something that would be stamped on an impersonal identification card.
When it comes to fiction writing, I would definitely say that one of the functions of erotica, like that of a person selling actual sex, is to cut the edge of loneliness by giving the reader a vicarious experience to his or her preferred erotic taste.
I understand the tactical, political uses of “sex worker” as a term, but personally I prefer the phrase “erotic consultant” to “sex worker.” That comes from what a friend of mine used to ask me, inquiring whether I went to see a dominatrix lately. He would say, “Did you go see your consultant?” The word always brings a smile to my face. It is warm and not reductive; subtly evocative, and in its oblique way more inclusive of what a sexual service provider might actually do not just physically, but emotionally.
Naturally, Gracie, being a writer, I like to haggle over words! But I think my points are valid.
Yes, there are some valid points in there ~ but you’ve also just validated why I would consider you, and other erotica authors, to be sex workers!
You said, “I’m a writer whose main subject is sexuality,” and then went on to point out that sex workers, escorts, are consultants whose subject is sexuality. There are degrees of intimacy, obviously; both physically & emotionally. But, whether the reader or client is aware of it when picking up the book or going the appointment, the “entertainment” is designed to work with both the physical and the emotional. …So, do you care to change your opinion now? *wink*
I don’t know, this is a lot of semantics. I see your point but the mantle of sex worker doesn’t rest comfortably on my shoulders. I feel solidarity generally with people who work in different aspects of the sex trade, because I feel we share a commonality of working in professions that deal in sexuality, with all the varieties of awe and contempt that we get from “civilians,” but to call myself a sex worker feels too reductive and not really fair.
Firstly, a sex worker to me is the individual who actually deals with the physical customer. I know I’m lumping all sex workers together as I talk, but I want it clear that I am aware of the distinctions between those providers who have actual sex and those, like dominatrixes, who do roleplaying or spanking but don’t have actual genital contact in their hands, mouths, or vaginas.
And secondly — well, two of my favorite mystery writers are the British author Ruth Rendell and the French novelist George Simenon. Should we call them “mystery workers” because that’s the subject they usually write about? They’re writers, I’m a writer. I’m not putting myself on their level of quality, but we are all wordsmiths.
But let me add this. There are people who work in what I call the “extreme professions.” People whose work cuts right to the nitty gritty of experience. Doctors, nurses, police, firefighters, soldiers, and yes, people in the sex trade. We all deal in elemental things in our daily work that people who toil in routine office jobs or retail or restaurants or don’t. The day-to-day subject matter of the extreme professions is what most people don’t deal with everyday to earn a living. So on this level, you can say I’m closer to being a sex worker than if I wrote mysteries like Rendell or Simenon.
That being said, I’ve just published Fate of a Stripper, a mainstream psychological suspense novel — not porn — on Kindle that is in the tradition of Rendell or Simenon, because I do try to challenge myself to write things other than erotica. Because I am a writer…a storyteller.
It’s rather brave of you to admit using the services of at least one sex professional. There’s such a stigma to all of it. But the world needs to hear more stories from clients. Tell me, was that the only time you’ve paid for such services? Would you seek them again? Would you refer a friend?
No, I’ve done it quite a few times over the years, the first time being when I was in college around age 20 and the last time when I was about 50. Mostly with dominatrixes because I felt it was safer sex in general and also because I like femdom roleplaying. I’ve written about it in fiction and short autobiographical articles for men’s magazines. It’s been more than a decade now since I last did it, but I think about it from time to time. But it’s just so expensive nowadays! The average online price for a date in NYC is $250 now (at least according to an editorial in the N.Y. Daily News on 11/4/14 entitled The Real Girlfriend Experience, by Harry Siegel).
I also found, starting in the 1990s, that I preferred the company of strippers. Strippers I could get to know a little in the clubs and the erotic pleasure of lapdances was enough as I got older. I didn’t consider them my “friends” but more like acquaintances I could hang out with and have fun with in a bar. Part of the problem for me with going to “hookers,” as I used to call them and still really do in my mind, is that in spite of the pleasure I would feel ashamed of paying for sex and not being a stud who got hot babes for free. I felt this way a little with strippers too, paying for their companionship in the clubs, but didn’t feel the shame as sharply.
As far as referring sex workers, hookers, dommes, filles de joie, courtesans, call girls or escorts to a friend, I probably wouldn’t do that except in a general way if somebody was really lonely or horny. I might say I had a good time doing it and it’s an option to consider; but I might also talk about the downside and the shame. And I certainly wouldn’t refer a friend to somebody I was seeing. That would just feel weird. Perhaps it’s ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want a friend to have sex with the same girl I was. Not even a D/s scene. I’m possessive that way. I wouldn’t even want my favorite lap dancer to do it for one of my friends.
To be continued… Meanwhile, check out The Irv O. Neil Erotic Library.
Most of your stories feature dominant females ~ and you’re not shy about expressing those fantasies yourself. The terms “Dominant” and “submissive” are rather subjective… Care to provide the types of femdomme that you are talking about?
My femdom stories — all my sex stories for that matter — are erotic adventure stories. Usually, it’s about a guy who finds himself in a wonderfully sexual situation, and we see what happens, how it plays out, and sometimes even what he learns about himself in the process of living out a situation and getting off. My story The Cuckold and the Cleavage is of this latter type that mixes sex and self-understanding.
I’ve also focused on women protagonists, but not nearly as often. However, my non-porn novel Fate of a Stripper goes back and forth between the stripper and her customer, giving them about equal weight in the point-of-view.
In my femdom stories, the men are erotically submissive, meaning they want to be overpowered emotionally, sexually, and sometimes physically by women, given orders by women: sometimes just to serve them, other times to be humiliated or punished too. They want to be the bottoms in the relationship, and do as the women say. But in many of my stories the men are also ambivalent about it, and struggle to accept this part of their nature, or at least understand it. That reflects my own ambivalence. It is full of potentially dramatic conflict for stories, and endlessly interesting to write and think about.
The kind of dominant female I find attractive in real life is a basically kind-hearted woman who likes to role-play being in control over a man, but can treat him as an equal outside the scenes. But in my stories I explore the spectrum of dominant females.
In Learning to be Cruel Parts 1 and 2, the domme really is cruel and destructive and the man takes it; in Toes Are For Sucking, it is something of a game to the woman and the man, which keeps the encounter in the realm of temporary fun with no strings attached and no real destruction wreaked; in She Made Me a Cuckold on Black Friday, the domme is a self-absorbed brat princess who financially drains and sexually humiliates her helpless slave; in Mommy’s Little Dunce the domme is a self-appointed “esoteric therapist” who plays along in a warm but firmly maternal way with the sub’s desire for punishment; in Dominant Chinese Twins Enslave Whiny Man, the twins are almost surreal cartoons of merciless Asian girls, one a stripper, the other a scientist; in Naked Before Her, the domme is a playful but controlling magazine model, probably closest to the type that I personally like; and in The Dominatrix Who Couldn’t Die, she is a supernatural being who reveals a man’s hidden nature to himself at a terrible cost. My ebook anthology Spell of Dominance has five stories, and two from the female dommes’ points-of-view, one as a beginner to D/s, and the other as an experienced “sugarbaby/dominatrix.”
I’m so glad you mentioned the self-understanding, your own ambivalence, the struggle… Not just in the specific sense of BDSM submission, but in the overall submission to eroticism itself. When I read your book, I was impressed by (and I quote myself) the sense of psychological tension you created. I’ve long been fond of this sort of tasty tease. It’s not merely the notion of the classic Sam & Diane “Will they or won’t they” tension, but tugging at an individual’s struggle, the sense of giving in to lust itself is powerful. You call this “dramatic conflict”, yes? And it’s a staple for a good story, erotic or not. After all these years of writing smut, works that typically end in the same way, how do you continue to find or create such conflict?
Every story potentially presents a different conflict if the characters have enough individuality. Or, if they’re similar types from story to story, they can still say different things and react in different ways. I’m entertained listening to what my characters say. Sometimes they are quite witty or just amusing. I love to write dialogue and see what’s on their minds. Also, there are just so many aspects of human feelings that can be explored through the sexual angle. Sex brings out the spectrum of emotions — and emotions fuel the eroticism to me.
As a writer or even as a person, I’ve never been interested in just naked bodies, but the hearts and minds inside them.
I firmly believe that shows in your writing, Irv. It’s why I’m such a fan.
Congratulations on hacking into my email account. Yes, I have left this note for you and will expect you to read it, do the task I have set as your punishment and then write me a lengthy apology. Do not write the apology first. I want far more than insincere groveling – I can get that from any wanker online.
Your punishment will be to read and answer all of the emails in this account. This is not my personal email account so you won’t find anything from the real people in my life, like my friends and family. All of these emails come from little self serving perverts who expect me to serve them like the women in all the porn they wank off to.
Included in these emails are many requests for online sex. You will perform this for all of those who have asked. Contact them for the details of where and when. Dress yourself up for the wankers who want to see photos. Dress well, don’t try to cheat and hope they won’t want you. Be their slut, and do it well. Do not come yourself but make sure they do.
I will login to this account and check up on your progress. Make sure you get replies for a job well done from each wanker, add photos and the online text from your chats too. Each must be unique, no copy and pasting!
When you have finished this task you may write me an essay about how it feels to read, reply and serve selfish pricks like these. If I believe you actually understand I will reply. If not, you can start all over again until you can prove yourself. Or, you can go back to being one of the needy pricks and never bother me again.
He took a breath through his nose, braced just so, remembering her words.
“You are nothing but what I want you to be, pet. And right now what I want is to focus on the real reason why we’re on this trip.”
The pile of things resting on his back shifted a little as he exhaled and he felt the nudge of her shiny black pump against the denim of his pants, reminding him without breaking off her conversation to hold perfectly still.
He knew every item she’d charged him to keep in place: The old fashioned white plastic phone with the curly cord, the binder, black with sharp little coloured tags peeping up. The heavy metal pen and the cheap plastic pencil. She’d left the laptop on the real desk, taking advantage of the spacious hotel room to set up this tableau in the middle of the floor.
“Yes, I know. Tonight.”
He knew a dozen emails were ticking up on her regular phone, and but some things demanded a real human voice.
Half a world away, he knew a man was sitting in an expensive and ergonomic chair, squirming and sweating at the words traveling down the phone line. It was morning in the place they’d left, mid day here and he knew every word his Ma’am said was nailing her ex-client to the ground.
She seldom used that voice with him, the one that you couldn’t disagree with. She didn’t have to. But even hearing it used on someone else made him suppress a shiver.
The conversation ended, and her black pump began to slide up his muscled thigh, and he knew, without looking, that she had a smile of triumph and the call was over. He began to crawl over to her, holding his back perfectly straight so nothing slipped and fell to the floor. The phone clicked into the receiver and her fingers reached for his hair, stroking.
Presently she stood up and lifted the weights from his back, putting them away. He could watch her legs, wrapped in soap bubble thin nylon that did nothing to hide the pale curving shape and long lines, and the hem of her severe black wool skirt.
“Come here, pet. Kneel.”
He kept his head down, positioned just so, until the firmness of her shoe under his chin pulled his head up to meet her gaze. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a finger tip, and her smile took on a more contented look, edge sheathed for now. His hand wrapped around one slender ankle and around the shaft of her pump, pulling it off so he could plant a kiss on her warm sole.
“Very well done, Ma’am.”
Her legs began to part, from prim to showing him the space between, and he nudged himself forward, kissing up her thigh to where the professional wool skirt hid the top of a stocking and the bite of a secret garter.
When his lips found the centre, nuzzling against the softness and sensing the wet that saturated her panties, he didn’t need to see her face to know she would have closed her eyes. The chair creaked and her hand grabbed, rough for a handful of his hair, grinding aggressively into his face.
Business was her battle ground and victory always meant these games. And for his place in that, he was content.
Created by Miss Pearl (Pearl O’Leslie), a Canadian female dominant and writer, who loves to share the fun she has with femdom through her blog and stories, as well as giving her non-professional perspective on kink. When she’s not banging out sexy prose, she helps organize in her local BDSM community, chases being the centre of attention and adores lovingly terrorizing a consenting man.
You’ve cleaned the kitchen, the laundry is done and put away, you even washed my car. But, it’s only day six of your chastity. You asked for a week. A full week, sure you could handle it, even if it got hard. Of course, it did.
I’m feeling relaxed. Reclined on the couch, playing with the key I’m wearing around my neck. I suggest you put on music. You have a huge collection and I seldom have the patience to sit still and listen to it with you.
You choose something mellow and smooth. It suits my mood. I sink back into the couch and close my eyes. You sit at my feet, a good subbie boy. Maybe just a bit hopeful. So I open my legs, nudging you with my knee.
I love your grip on my thighs, the feeling of your fingers holding my legs and the gentle brush of your lips kissing your way up to my pussy. Hopeful. I let you pull my pants off. Then lean forward so you can take off my shirt and unhook my bra too. You put everything aside neatly.
Your tongue licks my inner thighs and I open my legs wider. I let you pull off my panties.
My pussy is already getting wet.
You push your face between my legs and push your tongue inside of me, tasting me and licking deeply. Two fingers slip inside as you suck on my clit now. I feel the pull of my orgasm building. I hear myself moan and I squirm with the growing tension in my body.
I want you to suck on my boobs but I don’t want you to stop what you’re doing either. I’m on the edge of that delicious feeling of just about to explode. Three fingers now, pumping, filling my pussy.
You ask for sex. You tell me how much you want your cock inside of me. How hot I am and how hot you are for me.
I slip the chain from around my neck and give your the key to your freedom.
Image Credits: Key of Love – Vintage Look Key Necklace.
Another hour and 29 minutes to go until the store closing time. Then a few minutes, at least, before she would actually close the curtains on the display window. Possibly up to 2 hours left to keep standing still and pretending to just be a mannequin, like any other mannequin in the window of a storefront along main street.
She had said it was predicament bondage. Something she was interested in but had never thought he would go for.
This wasn’t the kind of serving in the BDSM books. The men in those stories licked boots, wore panties or did other stuff that sounded a lot better than standing in public, modeling a full suit in a store window. Posed for everyone to see and wonder why the mannequin has a hook in it’s mouth. Would anyone suspect he was a real boy?
Time to think about something else… getting hard was against the rules. Why is it so hard not to get hard once you are told not to get hard? The suit pants were beginning to strain again. Think about ice… cold, cold and wet and slippery… No, that wasn’t helping.
Still another hour and 29 minutes on the clock. Could she have stopped the clock? Could she be that evil?
Image Credits: A dominant woman smokes as she watches from the window… Is she making sure her mannequin is behaving? Via.