your favorite fucked up prince

Penetration isn’t power. Receiving isn’t surrender. What we’re reacting to is the social script of the penetrator: this body takes, that body is taken. This is most visible in how the female body is read. Femininity is culturally positioned as receptive, penetrable, acted upon—less a mode of agency than a surface something happens to.

As a femme dom, my domination often involves penetration—but it isn’t located there. It lives in the dynamic: authority, framing, guidance, the shaping of desire. There is no situation in which I become submissive simply because I’m being fucked. I’m not yielding control. I’m exercising it.

Queer people tend to get this. We have history in language: dom/sub for dynamic, top/bottom for preference. We’re less invested in pretending presentation predicts desire. That separation matters.

In many cis/het femdom spaces, the fantasy is doing something specific: it’s negotiating power that already exists outside the scene. For some cis male subs, the erotic charge is bound up in taboo or transgression; for some cis women, dominance carries the thrill of stepping into authority that isn’t culturally assumed.

Lesbian dynamics don’t always start from the same baseline. Two women may still carry differences—race, class, history, trauma, anatomy—but we aren’t entering the scene with dominance already assigned by gender alone. We begin with a closer approximation of shared social power. The pleasure isn’t in stealing authority; it’s in choosing, together, to redistribute it.

Is the body ever free of social scripting? Maybe not entirely. But it can be freer—when we separate mechanics from meaning, anatomy from intention, and inherited power from chosen dynamic.

Hi anon,

Telling you that you're only allowed to talk in the third person during a scene, and asking you perverted, invasive question after question, waiting for you to mess up so I have an excuse to punish you.

Making you use a humiliating phrase every time you talk to me, engaging you in conversation randomly, even calling you throughout the day so you're forced to say it repeatedly.

Taking away your ability to talk at all during a scene, marking you bark or meow like a pet instead, then seeing just how much I can do to you before you break and use your words. Just a dumb, silent object.

Uh. What if that, but with different tickle tools?

Like tickling the same spot first with the pads of the fingers, then with the nails.

First with a makeup brush, then a feather.

First with a grooming glove, then with a hairbrush.

And you're stuck there having to choose which tickles more because otherwise it's just gonna be swapping between those 2 tools back and forth until you pick..

Reward them by putting these on their best spots… after testing them all out, of course! 🌟

And make sure they use their manners and thank you for each one💕

Like, a flogging bottom might be praised for their ability to take pain and know their limits, or a rope bunny might be recognised as keeping themselves in good physical shape so they can hold complicated stress positions for longer than a novice, but even the most beginner of beginner bootblacks has learnt a little bit of materials science (Will this type of brush scratch this patent finish?), a little bit of basic chemistry (If these were last polished with a silicone wax, how do I remove that to start to bull them?), a little bit of leatherworking history (Is that natural fibre stitching on those surplused Warsaw Pact boots, will my polish rot it?) and spent time practising techniques on their own boots.

And it's one of the few kinks I can think of where the top is so immediately physically and emotionally vulnerable to the bottom in that way: I put my foot in the hands of a stranger bootblacking at a party, and I trust that they won't damage the boots I was gifted by my long-dead Master when I was 17, that they won't soak the stitching and start the rot of the boots I was wearing when I first fucked the love of my life, I trust that they'll carefully work around and treat the cuts and scuffs in the leather that I picked up wearing these same boots marshalling at a dozen prides and going toe-to-toe with strikebreakers and scabs on twenty years' worth of picket lines. The experienced bootblack can look at my soles and where my boots crease, and see that I have a weak hip, that I'm slightly bowlegged, that I don't drive and that I walk even in the weather where I'd rather not. And I trust that they'll see that worn-out, poor, slightly sad old man and still call me "sir".