Tech Issues


Some of you may remember awhile back, when my site went down, and even the tech support guy was like, “I got nothing,” and I halfway fixed it to the point that it functioned and decided, “Meh, that’s good enough.”

Well, it all finally kind of exploded. I’m on a first-name basis with the tech guy at GoDaddy and I’ve had to switch my hosting platform, whatever the hell that means, and oh my god you guys I would literally rather clean the filthiest, shittiest public bathroom in the world than do internet-tech stuff. I just have this seething, irrational hatred for it. It puts me in a shitty mood and drives me up a wall.

So I’ve got the rest of the site fixed, but everything since I switched to the first hosting platform is lost. So everything from the last three years is gone. There’s a chance I can get it back from the hosting site, I’ll have to look into it, but honestly, I’m really, really struggling to see how it’d be worth the effort.

I’m serious, y’all don’t understand how much I hate this shit. I very well might just cut my losses and rewrite the stuff I want to rewrite from the last three years. It’ll depend on how annoying the process is.

But the site is fixed well enough that it functions. There are a couple of other things that I need to do at some point, but I hate doing it and don’t want to do it, so I’m putting it off, because that went so well the first time.

What I’m saying is I make good decisions.

No, in all seriousness, I need to actually finish the damn process this time. And it reset everything on the site, so it reverted back to the way it was three years ago, and I need to tweak the settings and layout and put it all back the way I had it. Which, at least that part isn’t too hard, more just tedious than anything.

Whether I can get the last three years of content back is still kind of up in the air, but that’s not the part I’m super worried about. It won’t really bother me if I can’t get it back, I can just rewrite the important stuff and call it good.

So we’ll see. It should be fun.

Written in Stone, Part 10

Charis had to stop at one more store, then they got into the car and headed back home.  But there were two things that piqued Kieran’s curiosity.

“Domina?” he asked.

“Yes, love?”

“Mister Darren called you ‘my Lady.’  I thought that was only for nobility.”

“It is.”

Kieran hesitated, searching for the words.  “You are nobility, Domina?”

“My father was,” she corrected.  “And I was, for a short time.  Some people still prefer using the title.”

“But you’re not now?”

“No, not since marrying Ilya.”

“Why does marrying Dominus make a difference?”

“Because the goal of all Spartans is to have Spartan children, and further the race,” she explained.  “A trophimi is given Spartan status, but whether or not their children are given that same status depends on who the other parent is.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“My blood is half Spartan.  If I were to have children with a perioeci or a helot, my children would only be a quarter Spartan.  That’s not enough.  The only way my children can be considered Spartans is if I marry a Spartan.”

“But couldn’t you still keep your title?”

She shook her head.  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.  Because if I have the title, but my children do not, it just causes too many issues.  So I had to sacrifice it to marry Ilya.”

“But you don’t have any children.”

“True.  And I don’t plan to.”

“But… But didn’t you say the goal was to have more Spartan children?”

“Generally, yes.”

“But you don’t want children?”


“May I ask why?”

She sighed.  “That,” she murmured.  “Is a very long story.  I’ll tell it to you one day.  But not today.”

“Yes, Domina.”

There were silent for a moment, but there was something else on Kieran’s mind.  “May I ask another question, Domina?”

“Of course.”

“Lady Tsaldari mentioned Dominus’ name.  That he picked her up from agoge when she was young?”

“Ah, yes,” Charis said.  “When Ilya was a slave, he was owned by Lord Anson Tsaldaris.  Meta’s father.”

“Her father?”

Charis nodded.  “He didn’t like me very much.  A Spartan purist.  He believed that half-blooded Spartans degraded the integrity of the entire race.  But even with that, Meta had me at their house a lot, and I spent a lot of time with Ilya.  We were really close.”

“Did her father sell him to you?”

“No.  When Ilya turned thirty-five, Anson planned to sell him to the State.  Meta found out and called me, and I offered to buy him.  But the asshole wouldn’t sell him to me.”

“He wouldn’t?  Why not?”

“To spite me.  Because of all the time I’d spent at his house, imposing on his hospitality.  No matter how much I offered, he refused.  It was completely hopeless.”

“What happened?  What changed his mind?”

Charis grinned.  “Meta did.”


“She threatened to divorce her husband, free Cavan, and marry him.”

“Divorce her husband?”

“Anson tried to call her bluff, and that made her even more determined.  She even went as far as to file for divorce.”

“Was her husband upset?”

From his seat in the back, Rowyn chuckled.  “A little.”

Charis grinned back at him.  “He knew she wouldn’t actually go through with it, of course, because she wouldn’t need to.  As soon as her father agreed to sell me Ilya, she’d undo everything.  But he was annoyed that she was going through so much trouble for a slave.  He didn’t understand it.”

“But what if her father hadn’t agreed?” Kieran asked.  “Would she have gone through with it?”

“Maybe,” Charis answered.  “She loves Cavan, you know.  And by that time, she already had two Spartan children.  Divorcing Nikolai would’ve complicated things, but not enough to stop her from doing it.  Once her father realized that, he finally agreed to sell me Ilya.”

She laughed softly.  “But by then, Meta was annoyed with him.  Selling him to me wasn’t good enough.  She made him give Ilya to me.”

“And you freed him?”

She shook her head.  “Not right away.  That wasn’t my intention, and it’s not why I took him.”

Kieran was confused.  “Then why did you free him?”

As soon as he asked, he felt Rowyn tense up in the back seat.

Charis sighed.  “That’s another very long story,” she said.  “For another time.”

“Yes, Domina.”

“Do you feel up to coming to the symposium with us tonight?”

Immediately, Kieran’s heart rate tripled.  “The symposium?”


“I… I will do whatever you desire of me, Domina.”

“I know you will.  That’s not what I asked you.”

She glanced over to him.  “I’m giving you a choice, Kieran.  You can come with us, or you can stay home.  It’s up to you.”

“I’m not sure what will be expected of me,” he murmured.

“Nothing,” she answered.  “I know you’re still getting used to us.  I know you’ve never been to a symposium before.  I know you’re very nervous about it.  My thinking is that the only way to ease your nervousness is for you to experience it.  But you are a better judge of whether you’re ready for that than I am.  So I’m giving you a choice.”

Kieran didn’t know what to think.  He tried to remind himself that Charis was kind to him, that she’d never hurt him, and that she would take good care of him, as she had done since she’d purchased him.

But years of being told how terrible symposia are were difficult to ignore.

Still, he’d heard them mention Elan more than once.  From what he understood, Elan was a helot, a slave at the symposium.  But he had the authority to make business decisions?  Why would a symposiarch trust the business to a helot, and not an employee?

He couldn’t help but wonder what Elan was like.  And to be honest, he was curious to see what Charis’ symposium was like, too.

“I-I’ll go,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure?”

Fuck no.

“Yes, Domina.  I’m sure.”

It was all he could think about, from that moment until the moment the entire household piled into Charis’ SUV.

“Ugh, Domina?” Cullen said as the four helots squeezed into the backseat.  “You’re going to need a bigger car.”

He seemed to be back to himself, the tension of the morning forgotten.  Whatever Charis and Ilya had done seemed to have worked.

Charis laughed.  “I’ll switch to the van,” she said.

“Thank the gods,” he grumbled, playfully elbowing Rowyn as he struggled to get comfortable between him and Taber.  “I’m all for family togetherness, but generally when I’m this close, I prefer there to be no clothes.”

“I’m not opposed to that,” Rowyn replied, playfully elbowing him back.  “There’s nothing stopping you from just leaning over and-”

“There will be no cock-sucking in the moving vehicle,” Charis told them.

“Domina, you’re no fun,” Cullen pouted.

“That’s fine.  When we hit a bump and you don’t accidentally bite Rowyn’s dick off, I’ll call it a win for the day.”

Rowyn cringed, his hands going protectively between his legs.  “You know, all of a sudden, ‘no cock-sucking in the moving vehicle’ seems like a very sensible rule.”

Cullen scoffed.  “Where’s your sense of adventure?  You’ve got to live life dangerously!”

“Let’s put your cock on the line instead, then,” Rowyn returned.

“No cock-sucking in the moving vehicle,” Charis repeated.

“What about cock riding?” Cullen asked.  “I don’t see much of a risk of accidental dismemberment there.  And I haven’t fucked Rowyn in forever.  It’s been what?  Gods, like 4 hours?”

From his place in the front passenger seat, Ilya laughed.  But Charis was unmoved.  “No cock riding, either.”

Cullen was undeterred.  “Domina, if I’m remembering correctly, his ass doesn’t have teeth.”

He suddenly stopped, his expression serious, and looked to Rowyn.  “Does it?” he asked, with a completely straight face.  Someone who didn’t know Cullen might actually think he was being serious.

“What, nervous?” Rowyn replied.  “What happened to living life dangerously?”

“Yeah, but that was when it was your cock.”

“No cocks are going into any holes in the moving vehicle.”

“Well, damn it, Domina!” Cullen cried suddenly.  “You just ruined my plan to fuck the gas filler pipe.  Now I don’t have anything fun to do.”

“Don’t you dare cum in my gas tank,” Charis warned.

“Yeah,” Ilya agreed.  “I don’t want to have to write, ‘asshat jerked off into gas tank’ on an insurance claim.”

“Wait.  You mean it would break the car?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya answered.  “I know sugar in the gas tank fucks it up pretty badly.”

“Water, too,” Charis added.  “Pretty much anything that isn’t gas.”

“You actually mean my semen is strong enough to break a car?”

“Cullen, do not jerk off into my gas tank,” Charis demanded.

“But we have to find out for sure!  For science!”

“Cullen, do not jerk off into my gas tank.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun at all, Domina,” Cullen said, sitting back against the seat and pouting.  “You suck the fun out of all my ideas.  You fun-sucker.”

“Hey, I’m being nice,” she returned.  “I’m at least allowing some sucking in the moving vehicle.”

All of them burst out laughing, and even Kieran couldn’t help but chuckle, despite his nervousness.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the empty parking lot behind a large, two-story building.  As they all piled out of the car, Kieran’s fear jumped to the forefront of his mind.  Dryas’ words rang in his ears, and he looked up at the big, imposing stone structure, his hands shaking.

He didn’t notice Charis look pointedly at Taber.  Taber met her gaze, understanding her unspoken command, and moved to stand by Kieran’s side.

“You should see it from the front,” he said quietly.  “It’s actually really nice.  This is the employees’ entrance.  Want to walk around with me and see the front?”

Kieran finally pulled his gaze from the building, to Taber.  “We can do that?”

“Sure.  Domina is going to want you to be familiar with the entire place, anyway.  You’ll need a complete tour.”

“The front door will still be locked,” Charis said, pulling a key off her key ring and handing it to Taber.  “Don’t forget to lock it up again.”

“Yes, Domina,” Taber replied.  He gestured for Kieran to follow him as he walked down the length of the building, while Charis, Ilya, Cullen, and Rowyn went inside.

“The service entrance is over here,” he said as they approached a wide dock door.  “All of the deliveries and things come in here.  Around the corner here is the courtyard.”

They turned the corner and saw a large wrought-iron fence surrounding a basketball court, two tennis courts, and a volleyball court.  Beyond that was a large grassy meadow, with a few big trees for shade.  “When the symposium is closed during the day, the helots have free reign to come out here,” Taber explained, walking up to the gate and unlocking it.  He held it open to allow Kieran through, then closed and locked it once again.

“The fence is relatively new, actually,” Taber went on.  “Domina never saw a need for it.  But citizens started causing problems.  Some of the Spartans she refused membership to, and even a couple perioikoi, would come and harass the helots, trying to use them for free.  It finally got to the point where she would either have to fence it all in, or just not allow the helots outside.”

“None of them tried to escape?” Kieran asked as they neared the opposite gate.

“No,” Taber answered.  “Why would they?  They know they’re treated well here.  Better than they would be at any other symposium.  Why give that up?  Domina has never worried about any of the helots trying to run away.”

He unlocked the gate, they walked through, and then he locked it again.  They turned the corner and came to the front of the building.  Stately columns rose along the front, holding up a large overhang.  In the center was a big archway, leading to the entryway of the symposium.

Kieran realized that the building was actually shaped like a horseshoe, with a big open area in the middle.  A wide stone path led from the parking lot to the front door.  On either side was grass, with tables, chairs, benches, and outdoor couches and sofas scattered around.

“Through there is the day lounge,” Taber gestured, pointing to a door at the end of the left building.  “The main symposium is closed during the day, but the day lounge is always open whenever the symposium isn’t.”

Kieran nodded mutely, still too nervous about the tall stone structure looming above him to ask what a day lounge was.

The front entrance was lavish and beautiful.  There were fountains on either side, filled with water lilies and large fish.  Stone angels had been carved into the walls, holding large pots where the water poured out into the pools below.  The way they had been carved, it looked as if they were pouring the water into the pools.

More angels were carved along the door.

“Those are Domina’s tribute to her father,” Taber explained, gesturing to the angels.  “His name was Lord Gregor Athanasiadis.  The name ‘Gregor’ means ‘Watchful Angel.’  I think she likes to think that he’s watching over her.  Come on, let’s go in.”

He unlocked the front door, and the two of them went inside.

Kieran found himself standing in a large, open lobby with black and white marble floors, a magnificent chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and brilliant paintings hanging from the walls.

“The pools are through there,” Taber said, gesturing to a hall on the left.  “The member locker rooms are through there, too, as well as a wrestling ring and boxing ring.”

He gestured to the other side, the corridor on the right.  “Those are the private rooms.  There are also a couple of meeting rooms, and an archery range, but helots aren’t allowed in there.  It’s the only place we can’t go.  Alcohol and weapons don’t often mix, but Spartans are hopelessly competitive.  All Domina can do is keep potential dangers to a minimum.  There’s a game room through there, too.  Pool, darts, card tables, that sort of thing.”

He led Kieran through the lobby, to the large double doors at the opposite side.  “In here is the main hall.  On the left, through there, is the banquet hall and kitchen.”

Kieran looked around at the massive room he now found himself in.

Against the front wall, to both his right and left, were large bars that seemed to have every kind of alcohol known to man.

Opposite that, on the other side of the room, was a large stage.  A number of small stages, big enough for only two or three people to stand on, were scattered through the room, with thin poles extending from the center of each stage, all the way up to the ceiling.

Along every wall were large, plush cushions for people to lounge on.  Scattered throughout the room were chairs, sofas, chaises, and more large cushions.  At first glance, it looked like a random placement, but as Kieran studied it, he realized that, no matter which chair, couch, chaise, or cushion a member sat on, there was an unobstructed view of the large stage in the center.

“On the other side is the dance hall,” Taber said.  “It’s pretty loud in there, once things get going.”

“Taber!” a woman’s voice called.

Taber and Kieran turned to see a perioeci woman walking toward them from the lobby.  Taber smiled warmly at her.  “Hello, Miss Corinne,” he greeted.

“Is Charis here?”

“Yes, she’s upstairs.”

Corinne started to walk past them, then stopped when she saw Kieran.  “Is this the new one?”

Taber nodded.  “Miss Corinne, this is Kieran.  Kieran, this is Miss Corinne.  She’s the general manager.”

“In training,” Corinne corrected.  “I never realized there was so much to do!  I’ve got to find Charis.  I need to go over some numbers with her.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

With that, she hurried through a door in the far right corner of the room.  “Through there is the slaves’ green room,” Taber said.  “There’s a staircase that leads upstairs, where all the slaves live.  Come on, I’ll show you.”

Kieran followed Taber through the same door Corinne had just walked through.

“This is the green room,” Taber explained.  “This is where all the helots get ready.”

“What is all this?” Kieran asked.  He’d thought there was a lot of equipment in Charis’ training room.  That was nothing compared to what he saw here.

“Part of the entertainment,” Taber said dismissively.  “You’ll see what each one is when the symposium opens.  Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Kieran followed Taber as he bounded up the staircase.  At the top, there was a small landing and a long hallway.  They could hear voices coming from the right.

“This is the TV room,” Taber said, opening the first door.  Kieran poked his head in and found a massive screen at the front of the room, with a lot of the same plush cushions scattered along the floor that he had seen downstairs.  A movie was playing, and seven or eight helots lounged in the rooms.  “The slaves’ kitchen is on the other side, here.  There’s a game room through there.  Here’s the multipurpose room, where everyone who’s working tonight is gathering now.  We’ll save that for last.  Come on.”

Down the hallway, Kieran discovered that the bulk of the space upstairs was taken up with two massive bedrooms.  Each room had twin beds lined up against the length of each wall.  Between each bed was a nightstand, and at the end of each bed was a dresser and a chest, with what Kieran assumed were the slaves’ personal things.

A few people lounged here, too, or chatted with one another.  They glanced up to Kieran with mild, passing curiosity, but didn’t pay him or Taber much mind.

“There are a hundred and twenty slaves here?” Kieran asked after counting the beds.

“Not quite,” Taber answered.  “A hundred and ten, I think.”

He was stunned.  So many!

The bathroom at the end of the hall was indeed crowded.  Toilet stalls lined one wall, and a number of shower heads lined the other.  Every shower was in use, and many slaves stood at the sink, brushing their teeth or their hair, or shaving.

Many of them waved to Taber when they noticed him, but it was obvious they were busy.

Finally, Taber led Kieran to the multipurpose room.

Kieran was stunned by the crowd there.  Like the TV room, cushions were scattered all throughout the room, and scantily-clad slaves lounged comfortably on them, chatting with each other.

Charis stood near the center of the room with Ilya, Corinne, and a brown-haired man with an intense expression on his face.

“Oh, this probably isn’t good,” Taber murmured as they approached.  Charis certainly didn’t seem to be happy with whatever Corinne was telling her.

“Shit,” she growled.  “That puts us down six for today.  We’ll have to use the helots to fill in.”

She turned to the dark-haired man.  “How many are working today?”

“It’s a Thursday, Domina,” he said.  “Only 50 are scheduled, and two of them have asked for the night off.”


“Corey and Shane.”

“Shane?  Why did he ask for the night off?”

“He didn’t say.”

Charis groaned and rubbed her temples.  “Alright, I’ll talk to him in a minute.  Give Corey the night off, too.”

“Yes, Domina.”

She reached down a pushed a button on her cell phone, then put it back in her pocket.  “So what are we short?” she asked.  “Two runners, a guard, two doormen, and a bartender?”

“Yes,” Corinne replied.

“Rowyn can bartend, he’ll handle that.”

“Does he have the speed?” Corinne asked, unconvinced.

“It’s not great, but is there anyone better you can think of?  He’ll be faster than anyone else.  Do we have a confirmed list of members coming tonight?”

“Thirty-four,” Corinne supplied.  “Not counting the unconfirmed, of course.”

“Ugh, so the actual number is closer to 65.  We can guess that ten will bring their own slaves, and ten won’t want companions.  That’s still cutting it really close.”

“Too close,” Ilya agreed.

“Who can we use to replace the guard?”

“I’d suggest moving Elliot to the front and letting Lex work the lobby.”

“That works.  But that puts us down another helot that we can’t really afford to lose.”

“We need volunteers, Domina,” the brown-haired man said.

She nodded her agreement.  “See if you can find five volunteers.  Let them know they’ll get an extra night off once Hyacinthia is over.”

“Yes, Domina.”

Just as he left the room, Rowyn and Cullen appeared.  “You called us, Domina?”

“We’re short-staffed,” Charis told them.  “Rowyn, I’ll need you to bartend tonight.”

“Of course, Domina.”

“Taber could go in one of the chests,” Ilya suggested.

“I’d be happy to help in any way I can,” Taber agreed.

“Thank you, Taber,” Charis told him.  “That helps me a lot.”

“What can I do?” Cullen asked.  “Want me in one of the chests, too?”

But Charis shook her head, gesturing to Kieran.  “I need you to keep an eye on him,” she said.  “And switch out the dancers.”

“What will Elan be doing?”

“He’s going to be a companion tonight.”

Cullen arched a brow.  “He is?”

“If it’s needed, yes.  We’ve had six of the staff call out, and we’re already working a skeleton crew to prepare for the festival.”

“Why not just get more helots to work?”

“Elan’s already asking for volunteers.”

“I’ll volunteer, Domina,” a feminine voice called out.

Charis turned to see a strikingly beautiful, petite blonde walking up to them cheerfully.  She looked young, maybe only a couple years older than Kieran.  Charis smiled.

“Renny, isn’t this your first night off in a week?”

The blonde shrugged.  “Maybe.  I lost count.”

“You need a break.  And you’re not going to be able to take one next week.  I won’t be able to spare you.”

“It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”


Renny shrugged.  “Lady Carra will be here.  Nights don’t get much easier than that.”

Charis still seemed unconvinced.  “You’ve worked every night for the last week,” she pointed out.  “You’ve got to work tomorrow and the weekend.  I might be able to spare you on Sunday, but on Monday, I’ll need you every night until next Friday.  That’s a long time without a break.”

Renny grinned.  “Lady Carra will be here tonight, and Sir Vanas will be here over the weekend.  Domina, being with either of them is the same as having a break.”


“Domina,” the girl said, using the same tone Charis used.  “Come on, I’m the prettiest one here.  Show me off.”

“The depths of her modesty never fail to astound me,” Ilya muttered.  But Charis chuckled.

“Alright, fine.  As long as you’re sure.”

The girl gave a triumphant, self-assured smile.  “I’m sure.”

The next hour went by in a blur.  Soon, Kieran found himself standing next to Cullen in the green room.  Four tables on wheels sat near the door, with cuffs attached in a way that would keep a slave on all fours on top of it.  Cullen had called them fucking tables.  Behind them were four large chests with a hole in the front and back, also on wheels, and then four more fucking tables.

Charis stood in the middle of the room, a clipboard in hand, with the fifty slaves surrounding her.

“Do I have volunteers to be beaten?” she asked.  Immediately, two men raised their hands.  She noted them and wrote their names on the clipboard.  “Next, I need dancers.”

A woman and two men raised their hands.  Charis wrote their names down.  “I still need another woman,” she declared.

“How many women are here?” Kieran whispered to Cullen.

“Um, thirty, I think?  Somewhere around there.”

Kieran was stunned.  As expensive as female helots were, especially females as young and beautiful as the ones he saw there, he couldn’t even fathom the cost.

“Next I need eight for the fucking tables,” Charis was saying.  Almost a dozen hands went up.  She selected eight, then wrote their names down.  “And lastly, four for the chests.  Good.  Everyone get into position.”

There was a great deal of movement as the helots obeyed her command.  Cullen sprang into action, as well, helping one of the helots up onto the fucking table, then locking his wrists, ankles, and neck into the shackles that held him in place, on all fours.

Ilya and Charis were busy, too, along with the slave she’d called Elan.  Kieran watched as Taber climbed into one of the chests, was strapped in, and then the lid was closed.

“What do you think?” a voice said beside him, startling him.  He looked over to see the same young blonde that had approached Charis upstairs.

“I’m sorry?”

She gestured to all the activity around them.  “It’s your first time seeing all this, right?”


“So what do you think?”

“It’s… It’s a lot,” he replied.

She shrugged nonchalantly.  “You get used to it.”

“What are they putting Taber in?”

“The chests?  Oh, those are fun.  Some of the guests like anonymous sex, and you can’t really get more anonymous than that.  There’s a hole on either end, and when you’re strapped in, you can’t move, so whatever is put in the hole, is put into you.”

Kieran cringed.  That didn’t sound like fun.  “You like it?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a rush.  The members have no idea who they’re fucking, and when you’re inside, you have no idea who’s using you.  You can’t see anything, every sound is muffled, you can’t move, all you really become aware of is the cock in either end of you.”

“You’ve been in the chests?”

She nodded.  “Yeah, lots of times.  The fucking tables, too.  They’re basically the same thing, except obviously, no chest.  You still can’t move, but you can see and hear everything going on around you.  If you’re having a bad day and don’t want to talk to anyone, those are the best options.  You don’t really have to do anything.”

“Except get fucked.”

“Well, yeah, that,” she conceded.  “That’s the easy part.”

The what??

She didn’t notice his reaction.  “But like, you don’t have to really interact with anyone.”

“Do you not like interacting with the members?” Kieran asked, remembering the stories Dryas had told him about the way slaves were treated in symposia.

“Sure I do,” she answered.  “Usually.  But you know how it is, right?  Some days, you’re just not feeling it.  And you can’t ask for a day off every time you’re not feeling it, so the fucking tables and chests are a good alternative.  Or you can just work in the day lounge, but then schedules get complicated.”

“You can get a day off if you don’t feel like serving?” Kieran asked, dumbfounded.  The very concept was completely lost on him.

“Um, yeah,” she answered.  “You do belong to Domina, right?  The symposiarch?”


“He’s very new,” Cullen said, approaching them.  “And this is his first time here.”

“Domina lets slaves take a night off?” Kieran asked Cullen, still trying to wrap his head around the idea.  He hoped Cullen would be able to explain it better than Renny could.

Cullen nodded.  “Usually, yeah.  I mean, as long as they don’t try to abuse the privilege or anything.”

“But why?”

He laughed.  “Look around you,” he said, gesturing to the slaves in the room.  “Do you see any plain or mediocre helots here?  When Taber showed you around, was there anything that looked plain or mediocre to you?”


“Exactly.  Domina is the best.  Everything about this place is the best.  Including the helots.”

He gestured to Renny, who seemed thrilled with the attention he paid her body.  “Look at her,” he said.  “She’s beautiful.  But if she had zero personality, if she was just a zombie who didn’t say anything or do anything, would she be as good a companion?”

“Well, no.”

“That’s why Domina gives them days off.  Because who they are is just as important as what they look like.  They need to be happy, cheerful, enthusiastic, and eager to please.  And to enable them to do that, they have to be given breaks.  And they have to be given some sort of voice in how they spend the night when they work.”

“Like me,” Renny said.  “I usually like serving women instead of men.  There are a couple of exceptions, but I just like women more.  So Domina puts me with women.  Because there are enough other girls here, almost as pretty as me – roll your eyes if you want, Cullen, but I don’t hear you denying it – who can serve the men.”

Cullen chuckled.  “Your ego is too big for your own good.”

She scoffed.  “No such thing.”

“Renny!” Ilya called from the front of the room.  “We’re ready.  Let’s go.”

Renny flashed Kieran a charming smile, then hurried to where Ilya stood.

“You two,” Charis said, approaching them.  “Have free reign of the public areas.  You need these.”

She held two thick, black leather collars in her hands.  First, she buckled one around Cullen’s neck, then locked it in place.  Kieran’s heart raced as she gently buckled the second one around his neck.  The sound of the lock clicking closed seemed to echo through his entire body.

“Relax,” she said soothingly.  “These label you as unavailable for service, that’s all.”

“Yes, Domina.”

“If a member approaches you in conversation, I want you to be courteous and friendly.  It’s extremely unlikely, but should they attempt to touch you or ask you for service, you are to thank them very much for the interest and inform them that I have forbidden you from serving anyone.”

“Yes, Domina,” Kieran murmured, his anxiousness rising.

“Again, it’s unlikely,” Charis assured him.  “All of the members know what the black collar means.  Sometimes a member will bring a guest, but the guests are usually on their best behavior, anyway.”

She smiled.  “Besides, Cullen will be with you the entire time.  You’ll be fine.  I know it’s intimidating, but try to relax and enjoy yourself.  Just remember that everything you say and do is a reflection of me.”  She grinned playfully at him.  “No pressure.”

“So no breakdancing on the roof?” Cullen asked.

Charis laughed.  “No breakdancing on the roof, Cullen.”


Charis patted his cheek affectionately, then turned her attention to the rest of the slaves.  Once she had walked away, Cullen nudged Kieran.  “Let’s go,” he said.  “It’s crowded in here, and we’re just getting in everyone’s way.”

Silently, Kieran followed Cullen out of the green room, and into the main hall.  A number of staff members in black pants, white shirts, and black ties hurried around, doing all the last-minute preparations.

But Cullen didn’t pay them any attention.  He walked straight to the bar, where Rowyn stood, polishing glasses with the other bartender.

If the perioeci bartender took issue with sharing his workspace with a helot, he didn’t show it.  He seemed completely at ease regarding Rowyn as his equal.  As they neared the bar, Kieran noticed that Rowyn had changed into the same outfit the rest of the helots wore, although his was dark blue, Charis’ color, where the others wore white.  He had the same black collar around his neck that Kieran and Cullen wore.

Cullen approached the bar and leaned against it.  “Got anything with alcohol?” he asked.

Rowyn gave him a droll look, but couldn’t keep the smile from his face.  “I’m a little busy.”

“Not too busy for me.”

“Some of us have work to do.”

“I’m totally working!” Cullen protested, gesturing to Kieran.  “Look at this poor, frightened boy.  I must protect him.  I must remain vigilant against all threats!  It’s such an exhausting role, and my strength is fading.  I need sustenance!”

Rowyn opened his mouth to speak, then stopped when the other bartender could no longer hold in his laughter.  “Gods, don’t encourage him, Mister Alick,” Rowyn said.  “He’ll be hounding us all night.”

“You mean you’d deny poor Kieran here?” Cullen asked.  “Look how nervous he is.  His poor nerves are just shot.  He needs something strong to help him calm down.  Look into those little puppy-dog eyes.  Can you really say no to that face?”

“We’re opening in about eight seconds,” Rowyn pointed out.

“Well isn’t it convenient that opening a beer bottle only takes three?”

Alick laughed again, and Rowyn rolled his eyes, shaking his head.  “Fine,” he said, reaching into the beer well and pulling out a bottle.  He quickly uncapped it and handed it to Cullen, then grabbed another for Kieran.

“There, you’ve got your drinks.  Now go away.”

“You mean you don’t like my company?  You didn’t seem to complain about it last night.”

Finally, he seemed to break through Rowyn’s stern façade.  The older man laughed.  “You’re less annoying when you’re wrapped around my cock,” he chided good-naturedly.

Kieran was confused by that.  He’d spent last night with Charis.  She’d let him fall asleep in her bed.  Did that mean Cullen and Rowyn had sex on their own, without Charis there?  Were they allowed to play with each other like that?

Did they actually do it simply because they wanted to?

Cullen and Rowyn were still bickering and teasing each other, much to the delight of Alick, who found it all highly amusing, when the first members began walking in.

Immediately, Cullen straightened up.

“That’s right,” Rowyn said quietly.  “You actually have to behave yourself now.”

Cullen scoffed, picking up his beer.  “I always behave.”

Facebook sucks

So I’m actually not all that internet-savvy.  I just have no real interest in it.  Social media is all well and good when I’m bored, but I’m just not all that into it like I had been in the past.

Still, as the blog grows, it occurs to me that I probably need to branch out a bit.  I’ve had a Twitter account for awhile, and started being more active on Facebook, as well.

But as it turns out, Facebook doesn’t allow someone to have more than one Facebook profile, because of reasons that supposedly make sense to someone out there, so my kink profile was shut down.

What’s a girl to do?

It appears that the only option is to create a Facebook page.  But trying to figure out how to keep it separate from my vanilla profile has proven a massive challenge.  I’ve found plenty of tutorials for how to keep my vanilla profile off of the kink page, but can’t find anything for how to keep my kink page off my vanilla profile.

I’ve got family, friends, and kids on my Facebook friends list.  We’re not out to Kazander’s family and friends, we’re not out to all of my friends, and obviously I need to keep the kids on my friends list off the kink page.

I mean, there’s no room for error here.  I absolutely, 100% need to keep the two separate, and there doesn’t seem to exist any cut-and-dry tutorials for how to do that.

I can’t find a single damn thing about it.

To be honest, I’m kind of considering just deleting my vanilla FB account.  I’m hardly ever on it anymore, I have the phone numbers of the 3-ish people on my friends list that I’m actually interested in conversing with (and the 2-ish people I would like to keep conversing with, I can easily get their numbers), and I’m just too much of a misanthrope to pretend to be interested in the lives of people I don’t respect and don’t care about.

Five years ago, I could do that.  I just don’t have the energy or the desire to do it anymore.

So if I choose to delete my vanilla account, obviously that’s not a problem, but I’d rather have it available, even though I hardly use it.  The inlaws will occasionally post cute pics or videos of the spawn while she’s staying with them, some of my vanilla friends post hilarious memes, and if there’s any way I can avoid deleting it, I’d lean more toward that.

But so far, I haven’t found a solution.  It’s annoying AF.  And I don’t have the patience to deal with this for weeks or months.  In all honesty, I’m probably just going to end up deleting the vanilla account.

Because Facebook sucks.

A different approach

This past weekend, the spawn was staying with family, so Kazander and I had the house to ourselves.  Which is a rare enough occurrence that we wanted to take advantage of it.

I spent a big chunk of the morning and early afternoon teasing him and doing some light play, but the interesting thing happened when we decided to take a shower together.

I’d planned to make him cum in the shower, but when he got close, he fell into one of his old habits.  He moved away and said, “Wait, I don’t want to cum yet.”

It’s something that never fails to annoy me, and I usually launch into the same, tired reminder that he doesn’t get to make that decision, he doesn’t get to dictate to me when he cums, and he should be grateful I was in a nice enough mood to allow it in the first place.

We have gone round and round and round with this.  Depending on my mood and the day I’ve had, it’s gotten to the point now where it’s enough to quash my libido and make me completely uninterested in touching him for the rest of the day.

So that spike of annoyance ran through me, and I opened my mouth to voice my frustration.

But then, I had a different idea.

“Alright,” I said.  “Well come here, I want to edge you again.”

I made him bathe me in the shower, then I bent him over and fingered him while edging him two more times.

We got out of the shower and got dressed.  I made him edge again just before we had to go over and spend some time with the family next door.

About half an hour into the visit, I pulled out my phone and texted him.

“Go home and edge again.”

After dinner, we went back home and binge-watched a TV show together.  And at the end of every episode, he had to edge twice.

I think it was around Edge #12 or so that he figured out what I was doing.

“I should’ve just kept my mouth shut,” he groaned as he squirmed on the couch after yet another edge, his cock throbbing.

“Oh?” I asked.  “Did that end up being a bad idea?”

“A little bit.”

“I’m glad you think so.  Edge again.”

He sighed, there was just the slightest hesitation, and then he reluctantly reached down to bring himself to an edge again.

Another five or so edges later, he was frantic and desperate, the begging almost constant.  He kept trying to bribe me to let him cum, and he got a fantastic refresher course on just how relentless I can be.

Another five or so edges later, he couldn’t stop writhing even between edges, absently humping the couch, needing constant reminders not to touch himself.  At one point, I tied his hands to keep them off his cock.

“Please, Mistress,” he begged, his voice strained as I reached down to edge him again.  “I’ll do anything.”

“Will you?”

“I’m sorry, I messed up.”

“Is that so?”

“I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“I almost believe you.  Now hush, I think I can get a few more out of you.”

But the time I finally let him have a ruined orgasm, I was half expecting him to start crying.  But even with not having much relief from all the edging, he was more than happy to not touch his penis for the rest of the night.  And he was decidedly more well-behaved.

We played a bit tonight, and again, I decided to let him cum relatively quick.  But interestingly enough, this time there was no moving away or protesting or telling me he didn’t want to cum yet.

Afterward, I asked him about it, and he said he almost did, more out of habit than anything.  But then, he remembered the way it felt this weekend, and thought better of it.

So yeah, I think that’ll be a much more effective way to break him of that habit.  Way better than spanking him or scolding him.

It’s not a traditional punishment, per se, but it worked pretty damn well.  Yet another useful little tool to put in my tool belt.

Cultivating a Dominant Presence

Anyone can put on a corset and leather mini skirt.  Anyone can tie her hair up in a severe bun and draw on black eyeliner.  Anyone can wear thigh-high boots and swing a flogger.

Any woman can put on the costume.  But what makes someone a Dominant?

In a word: Presence.

A Dominant has to be able to command respect, embody authority, and basically intimidate the hell out of everyone when she wants to.

sexy woman

Command respect, convey power, exude authority

I remember the first time I met my mentor.

I’d seen pictures of him, of course, but it was entirely different meeting him in person.  When he walked through the door, everyone in the building noticed.

It was like in those movies where the main character’s crush walks in to the party, and everyone just stops.  Time seems to move in slow motion as all eyes turn to the door.

That’s the way my mentor was.  He didn’t just have confidence; he had presence.

And it was intimidating as hell.

I knew immediately that’s what I wanted to be.

I wanted to be able to command a room like he could.  I wanted to be the one that made time slow down.

I had no idea how to be like that.  I had some major self esteem issues as a teenager, and when I looked at this confident, charismatic, knowledgeable, secure, self-assured man, I was 100% sure I could never hold a candle to that.

Who he was as a Dominant and a person was so far above and beyond who I was, it was like we weren’t even the same species.  I couldn’t imagine that I would ever be in the bracket as him.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Charisma isn’t something you’re born with, guys.  It’s not something you either have or you don’t.  And it’s not something you have to be a supermodel or a bodybuilder or a celebrity to have.

Anyone can master the skill.

And if you want to be a Dominant, you have to learn it.  It’s so much more important than the clothes or the dungeon or the toys.

It’s the difference between something you do and something you are.

But it can be difficult for someone who is new to the scene, who may not be naturally charismatic.

I heard a woman named Olivia Fox Cabane talk about charisma, using Marilyn Monroe as an example.

Everyone knows who Marilyn Monroe was.  She became the most iconic sex symbol and a powerful role model for women, so much so that she’s still a relevant figure, 50 years after her death.  She was a sex-positive, body-positive icon for women.

Many thought that her career was over when it was discovered that she’d posed nude before becoming an actress.  In the 50s, that was pretty much an instant career-killer.

But not for her.  It skyrocketed her career, and when she became frustrated with the sexist and misogynistic practices in Hollywood, she founded her own production company.

There are a handful of people in every generation who have truly mastered the art of charisma.  She was one of those people.

Ms. Cabane related a story told by a photographer who accompanied Marilyn one day.  Marilyn’s goal was to show the true power of charisma.  She wanted to illustrate to the photographer what her “secret” was, how she had harnessed this real-life superpower, and used it to propel her forward.

What Marilyn wanted to show was that just by deciding to, she could either be glamorous Miss Monroe or plain Norma Jean Baker (her real name).  On the subway, she was Norma Jean, but when she resurfaced on to the busy New York sidewalks, she decided to turn into Marilyn.  So she looked around and she teasingly asked the photographer, “So, do you want to see her?  The Marilyn?”  And then, he said, there were no grand gestures, she just fluffed up her hair and struck a pose.  And yet, with this simple shift, she suddenly became magnetic.  An aura of magic seemed to ripple out from her and everything stopped.  Time stood still, as did the people around her, who stared in amazement as they suddenly recognized a star standing in their midst.

No one bothered her or recognized her on the subway.  She was just one of many attractive young women in a big city.  There was nothing special about her.

But then, all she had to do was turn on that light inside of her.  A subtle change in presence, in posture, in expression, and everyone within sight of her noticed her.  She became that character in the movies who walks into the party, and even the photographer, who had spent the entire day with her, was awed by her presence.

That’s what charisma is.  That’s what it means.  And that’s just how important it is.

And no, it’s not reserved for the young, the beautiful, the rich, the famous.  Everyday people like you and me are capable of it.

Which begs the question, how?

I’ll probably write more on this subject, but the first step is the biggest, and that’s what this post is about.

The first thing to do is feel good about yourself.  And you don’t have to be a size-6, 22-year-old supermodel to feel good about yourself.

Feeling good about what you see in the mirror has laughably little to do with what you actually look like.

Everyone is eventually going to get old, everyone’s body is eventually going to decline.  That 22-year-old supermodel is going to wake up one day and see stretch marks, flabby arms, and sagging tits looking back at her in the mirror.

And then what?

If her self image is wrapped up exclusively in how she looks, her self image will decline as her body does.

You don’t want that.

It’s not about your appearance.  It’s about training your brain to focus on your best attributes, while glossing over the less-than-perfect ones.

As it is, most of our brains do the opposite.  It’s just a matter of turning that around.

Think of the brain like a muscle.  The more you train it to take certain pathways, the stronger those pathways get, and the more your brain wants to take those pathways naturally.

A tool that worked for me in the beginning was to use my clothes and makeup.  I spent hours and hours poring over fashion and makeup tutorials, learning how to accentuate the positives and minimize the negatives.  I probably know more about fashion now than I do about cars.

And I know how to make that knowledge work for me.

When I’ve got the right bra, the right low-cut top, and the right butt-hugging jeans, it’s hard not to like what I see in the mirror.

When I like what I see, other people notice.

I’ve been asked what my “secret” is, how I’m able to carry a room or talk someone into doing what I want, how I’m able to intimidate or allure, without saying a word.

But there’s no secret.  I’m not Heidi Klum.  I’m not some untouchable icon that other women could never hope to be.  I don’t have magic powers.

Guys, I need to stress this:

I’m not a model.  I’m only 3 years away from leaving the “Young Adult” club.  I’m fortunate in how I carry weight, but I’m a BBW.  Objectively, I’m average-looking.

How average?


Please forgive the dirty mirror, my 6yo wanted to “help” me clean today.

This is a typical sleeping outfit for me.  Panties, a tank top, and a sleeping bra (which is just a fancy name for a sports bra that’s a size or two too small, tight enough to keep everything in place while I’m asleep).

You can see that my body isn’t perfect.  You can see the cellulite and the Mexican thighs and the big hips (I have reproduction to thank for that).  Pull up the tank top and you can see stretch marks and a C-section scar.  Pull the bra up and you can see stretch marks on my boobs from when they literally went from a DD to an HH in less than 3 months, then shrank back down to an F.

My BMI puts me in the top 47% of women my age in the country.  Literally the definition of average.  My face is average, too.  My forehead is high, my hair is fine, and my lips are thin.

I’m telling you all of this because it’s so important for people to understand that being magnetic, commanding respect, and exuding authority has nothing to do with the way you look.

There’s nothing special about the way I look.

But when I turn on that light inside me, I’m exemplary.

And people notice.


As I said, exemplary.  And I’m actually about 15 pounds heavier in this picture, originally published in an older post.

And it’s not because I’m prettier or younger or thinner or smarter than anyone else.  It’s not because I’m a low-key superhero with magic powers.

It’s because I know how to use charisma.  And I know how to use it because I learned how.  It’s not something I was born with.  It’s not something that came naturally to me.

But I learned it.  And the first step was learning how to feel good the way I looked.  It wasn’t about waiting until the way I looked made me happy, it was about becoming happy with the way I looked.

Everything else comes from that.  Every charismatic and magnetic person started with that.  With feeling good about what they look like and who they are (this post focuses specifically on physical appearance, but feeling good about yourself as a person is just as important).

Feeling good about yourself means that other people are inclined to feel good about you.  And if you’re an average-looking person who knows what it feels like to be ignored and shrugged off, you genuinely appreciate the attention.  And when you genuinely appreciate the attention, you’re warm and friendly.

And when you’re warm and friendly, you’re likeable.  When you’re likeable, even more people take notice.

It’s a snowball effect that only gets bigger and bigger once it starts.

So how to start it?

It starts with putting on a nice outfit, looking in the mirror, and thinking, “You know, that’s not half bad.”

Do that often enough, for long enough, and it turns into, “Damn, that’s actually pretty good.”

And then, almost overnight, you find yourself commanding the respect and attention of everyone around you.

International Sex Workers’ Rights Day


So March 3rd is International Sex Workers’ Rights Day.

I am not currently a sex worker, but I have been in the past, and there’s always the possibility I could be again.  I rather enjoyed my work.

Of course, there was the occasional client I had no interest in or the occasional fetish I had to pretend I liked, but I’d say I thoroughly enjoyed myself 75% of the time.

And think of your day job.  How many people can say they legitimately enjoy their jobs 75% of the time?

It’s fewer people than you think.

Sex work is work.

It’s a legitimate form of income for those who choose it.

But today, the biggest enemies of sex workers are not the old, rich, white men running our government.

They’re the “feminists” who claim that it’s demeaning.  The sex-worker exclusionary radical feminists, or SWERFs.

These angry, bitter women criminalize all human sexuality, but particularly male sexuality.  And they belittle and objectify the women who choose to embrace their own sexuality and celebrate male sexuality.

Just today, actually, SWERFs called me, and the other sex workers participating in the discussion, rented wet spots, disposable merchandise, and objects to be bought and sold.

But men are the ones who demean us.  Gotcha.

The fact that this archaic view of sexuality still exists in 2018 is disturbing.  It makes a habit of removing women’s agency and ability to decide for themselves.

If a woman doesn’t want to be a sex worker, she shouldn’t have to be.  If she’s forced into it against her will, it’s trafficking and rape, and every woman needs to be protected from that.

But this line of logic that equates good, decent, law-abiding citizens engaging in a mutually beneficial and consensual arrangement with rapists and criminals always confuses me.

I’m not a damsel in distress.

I don’t need saving.  There does not exist a man alive that intimidates or scares me.  I’ve had a knife pulled on me, I’ve had a gun pointed at me (turns out it wasn’t loaded, but I didn’t know that at the time), I’ve spent time with a convicted rapist (who insists he didn’t do it, but I sorta think he did) and a convicted murder (who insists he didn’t do it, and I sorta think he didn’t).  I’ve been raped, I’ve been threatened, I’ve been stalked, I’ve been harassed, I’ve been sexually assaulted, I’ve been mugged, I’ve been beaten.

I’ve been at the mercy of men who wanted to break me.  And every single one of them failed.

I don’t need your help.  I don’t need you to protect me from something you’ve decided I need protecting from.  There was a while where I had an issue with mentally freezing when I was out alone with my daughter, but even that wasn’t so much fear as, “What’s going to happen to her if something happens to me?”

That was an unacceptable reaction for me, and not doing anything about it wasn’t an option, so I fixed it.  I didn’t need a knight in shining armor or a misandrist SWERF to come in a rescue me.  I just needed the tools to figure out how to do it myself.

Bitch, I don’t need your help.  I will never need your help.

Not Your Rescue Project.jpeg

Sex work is not sex slavery.

Sex trafficking is deplorable, and heinous, and tragic, and disgusting.  The women and children who are forced or coerced into these situations desperately need help.

And we need to help them.  Sex workers hate trafficking just as much as anyone else.  We want to stop trafficking just as much as anyone else.  The idea of a woman or child being forced into it turns my stomach.  These are human beings, but they have been dehumanized and turned into commodities.

Those who insist on putting me in the same category as the women who have been kidnapped, sold, tortured, raped, and murdered is offensive, not just to me and the men I’ve consensually provided a service for, but for those victims.

Equating sex work with sex trafficking trivializes and demeans what those women go through.  The absolute, utter hell that those women endure.  I’ve been raped, I know what that feels like, and nothing infuriates me more than people who trivialize and disrespect the people who have to live that, day in and day out, until they are killed (sex trafficking victims don’t die of old age, y’all).

And anyone who equates consensual sex work with something as heinous as trafficking immediately loses all respect from me.  It’s a repugnant and disgusting mindset, and I pray to God that those people never reproduce.

Because you just can’t help someone who is that shitty of a human being.

Prostitution has a noble and rich history.

It is literally the oldest human profession.  And while I know that prostitutes in different cultures have been widely respected, the culture I know the most about is the American West, where I live.

The American West very literally owes its fucking existence to prostitutes.

I’m serious, you guys.  That’s not an exaggeration.  It’s literally the truth.

What happened is that men came out here to be miners, ranchers, etc.  They set up their little tents and lived off the land.  And in places like Nevada and much of California, the land wasn’t easy to live off of.

The prostitutes followed, looking for work.  They saw these little shanty towns and said, “Fuck everything about that.”

In many towns, the absolute richest residents were prostitutes.  And brothels were not run by men, but by women.

Prostitutes were the ones who paid to have schools and hospitals built.  They supported and backed the politicians who did their bidding.  They influenced western American culture more than any single group since the dawn of the nation.

And they were widely respected.

A well-known Nevada prostitute was Julia Bulette, who was the first white woman to live in Virginia City, NV.  She was easily the most respected and widely-loved person in the town.  She was educated, intelligent, witty, and charming, a tall and slender brunette with expressive dark eyes.

She had a soft spot for miners, and for firefighters in particular.  When miners became ill after drinking contaminated water, she opened her home to them and worked tirelessly to nurse them back to health.  They called her an angel of mercy, and one miner described her as “having caressed Sun Mountain with a gentle touch of splendor.”

Indescribably wealthy, she donated vast sums to the firefighters for new equipment and training to keep them safe (in fact, she donated so much of her wealth to the town, she drove herself to debt).  She also personally worked the water pump when it was needed.

She became an honorary firefighter, and on July 4, 1861, she was named Queen of the Independence Day parade.

She was murdered inside her home, and the entire city shut down to mourn her, and her funeral was attended by thousands.

A year later, a drifter was charged and convicted of her murder, and hanged.  His execution was witnessed by the entire town, including the notable Mark Twain.

She was a feminist icon and she remains so, 150 years after her death.  She is a beautiful example of what a woman can do, even in a society specifically designed to oppress women.

When women were granted the right to vote, 13 western states simply laughed.  Women had been voting there for decades.  Wyoming in particular refused to join the Union unless Wyoming women could retain their right to vote.  They also boast the first female governor.

Montana appointed the first female to the US House of Representatives before the 19th Amendment was passed.  Kansas boasts the first woman mayor of an American town.

And why do you think women in these western states were treated so much better than their eastern and southern countrywomen?

Because of prostitutes, y’all.

Because tiny little shanty mining towns were fine for the men who lived there, but the women wanted more.  They made the little desert towns habitable.  They created a society that would not have existed without them.

If you live in the west of the Mississippi River, chances are, you owe your very existence to prostitutes.  They were powerful, they were rich, they were influential, they were respected.

It wasn’t until the criminalization of prostitution that it began being seen as something oppressive.

Of course, prostitution was dangerous, as evidenced by Julia Bulette (although it’s unclear whether her profession had a direct influence on her death.  Although her profession was why she become such a prominent figure, and her prominence definitely made her a target).

Prostitutes died in childbirth, they died of disease, and not all of them were rich.  It was a dangerous job, not for the faint of heart.  It could paint huge targets on the backs of women.  It wasn’t an easy life.

But it’s a life that western pioneers chose.

The criminalization of prostitution saw the rise of pimps and people who coerced women into the profession.  Because illegal, unsanctioned, unsupervised, unprotected acts drew a large number of undesirables, and women found themselves needing large male protectors to keep them safe.  Those large male protectors then began taking advantage of women, and gave rise to the modern pimp.

We see the difference in the practice of illegal prostitution vs legal prostitution even now.  In places where it is legal, like parts of Nevada, brothels are managed, supervised, and regulated.  While in places where it is illegal, you see private gangsters as pimps, who will beat and rape their girls if they don’t make enough money.

Of course, there are problems in brothels, too.  You hear stories of women being coerced into having sex with friends of the brothel owner, or being coerced into doing things they don’t want to do.

Because where can they go for help?

What can be done if they report it?  Who would support them?

The criminalization of prostitution has harmed the women who choose it as their profession, and it has harmed countless women who have been forced into it against their will.

And all because sexuality has become something dark and shameful in the eyes of so many people.

Men who choose to pay women are seen as misogynists, and women who choose to provide a service for a fee are seen as brainwashed victims.  The agency and ability of these women to consent to what they want, to do what they wish with their bodies, has been removed.

Sex is the only thing that can be given away for free, but not sold.  How dumb is that?

Sex work isn’t for everyone.  And no one who doesn’t want it should ever be coerced or forced into it.  But for those who want it, for those who choose it, they should have the right to do what they want with their bodies.

Sexuality is a beautiful thing.  Even sex that we see as “dark” or “depraved” is beautiful.  It can bring people closer together.  It has legitimate, measurable health benefits.  And for those of us who choose it, it’s really a hell of a lot of fun.

But Jen, sex work doesn’t empower women.

First of all, find me a sex worker who feels that way.

Secondly, why does it have to be empowering?

Does being a mailman empower you, as a woman?  Does being a hairstylist or cashier or waitress or babysitter empower you, as a woman?

Chances are, no.  And no one fucking cares.  When I drove truck, no one ever asked me if I felt empowered by my career.

But sex workers get asked that all. the. fucking. time.

I personally found it empowering, because I was working full time and still couldn’t pay my bills.

I could make my own hours, set my own rules, choose who I decided to have sessions with, and designate the boundaries and rules that my clients were expected to follow.

Not a single client ever disrespected me or tried to cross a boundary.  And I could pay my bills, and I had some financial breathing room that my day job didn’t provide.  In a town with a 10% unemployment rate, I was highly sought after and had clients who would drive two hours or more, just to spend $200 for two hours of my time.

But Jen, the legalization of sex work has increased sex trafficking.

No, it really hasn’t.

You’re thinking of a 2012 “study” that defines trafficking as anyone who crosses a national boundary and then engages in sex work.

To use US states, if prostitution is criminalized in Utah and legalized in Nevada, is it really that much of a stretch to think that the women who engage in illegal sex work in Utah will relocate to Nevada, where they can do it legally?

What a shock that “sex trafficking” increases.

When you use a realistic definition, like “women and children being forced or coerced into sex work,” you find that the legalization of sex work greatly diminishes sex trafficking in that area.

See New Zealand and New South Wales.

But Jen, so many misogynists demean women through sex work.

Yeah, and how many of those are women?

There will always be assholes.  Some of those assholes will be men, and some of them will refuse to respect a woman who engages in sex work.  I’m not even a sex worker now, and my Facebook inbox is full of men who are insulted that their wishes to engage in a paid cam session with me went ignored.

They feel that because I’m a Dominant, and because I’m on Facebook, I must be a professional, and if I’m a professional, I must drop everything when they snap their fingers, to go and worship their penises.

This is not new, you guys.  There will always be assholes.  Decriminalizing prostitution will not solve the asshole-human problem.

No sane or reasonable person is looking at the decriminalization of sex work as a solution to that problem.

The bottom line?

The only experts on sex work are sex workers.

The only people whose opinions about sex work matter are sex workers.  The only people who have the power to decide what to do with their bodies are the owners of those bodies.

The only people who have the right to dictate what sex work should be are the people who do it.

Are you a sex worker?  No?

Then shut the hell up.


A feminine sissy body

What’s sexier than a sissy slut?

Last time I was with Sounder, I noticed something while he was lying on his back, on his pink sissy bed, wearing his pretty lingerie.

He really is looking more and more feminine now that he’s been taking the birth control for awhile. His body looks softer, rounder, with more pronounced curves.

I can already see his tits under his clothes even when he’s wearing his boy costume. And it was so awesome when I realized that his boobs had gotten that big. We were out, having a couple of drinks after work, and he was wearing his normal professional work clothing.

At one point, he stretched in the chair, and I could plainly see the outline of his breasts under his shirt.

It was unbelievably hot.

Of course, that was a while ago, and his body has only gotten more feminine since then.

The most recent things I’ve noticed are his waist and hips. He really is developing a fucking sexy hourglass figure.  I love that I can see that subtle curve in his waist now.  And the longer he’s on the pills, the more pronounced those curves will become.

I mean, look at this picture.  If you didn’t know that this is a biological male, you’d totally look at this and assume it’s a pussy under those panties.


My sissy is getting closer and closer to permanently crossing that line between masculine and feminine.  She’s getting closer and closer to becoming more girl than boy.

I’m so excited to see how his body continues to change.  Aren’t you excited to see how his body continues to change?