It wasn’t until I walked into the harsh light of the subway station that I realized my black slacks were very obviously covered in cum, especially at my right thigh, where I’d been grinding against the Southern Belle on our first date. My red tie, too. I took off the tie and my jacket and held it in one fist to cover the stain.”I’ll wash them for you,” she told me later. “I’d be glad to.”

She is a good bottom. Oh so fucken good. She knows how to submit, how to pull force and domination from me with a glance. She knew how to tell me precisely how to fuck her, verbally and non-verbally, in ways that gave me so much power.

She was not hard to control. She went where I put her, moved where I said to go.

Belle kissed me upon introduction and my knees went weak. Caught off-guard already. She was oh so much more stunning than her photographs. All I could say was, “Wow. Hi. Wow.”

“What?” she demanded (and continued to demand, throughout the night).

“It’s just … that was a good kiss. Damn. Uh. Nice to meet you.”

She has an extraordinary face: a lovely curved wide mouth. Brown curly hair, shoulder length. Almond eyes. She wore her glasses. Of course she did.

-

I don’t understand it (yet), but there is something about the “(high) femme + bottom” equation that I have an intense physical reaction to, that goes right to my core, my cunt-gut-heart, and radiates outward. I feel extremely powerful and strong and like myself next to one of these girls. I lose the nonsensical garbage my head is usually filled with and I have laser-beam focus and precision on one thing: her.

I deeply crave that feeling.

Within that emotional-physical state of connection, there is much to explore and learn. But it is so rare to even find the ability to go there in the first place.

Belle (and Callie, like most femmes, especially high femmes) was extremely coiffed, poised, polished. She has a veneer-porcelain exterior that she paints and coats and constructs with every move, every brush of her fingertips to the hair falling in her eyes, every shift of her legs and brush of her thighs together. She performs this role. She creates it as art.

And it makes me want to unravel it, thread by thread.

In fact, the best moments of the evening were when she was speechless. When I’d fucked her so hard she could do nothing but whimper, and feel me. Writhe all she wanted but I still held her down, held her up. She is stripped down of her power in those rare moments, she is raw and open, and authentic.

I remember this with Callie: those weekends when we spent hours in bed, endless hours making love, physical play, those were the weekends she was most herself, the weekends she least needed a guise of beauty to protect and shield her. Those were the weekends I fell deeper and deeper in love.

That coif and polish are extremely intimidating to me, and extremely seductive. When those finely-honed skills of hers have me marked in their cross-hairs I cannot resist. I am reduced to wanting, to desire. Perhaps this is why I seek to tear it down, to posses it, to own it: it reduces me to powerlessness. So if I can take control, I gain back some power.

Of course, the power I take is temporary, and given to me with permission. The power she holds is constructed, artificial. It is an exchange. A game we play.

I have extreme feminist guilt about this power play. I know we are supposed to strive for equality, that we cannot posses another person. (Oh I have much more to say about that. That is, perhaps, another post.)

Belle had control of the date the whole night. She controlled the conversation. She made the moves toward physical touch. She gave me all the symbols of want and desire and consent that I wanted and needed, and she knew exactly how to tell me.

She talked, and talked, and talked.

At her place, I had one arm draped around the back of the couch; her legs were pulled up under her. I fingered her hair as she told yet another story, gently brushing it behind her ear, then running my fingers through it deeper and deeper until I took a fist-full at the back of her neck and pulled her face close to mine.

“Don’t you ever shut - the fuck - up?” I asked roughly, barely brushing her lips with mine.

She whimpered. “When I’m made to,” she whispered, gasping when I kissed her hard.

And then she was mine. I took her, ravaging. I took her down.