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findom, teases

How does it feel to want things you can’t have?

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You see me from across the coffee shop. My laptop is open, cappuccino settled beside it. I’m immersed in something that isn’t about you, never will be about you.

You feel a pull under your skin, in your gut, at your groin.

I’m wearing a t-shirt I clearly cut up myself. It slides off one shoulder, revealing something black and lacy underneath—the strap and top of a bra cup that disappears under soft cotton.

Two necklaces drape graceful down my neck and into my cleavage, disappearing where you can never go. Rings grace slender fingers, nails uniform and painted with pink glitter.

Under the table, a black skirt, sheer most of the way up with slits up both sides. My legs are crossed beneath it, thigh meeting thigh. Curve meeting curve. Just one or two more inches and there would be a peek of something more intimate.

Cheek or panty. Both if you were lucky.

You will never see them. You are so close, yet so far away.

And you love the distance. The longing. The despair.

You could live here forever, stretched out in the imagination of it, knowing you will never come closer than this.

Knowing you will never do more than guess at the color of the panties underneath. If my whole outfit is black, are they too? Do they match the lacy bra? Or are they cheeky, different, a riot of color under a monochrome look?

Red. Pink. Hearts. Flowers.

You’d pay to know.

You’d pay more to see.

And what would you give to touch?

There’s a reason historical wars were started over a woman’s beauty.

You will not start one. You cannot start one. And nothing you do will change the fact that you cannot know the look, the feel, the taste of that lingerie and the goddess underneath.

The closest you’ll get is this essay. The closest you’ll get is paying for that cappuccino, for the next piece of lingerie tucked underneath that sheer black skirt. Paying for the laptop my fingers dance across. And waiting, heart racing, to see me wear or drink or use the piece of yourself you extended.

Use me, goddess, you beg. And I will not use your body. But I will press fingertips into that laptop every single day. I will press my lips to the foam in that coffee cup. I will slip those stockings over soft curves, slip high arches into sleek socks, lace up that corset, pressing it tighter, harder against my skin.

And I will be pleased.

You will have pleased me.

And you will still never know the feel of my skin, the smell of my proximity, the taste of my lips on yours.

Somehow, that’s even better, isn’t it?

q&a

How to age verify on Yoti (and why I prefer it)

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Reminder: age verification ensures you aren’t accidentally playing with minors! This keeps kids safe (which should be your priority) and keeps you out of prison.

Here we go.

STEP ONE: Download the Yoti app on your phone and follow the instructions to create your account.

u/that-villainess - How to age verify with Yoti (Yoti for Dummies)

STEP TWO: Either upload a valid government ID OR use their facial age estimator.

(Note that they do NOT share your ID with anyone. You are in control of what information you share and with whom.)

To upload your ID, go to ID documents and choose Add.

u/that-villainess - How to age verify with Yoti (Yoti for Dummies)

Choose your country from the list and then select which document you want to upload.

u/that-villainess - How to age verify with Yoti (Yoti for Dummies)

Then you will be asked to scan a photo of the front and back of the document (or specific pages in the case of a passport). The app walks you through the process. Make sure your photos aren’t blurry or you’ll be asked to re-do this step.

STEP THREE: Once your details are approved, you can share them with dommes, content creators, and anyone else who needs age verification.

You only go through the ID song and dance one time and now you just click a couple buttons to share. This makes your life easier and everyone safer. Win-win.

Back on your home screen, tap SHARE at the top right of your screen.

u/that-villainess - How to age verify with Yoti (Yoti for Dummies)

Choose what info you want to share (most dommes just want birth date). Anything you don’t want to share, just don’t check the box. You can easily retain your anonymity.

u/that-villainess - How to age verify with Yoti (Yoti for Dummies)

Click CONTINUE to generate a link. You can then send that link to the person requesting AV.

Boom! You’re done. Simple and keeps the community safe and you stay in control of what data you share or don’t share.

Why Yoti?

Yoti is simple to use on both sides, accurately verifies age, keeps you as anonymous as you want to be, and means less hassle for me.

q&a

Why Pandora?

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Someone recently asked why I chose my goddess name. Why did she resonate? Why am I her?

There’s the obvious reason of course: The Pandora of myth opened a jar that unleashed chaos and evil into the world. She’s a troublemaker, unforgettable. She’s the villain of men’s stories, the origin of feminine manipulation. Men fear her. They’re drawn to her.

The stories describe her as a “beautiful evil” (hell yeah) and “sheer guile, not to be withstood by men.”

To me, when stories use this language, they aren’t really telling me about an evil woman. They’re telling me about one who didn’t do as she was told. One who was powerful. One who stood out.

When you read the stories, you find that she’s be written and re-written, villainized and changed and willfully misunderstood over time. She started with no name. Then Pandora. She opened a jar. Then she opened a box.

Taking her name is a reclamation. A refusal to accept that what the men who wrote these stories called evil was actually evil. I believe it was power. I believe it was willfulness. I believe she was curious. And she didn’t let others stop her, dim her, take her power.

Pandora also knew her worth (“no helpmeets in hateful poverty, but only in wealth”). Another reason for the men of her time to villainize her.

And if this answer feels too erudite, there’s also that delightful, hilarious secondary answer that involves Pandora’s famous box unleashing chaos and the double-entendre that implies here.

teases

It turns me on to make you sweat

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Peek-a-boo, goes a little bit of panty, a hint of cheek, the barest hint of nipple.

Look hard enough and you’ll notice most of what I wear is just a little sheer.

When I take my boots off, I unzip them slowly. Inch by painful inch.

When I wake in the morning, I slip out of my shirt with intention, feeling it brush soft across belly, breasts, neck.

When I see myself in the mirror, a wicked smile graces my lips.

I love the way I look, the ways I can tease.

I love when you have to do a double take, when I can see your pulse beat in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re licking your lips.

I don’t do it for you, but I revel in how much you wish I did.

I don’t do it for you, but my breath comes a little faster when I think of how it tortures you. How much you long for just one more inch of skin.

I revel, even when I’m alone, at how much power is in every curve, from curls to eyelashes, the hollow in my throat to the arch of my foot.

I know you want to feel the silk of my skin against your fingertips. I know you want me to aim the camera just a little higher. I know you wonder what I taste like.

And I love that you will keep wondering.

Keep longing.

Keep thinking about me long after you finish reading these words.

q&a

You using your safe word makes me feel safe

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Yesterday, I took over a man’s life.

It was the first time we played together. His first time exploring some of his kinks. And my first time exploring others.

I hadn’t cucked anyone before and had always wanted to (spoiler: it’s as fun as I expected). He was still finding the edges of his humiliation kink—where kink hit actual pain.

I told him, as I do with everyone, to choose a safe word. And then I told him if he used it, I would immediately stop what I was doing and check on him.

He didn’t think he’d need to. He told me to be as mean as possible.

And then within the first couple minutes, the safe word appeared.

I stopped. Checked in. Then continued without the element that had triggered the word.

And because he used his safe word, because we both experienced the pause, the care, the ability to exit and re-enter a scene, we both felt safer.

I could trust that he would enforce his boundaries. Which gave me more freedom to play. To know that I wouldn’t accidentally do real harm to someone who was quietly allowing it.

He could trust that using his safe word works. Not in theory but in practice. He could explore with freedom, go deeper, allow space for new things, knowing there was an escape route.

I tell you this story because it’s a reminder of the power of safe words. Not just to give the sub a way out of pain or trauma triggers. But to build trust with your domme. To give her permission to push harder, go deeper, find the edges of your joy where it turns to something else.

They are a trust tool that works both ways. A relief. A freedom.

Knowing that I can trust this sub to tell me when it really hurts means I can sink deeper into play.

What a gift.

q&a

Who benefits from your shame?

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“OMG MISTRESS” [deleted]

“Please take over my life.” [deleted]

“Cuck me”

“Punish me”

“Break me”

“I’m edging”

“I’m gooning”

[deleted]

[deleted]

[deleted]

“I’m sorry I deleted last time, Goddess”

[deleted]

Before you delete another account, stop. Breathe. And ask yourself who benefits from this shame?

It’s not you. It’s not me.

It’s some puritan motherfucker who decided what was and wasn’t acceptable. What was and wasn’t masculine. What everyone else should get off on.

The reason face-to-face man-on-top penetrative sex is called missionary is because the Christian missionaries tried to convince everyone it was the only holy way to do the deed.

Shame around kink is just a legacy from that bullshit.

Free yourself. Keep your account. Embrace your authenticity.

So you like to be cucked? Rad! Lots of people do.

You want to be stepped on by a beautiful woman? Me fucking too.

You want to throw money at someone who calls you a loser? Go for it, king.

If you need to walk away for your mental health, I’m not judging you. But so much of this deletion reeks of shame.

And baby, why? We all get off on weird shit. Even the vanillas. They just don’t admit it.

I had one of the best orgasms of my life after quitting a shitty job about a decade ago. I was so turned on by my own audacity and how I left them begging me to come back that I immediately had to go touch myself.

Sometimes I see myself in the mirror and get turned on by my own reflection.

I get instantly wet when people send me money for simply turning them on.

The point? We’re all just kinky weirdos. Your weird is welcome here. Stay. Settle in. Stop judging your damn self – the world does enough of that for us.

cucking, findom, teases

Oh hi there, little fincuck, do I make you hard?

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Can you picture it? Feel it in your nerves and on your skin? What it would be like to be cucked by me?

To pay for my date and and get a single picture of a manicured foot. To know that foot has been kissed by him, will be stroked by him, will be felt on his chest, hooked behind his head, pressed against him—and never you.

To sit by your phone, waiting to reimburse our vacation expenses, knowing he is with me, knowing you are not. He is holding my hand as we stroll the cobbled alleys of Paris. He is watching me close my eyes in ecstasy, savoring every bite of the souffle you bought. He is pressing a thumb to my lips and then kissing them under the glow of an old streetlight.

He is taking me home.

You get a picture of the souffle. You get to know what we’re up to. And you sit in your dark little room and stroke and wish and long…always longing, never touching, never seeing. Never there.

But your money is there. Your mind is there.

And you know that’s the closest you’ll ever get.

Which is why you’re hard. It’s why you can’t stop.

It’s why you’re in my inbox, begging to pay for the lingerie he will remove with his teeth.

service

Here, kitten, come out of that box

Posted on

First, a truth:

You’re tired.

I know because I see you.

Out there having to perform a very specific version of masculinity. Juggling work and life and everything that comes with them. Watching self-care, exercise, good habits, and deadlines slip through the cracks. Wishing you could simply let go. Embrace your submission. Rest in the capable hands of a strong, dominant woman.

You feel every iota of the weight of those imposed masculine roles.

You feel every tug on your soul of every responsibility.

And what you want, what you need is this:

To let go.

To be yourself.

To find yourself in the first place. Because you know he’s in there, hidden by the box society shoved you into.

Sometimes, all you need is permission to let go.

So here it is.

Let go, kitten.

Rest.

Put yourself in her capable hands. Put your energy into service, into self-exploration, into care.

Rejecting the box society put you in isn’t weakness; it is strength.

Release isn’t cowardice; holding onto roles that no longer serve you is.

Courage is authenticity.

Authenticity requires surrender.

It’s work and it’s hard and it’s bone-deep relief all at once.

Let go, kitten. Let go.

cucking

He might be your alpha, but no man is mine

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“I want to serve you and your alpha,” you say.

And I cackle. Because what makes you think I’d let any man dominate me?

He is not my alpha. He is my first and best worshipper.

The one who lays his head in my lap and feels my fingernails against his scalp. Who hears me command “rest” and falls asleep in my arms.

The one who texts me begging to clean up my house after girls night.

The one who first put on a collar. Who sits at my feet.

He is the little spoon twice my size, my tall, masculine puppy, the chosen one precisely because he doesn’t try to perform society’s ideas about alpha masculinity.

He doesn’t need to. He’s secure. Himself. Held. Known.

Worshipper. Pet. Lover. Loved.

He is the one women trust because they know I wouldn’t allow toxicity in my sacred space.

And he is the one in my sacred space. Eating strawberries from my garden. Laughing at my jokes in person. Whispering his truths with a head on my chest. Giving me his full weight and knowing I will not be crushed by it. Feeling my foot hook around his head, my breasts pressed against his chest, my teeth on his lips.

He may be your alpha. He may be your king. He may be your goal. The one you aspire to.

But he is not my alpha. He is simply mine.

And when I cuck you, you will know where the power rests.

It is not with any man.

findom

On Ted Lasso and findom

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Every time I see a nervous sub who is worried about finding a findomme who is in it for the power, for the kink, for the fun of it—I think of Ted Lasso.

If you’ve seen the show, maybe you already know what scene I’m thinking of. (And if you haven’t seen the show, this goddess commands it. Run, don’t walk.)

In that scene, Ted has recently told off his therapist. He basically implies that she can’t care about him for real because she’s getting paid to be with him. Now, he’s back in her office after leaving their last session on that note.

She asks if she can be honest with him. And then she tells him he offended her—and she asks a fantastic question:

Would you coach football for free?

Yes, he says. The answer is yes.

Then she hits him with the kicker: “but do you?”

The conclusion is clear: just because you’re getting paid for something doesn’t mean you don’t fucking love it. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave you breathless.

Sometimes we do things just for money. Sometimes we do them because we fucking love them. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to fucking love something and make money doing it.

I’m not saying there are no people out there taking advantage of this space to just make a living or even scam people. But I am saying just because someone gets paid doesn’t mean they don’t care.

Therapists. Coaches. Findommes.

It’s not different.

Now, if you haven’t seen Ted Lasso, go do that.