BROADLY: A 'Lifestyle Slave' Is More Than a Sub Who Does All Your Chores for Free

The dynamic between a dominatrix and her 24/7 sub can be one of tender, mutual support.

When I was in my mid-twenties, I was a dominatrix for a couple of years.

I moved to New York at the age of 24 and was blogging, but I needed a job. I didn’t have any professional qualifications or a college education, so to make money—and avoid being a waitress—I became an assistant to a dominatrix. I was working in her dungeon (her decked-out kink lair) and she’d be like, “Hand me that gag.” And I’d be like, “Alright.” That was sort of my intro to the world of BDSM.

The mistress I worked for had a lot of submissives. Most of them were dudes who paid her by the hour to whip them in a dungeon—which is what most people think of when they think of BDSM. But she also had “lifestyle slaves.” These were men who wanted to be in her service all the time, not just in the dungeon. If she needed someone to change her air conditioner, they would come and change her air conditioner. They would drop her off at the airport if she was going on vacation—things like that. This dynamic was so foreign and intriguing to me. What exactly were these lifestyle slaves getting out of all these chores?

To find out, I thought it would be interesting to explore in intimate detail the relationship between a dom and a lifestyle sub. They are actually huge parts of each other’s lives a lot of the time, which is a side of BDSM and power-play relationships that people don’t typically see.

So, I spent a few days with a New York dom called “Mistress Lucy Sweetkill” and her sub, “Pain Puppy.” It was so interesting because they are so close that it felt like their relationship transcended the normal dominatrix-sub dynamic. They are very committed to each other, and they give each other so much mutual support.


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A 'Lifestyle Slave' Is More Than a Sub Who Does All Your Chores for Free by Karley Sciortino
Broadly, January 1, 2018

GO MAG: Kink And Trust - How Some Trauma Survivors Find Healing Through BDSM

As a survivor of sexual violence, I’ve found that exploring my kinks with partners I trust is a truly cathartic experience. It gives me a chance to reclaim my body as a source of pleasure—instead of anxiety or depression or trauma. I have complete control over how hard I want to be flogged and what sensations I want to experience with the other person. Through this, I’ve learned how to better communicate for myself and understand my desires.

BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism) is a powerful act that’s practiced for many different reasons. It can be a sexual practice, about power dynamics, or experiencing pain as pleasure. Play can even be used as a tool to help process trauma. BDSM is interdisciplinary, and therefore the actual practice varies for everyone in the community. That’s because kinks come in many forms—suspension play, role play, physical restriction, power exchange, administration of pain, spanking and age play just to list a few.

And while there’s a lot of debate around the topic of BDSM in general, people get especially up in arms when they hear that some trauma survivors have found healing through their kinks. Though psychologists have historically pathologized kinky behavior as “Sexual Sadism and Sexual Masochism Disorders”—there is research that shows people who practice BDSM are actually less neurotic, more extroverted, more open to new experiences, more conscientious, less rejection sensitive and have higher subjective well-being than non-kinky people. A similar U.S. study found BDSM-identified couples reported less stress as well as increased intimacy following play.

This is all to say that BDSM is a healthy and consensual form of expression—in fact, the current BDSM 4C Consent Model is based around caring, communication, consent and caution. “Fully engaged kink insists on full presence without pretense and the willingness to connect your raw humanity to another’s raw humanity,” says sex writer Midori.

Read the full article:

Kink and Trust: How Some Trauma Survivors Find Healing Through BDSM by Corinne Werder

November 20, 2017

The Velvet Chain: A Lesbian Romance

by M.L. Paige

The dancer twirled, unleashing a cloud of glitter and perfume as she turned her back to Isabelle. Then she folded over at the waist, coiffed hair hanging between studded stilettos, fake breasts stretching the nylon of her bikini top, and shook her ass in Isabelle’s face to the cheers and howls of the patrons of The Velvet Chain. The suits with their loose ties and undone collars on either side of Isabelle threw fans of cash in the air as Isabelle pulled her grimacing face away, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

With her eyes clenched shut, Isabelle–”Izzy” in her own head and to her friends–took in a deep breath and sucked down the wafting mix of sweat and sex and shea butter. She fought the urge to do what so many of her coworkers had done and plunge her face straight between the gyrating, shaking buttocks in front of her, the worst part being that the dancer would likely let her get further than any of the men who had tried a similar stunt.

But that would ruin the theater of it all and would ruin the game, for good. Izzy knew that the senior bankers only took her out to The Velvet Chain to delight in her looking aghast at the sight of the half-naked women, to laugh and egg the dancers on as they flirted with Izzy, and then to ogle silently as the dancers used her as a sort of proxy doll for what the men wished would be done to them, stroking and teasing and seducing Izzy until the dancers were content with the money they had milked out of the bankers.

Without those nights at The Velvet Chain, Izzy was just another mousy junior analyst putting in 60 hours a week to make a tenth of what the senior bankers did. During her first week at the firm, a female managing director had approached her in the cafeteria, took her aside, and warned her that the only way a “good girl” like her would get the corner office was to become shrewd and calculating.

“Play their games,” advised the managing director. “Ride their coattails. And for Christ’s sake never tell them you’re a lesbian.”

“Excuse me?” asked a frazzled Izzy. “I’m sorry, but I’m not a lesbian.”

The managing director smiled with her shadowed eyes and painted brows. “Sure you aren’t sweetie,” she said out of pursed lips. “And I’m not a power bitch who buys a new apartment every year.”

“Seriously,” insisted Izzy. “I’m not.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the managing director. “Just make sure the boys believe it and you’ll be fine.”

Before Izzy could respond, the managing director took off to make small talk with a couple of ashen-haired men wearing large watches and suit jackets that shined under the cafeteria lights. They chatted like old friends, the managing director bursting into laughter at even the slightest joke.

By definition, Izzy was no lesbian–which is to say, Izzy had never been with a woman. The most she had done was a bit of sloppy, drunken kissing in college, nothing more than the stupid antics of a girl trying too hard to fit in at a party scene that was never meant for her anyway. But Izzy’s eyes told a different story, their gaze drawn again and again and again to the angelic crimp of a woman’s face or the tight gulf of her cleavage or the sculpt of her ass as she walked in front of Izzy on the street. In the half-dreams Izzy experienced in the space between late night and early morning, when she could direct the flow of imagination just enough without dictating the script, Izzy saw herself entangled with other women, their faces stolen from those glimpsed while out walking or spotted in the dark corners of the dive bars Izzy frequented when she wanted to be alone in a crowd. During the best dreams, Izzy could taste these women and feel their flesh hot on her palms, and when she woke from such dreams there were always a few genuine beats of wondering if the whole sordid scene had actually occurred.

Then came the realization: No. Made up. Fake. And then Izzy would get up and begin another day of being someone she wasn’t.

The dancer swung her hips away from Izzy’s face and spun around, her excited eyes searching out those of the men who had just carpeted the club’s floor in bills. Izzy inhaled again but already the smell of the dancer was gone, lost in a swirl of a cologne and whiskey.

“Izzy, honey!” roared the beer-bellied VP sitting next to her who went by “Big Matty”. “You took that like a champ!” He clapped her on the shoulder, holding on longer than he had to. “If it was me...” he shook his jowly cheeks back and forth and made a motorboating noise. The other men laughed.

“That’s more like Nixon, BM,” said a bearded giant on Izzy’s other side. Alex Kensing Jr. was his name, and despite the bed of wrinkles on his face his beard was blacker than those of men twenty years younger. He reached out a long arm and brushed the dancer’s hip. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

The dancer stepped away from Alex’s fingers, making the move look like her improvised routine. Then she began shuffling back towards The Velvet Chain’s stage, turning one last time to show the room her ass before she disappeared behind dark, heavy curtains. The thumping music faded and the lights were cut in dramatic fashion, the entire room pitch black for a few seconds before an announcer came on the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the legendary Velvet Chain club, thank you all for coming out tonight!”

The crowd wooed and wailed and Izzy was grateful it was dark so that she didn’t have to watch as the pent-up patrons of the club realized she was the only woman there.

“We are pleased to welcome a very special guest tonight: the quixotic, exotic, and erotic Mistress Embers!”


The Maneaters of Gynos: A Dark Fantasy Erotica

by M.L. Paige

The Golden Rooster Company, that’s what they called themselves. It was a cheap joke–standard fare for Asher, really–but to the surprise of all three of them it caught on with the local mercs and the generals and even the nobles. No one could believe when, at a raucous stag party celebrating the engagement of Lord Rayneth’s nephew, the Lord himself had leaned in close to Edsere and asked in a liquored whisper if he had a golden cock. As Edsere told it, the Lord giggled–actually giggled–and dangled his pinkie suggestively.

“I feel bad for the sad cunt if that’s all he’s got for a pecker,” Sahvin had said, sulking that the Lord had confided in Edsere and not himself.

“You hush up,” Edsere had replied. “If anyone hears you he’ll have your head.”

Asher grabbed at Sahvin’s crotch. “From what I’ve seen of it, I’d rather have the pinkie,” he said with a snicker.

In a way it seemed inevitable that The Golden Rooster Company would be embraced by Lord Rayneth and the rest of his cronies in the Kingdom of Virfortis. After all, Lord Rayneth was responsible for revitalizing the kingdom’s economy using one of the oldest tricks in the book–slavery–and The Golden Rooster Company was exceptionally good at scouting rural villages and secluded hamlets for so-called “human capital” to bring into Virfortis.

The Company divided their targets into two categories. The first category (and also the largest) was comprised of what Edsere had dubbed “Snoozer” towns. These were full of homely peasants offering little true value, most of them older than younger, and the plan for these peasants was for the men to be conscripted into military service as frontline fodder while the women were put to work on domestic duties. Couples were given bare lodgings and the illusion of freedom, which kept them complacent enough to prevent a revolution.

The other category was far more exciting to Edsere and the rest of The Golden Rooster Company, and no doubt to Lord Rayneth himself. These were called “Sleeper” towns, named for the abundant value these places had sleeping beneath their surface in the form of gorgeous young women. These women were captured, broken, trained, and then put on the slaver’s market where they were often snatched up by a wealthy noble looking for some excitement in his life. Some met a more public fate as “Comfort Stations” for Virfortis’s military and others were kept like animals to be rented out to the lower–and far more brusque–classes of the kingdom. Failure to bring in coin for the kingdom resulted in public punishment meant to not only humiliate the slave but to also advertise the slaver’s wares to whomever might be watching.

All three members of The Company had spent many a night with slaves whose capture they had facilitated and it never ceased to amaze Edsere just how malleable they were. Stunning, resilient women who spat and swore and promised that they would bite off Edsere’s cock the moment he tried to put it between their lips became in time eager creatures who threw themselves at his crotch like starving dogs hunting for a bone and who begged feverishly to suckle on his balls moments after he’d emptied days’ worth of seed down their throats.

It was enough to convince Edsere that maybe this was the intended order of things, the path set forth by some great creator in the stars above, and all that he and Asher and Sahvin were doing were righting the aberrations of nature. After a few years as part of The Company he began to think perhaps these women actually preferred being slaves, that life was easier for them without harsh winters, dwindling food supplies, and the constant threat of invasion to worry about. Now it came down to a simple focus on the cocks and pussies and lips and assholes of those with enough coin to claim them.

And judging by how often Asher and Sahvin frequented the slaver’s stables, his companions didn’t disagree.

A straight two weeks of storms had just passed through Virfortis when Lord Rayneth summoned The Golden Rooster Company to his private quarters, the four men left alone at the top of the kingdom’s tallest tower with enough wine to wet an army. The Lord poured his guests heavy glasses without asking, something Edsere knew to mean an unpleasant request was on the way.

“So,” said Lord Rayneth, swirling a glass of almost purple liquid. “I assume you’ve heard about what happened at the stables.”

Edsere had. A freak bolt of lightning from the storm had toppled a grain store adjacent to the stables, causing a waterfall of stones each heavier than a man to collapse down onto the stable’s eastern wing. Almost three dozen rental slaves were killed, along with two slavers who had decided to take advantage of the storm’s calamity to enjoy the slaves for themselves.

“It was a real shame,” said Asher with a face puckered from how tannic the wine was.

“A shame?” asked a drunken Lord Rayneth. He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “The ‘real shame’ here is that those rentals bring in more revenue than half the bloody kingdom does! If those holes could talk, they’d be able to name every cock from here to Princeps.”

“I mean, one of their holes can talk,” Asher said. “Well, used to be able to…”

“Shhh,” hissed Sahvin, smacking Asher in the head. “The Lord is speaking.”

Edsere tried to push past Asher’s idiocy. He addressed Lord Rayneth: “My Lord, you know matters of the economy far better than we do. But we know scouting. May I assume you’ve called us here to help–” Here Edsere struggled for the most tasteful word to use. “–mitigate the damages?”

A languid smile curdled across the Lord’s ruddy face. “I’ve always liked you Edsere,” he said, contemplating his wine. At this, Sahvin shot Edsere an envious glance. “I mean, you’re no noble–not even close–but you are a businessman and you have a way of cutting through the fog. Yes, I would like you and the rest of The Golden Rooster Company to replenish the stock we’ve lost in the storm.”

“As you wish My Lord,” said Edsere. “I actually have a pla–”

Lord Rayneth cut him off: “I also think that as a businessman you will appreciate that I want to use this replenishment as an opportunity to diversify our stock.”

“My Lord?” asked a wary Sahvin, raising one of his pale golden eyebrows high on his forehead.

“The people are growing bored of the same pussies,” slurred Lord Rayneth. “Profits are down. Complaints are up. Simply put, the men of Virfortis want something different to stick their dicks into. That’s why I’m sending you to Gynos.”

Gynos. Edsere had never been before–hell, none of The Company had ever been before–but they’d all heard tales of that land. Fertile fields and rolling hills, majestic mountains capped with snow that pierced the ever-blue skies. In Gynos it was said you could drink any water without worry, even the smallest streams, and that the meat and milk tasted fresher than anything available in Virfortis. The women were also rumored to be exotic and pure, with golden manes of hair and eyes like precious gems. Edsere had heard jokes and rumors in the backrooms of Virfortis pubs that even a Gynos woman’s piss tasted like the sweetest ale.

But to scout such a place without ever having been there? Edsere was worried. Who knew what unknown defenses Gynos had, what protections were in place to keep outsiders away?

“My Lord,” said Edsere. “Gynos is unknown to us. Gynos to almost unknown to everyone in Virfortis, in fact. This will be a difficult venture for sure.”

Lord Rayneth waved away Edsere’s concerns. “I know Edsere, I am no fool. That is why I am going to pay you fifty times the regular rate.”

“Fifteen times?” asked Asher, blinking in disbelief.

“No,” said Lord Rayneth. “Fifty. Five-Zero.”

The entire Company was silent.

“Ah now that shut up your concerns didn’t it,” mused Lord Rayneth.

“It is a lot of money,” said a still stunned Sahvin.

“I suppose it is to you, isn’t it?” asked Lord Rayneth, laughing. “But if I’m right–and I am always right–then the slaves of Gynos will usher in a new era for Virfortis. We’ll be entertaining visitors from across the seas, welcoming their most esteemed and most famed into new brothels that are nothing like anyone has ever seen. And with those proceeds you lot can hire a hundred more of golden cocks to help you go snatching up cunts from every corner of the world. We’ll have a zoo of holes for the fucking, a museum of every shade and size and style of pussy, and that will be the powder keg that launches Virfortis from Kingdom to Empire. Just you wait.”

“Fifty times the regular rate,” said Asher still in disbelief.

“We humbly accept your request,” said Edsere. He was dizzy at not just the thought of what he could do with the coin but what he could accomplish with a hundred more members of The Golden Rooster Company. They could be a business proper, forming contracts with multiple kingdoms, trading goods as supply and demand warranted. Edsere might even wind up as a Lord himself one day, sitting in a tall garish tower dictating his requests to a bunch of hapless hopefuls.

The possibilities seemed endless.

“Of course you accept,” said a laughing, coughing Lord Rayneth. He shook his head. “I really do like you Edsere. Now, go out and get me some Gynos pussy.”


Bewitched & Betwixt: A Fantasy Femdom Story

by M.L. Paige

There are magicks in the world, believe you me. Not all that fireball, wall of water, sparks flying nonsense–those are just silly children's stories–but magicks in the form of lurking tendrils under existence, forbidden truths that challenge the very nature of what we assume must be. You're laughing, snickering under your breath and hey, that's alright. I was like you once.

Then I crossed paths with a Witch.

Let me back up a bit. She wasn't really a witch-witch–no hook nose, no emerald skin, no broom–but that’s what she called herself. I guess Sorceress would fit too, as would Shaman, as would probably a dozen other names I don’t even know. Whatever you call her though, Plumeria was something I sure as hell had never encountered before. Perhaps if I had I would've been a bit more respectful, or at least not as goddamn stupid. But what can you do? Hindsight, 20/20, blah blah blah.

I'd first spotted her at a tequila bar down in the Lower East Side, one of those faux-Cuban spaces slathered in sea green and peach that plays grating Latin music and always has its lights on too bright. I was drunk and alone, but the night had started quite the opposite with me starkly sober and joined by a meal-ticket date who I told to go fuck herself when she tried to order her third glass of Don Julio Real. As soon as she was gone the Reals began to flow again and somewhere in that agave cacophony is when Plumeria showed up.

She was a phantom with hips, all funereal in her black flowy anti-summer dress with eyes like volcanic stone and skin so creamy that the harsh bar lights made her veins show through. She was alone too, but cast a field around her so that she suffered none of the elbow bumping and loud talking that I did. Instead she was free to arch over her liquor, taking sips with lacquered crimson lips as if she were merely wetting her mouth with the tequila instead of drinking it.

Plumeria was one of those women who looked tall but just had stunning posture (as opposed to me with my six feet and change and my perpetual slump). It made it impossible to look anywhere else in the bar and before long Plumeria caught me trying catch her eye and stared me down with an impish little smile until I looked away.

A minute later a glass arrived before me.

“From the lady at the end of the bar,” said the unapologetically gringo bartender. “Don Julio Real.” He set the bottle down on the bar, its slender neck rising above a wide, flat base of amber.

“Did you tell her what I was drinking?” I asked in a drunken slur.

The gringo raised a caterpillar eyebrow at me. “If you don't want it…”

“No,” I said, snatching the glass off the bar before it could be withdrawn. “Thank you.”

I looked down at my benefactor but she was busy tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, no trace of flirtation or even a smile on her face. Unseen, I toasted her with my glass chalice of tequila raised in the air and then took a long, deep sip of the liquor. It warmed me from the inside out, blooming heat filling my arms and legs and a delicate tingly wave washing over my scalp. Was this the real Real? It tasted different–stronger–and I glanced down at the bottle to see if the bartender had made a mistake.

The bottle was gone.

“Excuse me,” said a silken voice in my left ear.


Beta Male Blues

by M.L. Paige

All his life, Tyler thought he was an alpha male. Then he met Jenny.

It all started with Tyler’s search for a roommate for his rent stabilized prewar two-bedroom apartment off of Greenwich Street that had been grandfathered into him by a friend of a friend’s actual grandfather. The place was cavernous, with high ceilings, a dine-in kitchen, and a living room that rivaled the size of most studios–the kind of unrealistic New York apartment only seen on shows like “Friends” or “Felicity”. But for Tyler it was a reality, albeit not a free one, and when his previous roommate scored a research grant halfway across the globe Tyler was forced to search for someone who could not only foot their share of the rent but also keep the deal they were getting a secret.

Jenny was one of the first to respond to Tyler’s craigslist ad. They met for coffee one Tuesday afternoon to discuss specifics–Tyler never mentioned the apartment was rent stabilized until he’d met the prospective renter–and when Jenny arrived, Tyler instantly fell in love. With a waterfall of dark chestnut hair, honeyed skin, and a tall curvy frame, Jenny looked like an exquisite sculpture come to life, a Polynesian goddess made flesh who smelled of plumerias and didn’t so much as look at people as she did peer into them. From the moment they shook hands, Tyler felt that he could trust Jenny more than anyone else he’d ever met in his life.

“You know, you don’t look like a Jenny,” said Tyler, fumbling over his words.

“Neither do you,” Jenny said with a dazzling white grin. She squeezed Tyler’s hand and let a single finger graze the inside of his palm before she sat down. “I guess we’ll both just have to cope, won’t we?”

They chatted for almost a half hour before the apartment came up, Jenny eagerly sharing her upbringing in Maui and her trips around the world and her decision to come to New York to pursue Medicine. Then she peppered Tyler with questions, covering everything from his first pet to where he got the scar on his forearm to his favorite bars in NYC. Even though Tyler was sure Jenny had to be buttering him up–after all, for the price the apartment’s amenities were unbelievable–she really did seem curious about Tyler as a person. He figured she either had to be the greatest liar he’d ever met or just a naturally inquisitive person who genuinely cared about others.

“Okay,” said Tyler, taking advantage of a break in Jenny’s questions. “I’m just going to say it: I think you’re a great fit for the apartment. You don’t need to convince me any further.”

“Convince you?” asked Jenny, tilting her head to the side so that her hair spilled down one shoulder. “I thought we were just chatting. Honest.”

Tyler let loose a half-laugh. “Maybe it’s just the cynical New Yorker in me, but I figured you were, you know… working me or whatever.”

Jenny threw her head back and laughed, clapping her hands together. “Oh god, I’m sorry that’s too funny. The idea of me ‘working’ anyone…. Hah.” She lowered her gaze at Tyler, smiling. “Do you really think I’m a good fit for the apartment? I mean, I think we get along, but a lot of guys don’t like having female roommates.”

“You are a good fit and nah I don’t mind a female roommate at all,” said Tyler. “Actually I thought it was the reverse, that women don’t like male roommates.”

“Depends on the roommate,” mused Jenny. “No one likes a creeper, but you seem pretty normal.”

“‘Pretty normal’,” repeated Tyler. “Thanks.”

Jenny reached out and gently touched Tyler’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “It’s a compliment–seriously.”

“So,” Tyler said, trying to change the subject. “There’s just one other thing about the apartment I have to tell you.”

Tyler explained the rent stabilized situation to Jenny and she promised not to tell a soul, mentioning that friends of hers were in similar setups so she knew the importance of keeping things quiet. For his part, Tyler believed her–why would she lie?–and felt so comfortable with Jenny that he invited her to take a look at the apartment right that very moment. She agreed. The two wandered from the coffeeshop and resumed their earlier conversation, sharing bits and pieces of their lives as they walked and laughed and neared the apartment.

Upstairs in the unit itself Jenny was speechless. She followed behind Tyler as he gave her the full tour, showing off the things women seemed to love about the place: the classic fixtures, the antique crown molding, the art deco tiling in the bathroom. But where Jenny focused the most attention was on the bedroom that was to be hers. It was empty with a fresh coat of white paint, nearly two-thirds the size of Tyler’s room, and with just one window obscured by the apartment’s fire escape that also faced into the building’s inner courtyard.

A disappointed frown hung heavy on Jenny’s pouting lips.

“It’s nice,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

“Just so you know, I’ve prorated the rent to reflect the rooms,” said Tyler as he tried to ameliorate her concerns. “I know this room’s smaller than the master bedroom, but it’s definitely cheaper too.”

Jenny parroted him back: “The master bedroom. Do you think–” She paused and slipped into thought for a moment before continuing. “Is there any way I could rent that room instead?”

“You want the master bedroom?” asked an incredulous Tyler.

“I’ll pay the difference,” Jenny added.

Tyler sighed. He loved the idea of Jenny as a roommate but felt caught off guard by her request. “I’ve been in that room a long time…”

“What if I give you an extra 10%?” offered Jenny.

“Wow you really want that room,” Tyler said.

Jenny chewed on her bottom lip. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that I always had this specific vision for my time in New York. A prewar building, a big apartment, sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows in the morning… this place is so great and so are you Tyler, but the bedroom is just… I’m sorry, it just doesn’t do it for me. I understand if that’s a deal breaker for you.”

‘Hey now hold on,” said Tyler. “Are you serious that you’d really pay an extra 10%? You don’t even know what the rent on that room is.”

“I don’t care,” said Jenny. “This is my dream place, I’m willing to pay whatever I have to. Hell you could even lie to me about the rent if you wanted to and I’d have no idea.”

Tyler thought about it for a moment. He could lie to Jenny and make a couple hundred extra bucks a month; even just the normal rent with an extra 10% would nearly halve what he was currently paying. Or he could take a different tact. He could offer Jenny a fair 50/50 split, showing her the rent statement so she knew he wasn’t bullshitting her and say that it was his part in making her New York dreams come true. Not only would this make sure their time as roommates started off on a good foot–nothing was worse to Tyler than a contentious roommate situation–but Jenny might even show her gratitude in other ways, perhaps.

With a quick glance, Tyler sized Jenny up, his gaze tracing the outline of her breasts pushing against her white blouse and the blossomed swell of her hips in her painted-on indigo jeans. She gave a little stretch and as she did her blouse lifted the slightest bit, revealing the dark etchings of a tattoo that extended just above her waistline.

For fuck’s sake, thought Tyler as his cock stirred.


BROADLY: Understanding Sexual Pleasure Isn’t Just Fun—It’s Crucial

In "Unscrewing Ourselves," our first annual Sex Month on Broadly, we explore the state of sex ed today by highlighting the individuals and ideas changing our sexual health for the better. Read more from this series here.

Andrea Barrica grew up Catholic Filipino—meaning, she explains, the only sex education she received was being told not have sex before she got married.

"That was pretty much it," the 27-year-old tells Broadly. The message was that "all things that you do before marriage is a sin. I never learned about consent. The reason why I never learned about consent is, why was I even thinking about it? It was all or nothing. Whether you make out or go and have full-on intercourse, that's like, burning in hell."

The harmful effects of this fear-mongering, abstinence-only approach to sex ed made Barrica realize that sex positivity is crucial for effective sex ed. Motivated by this realization, Barrica and her team are launching O.School, an online platform powered by live streaming and live chat, this October. O.School aims to give people a safe space to learn about sexual pleasure, identity, and communication in bed.

"The vision is to become the most trusted place online to talk about sex, to solve intimate problems, and to explore your sexual identity," Barrica says. "That's really different from the fear-based stuff you get in school: 'Here's how you avoid getting pregnant; here's how you avoid getting an STI; this is menstruation; this is your body.' That's all really important, but that doesn't even begin to cover what learning about sex and pleasure is. The fact that we even talk about pleasure is something you probably wouldn't get outside of purely anatomically explanations in a science class."

Read the full article:

Understanding Sexual Pleasure Isn't Just Fun -- It's Crucial by Kimberly Lawson

October 4, 2017

TONIC: BSDM Can Provide Profound Healing Experiences

Cupcake Sinclair likes to be punished. As a professional submissive and fetish porn producer in Los Angeles, being tied up, spanked, and flogged is part of the job description. It's also what she does for fun. Last year, she became a somewhat of a FetLife celebrity when she produced and starred in a fetish video that depicts a man nailing her breasts to a wooden board as a punishment, aptly titled "Nailed."

"Yes, it's painful," she says. "Yes, there's screaming." The video is very real and undeniably unsettling for those not accustomed to watching a self-described "pain slut" have body parts nailed to a boar. But it's the product of Sinclair's literal "blood, sweat, and tears," she tells me, and she continues to recreate this scene for live audiences at local LA fetish clubs for fun—and as a form of therapy. Sinclair explains that extreme submission provides a release from the banality of boring, everyday vanilla living while also helping her preserve her mental health.

"So many of us shy away from pain. Being able to embrace it allows me personally to feel the catharsis I need, as well as to remind myself I'm stronger than any problems I might be going through. I've been in the lifestyle for about six years now and for me, it's therapeutic," Sinclair says. "I tend to develop a bit of a disconnect with my emotions, [and] by submitting and going through levels of pain and pleasure, I feel more honed in to reality. When submitting to someone I trust, I'm able to let go of my anxieties."


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BDSM Can Provide Profound Healing Experiences by Sofia Barrett-Ibarria

August 29, 2017

Image source: Adam Berry/Getty

HELLO GIGGLES: How I use BDSM to cope with my trauma from sexual assault

Every 98 seconds, an American becomes a survivor of sexual assault. In 2007, I was one of them. In the years that followed, I wasn’t able to acknowledge my experience as an assault. Of course, I noted it and remembered it, but did not dwell on the memory.

In 2009, I began to suffer from vaginismus, an involuntary muscle spasm that made sex painful, unavailable, and unimaginably oppressive. As a result, I began to write about women’s health and sexual wellness, but I didn’t connect my vaginismus to my assault as a teenager until much later. Once I made that rational realization, I dedicated my recovery to healing, repairing, and restoring my psyche.

Since April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, I hope to incorporate my writing as a form of constant resistance and recovery from my own sexual assault. I have found a safe space in the online community—I now use writing as coping, writing as rehabilitating, writing as reclaiming my identity. But that’s not the only thing I use to heal myself.

After leaving a toxic and abusive relationship earlier this year, I began to experiment with kink and BDSM. Whipping and slapping, dominance and submissiveness, power and control—these are all types of therapy for me. In a way, incorporating BDSM into my sexual experience itches a particular scratch. I am in control, and I dominate the situation.


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April 25, 2017

HELLO FLO: How Kinky Sex is Related to Happiness and Creativity

Rena McDaniel, a Chicago sexologist told Bustle that “Kinks, much like like sexual orientation and gender identity, are created through a complex interplay that research doesn’t fully understand of genetics, environment, and our experiences paired with sexually relevant contexts.” Where our kinks stem from cannot fully be explained. Why we are sexually aroused by a color, an action, a feeling, a situation, isn’t always so matter of fact — there isn’t a specific formula or explanation of certain kinks. What we can explain, however, is the way that these kinks make human beings feel.

Researchers at the Science of BDSM Research Team at Northern Illinois University worked with seven pairs of “switches,” a role where the individual is interested in both the top and bottom, the submissive and the dominant.

“Gentle touching and communication to striking, bondage and fetish dress,” were examples of the experimental scenes that 14 adults from the ages of 23 to 64 engaged in during the research. The participants were from the kink-focused network Fetlife  — think Facebook, but for kinksters.

The activities that the participants engaged in produced two types of altered states, as well as the reduction of psychological stress, the improvement of mood, and the increase of sexual arousal. In order to understand the levels of altered states, the participants were asked to give five saliva samples and complete three Stroop tests which involve words and colors before and after the experimental scenes.


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How Kinky Sex is Related to Happiness and Creativity by S. Nicole Lane

March 14, 2017