FreeNikki and Amarisa explore the colony. XXX Images

Getting close with my MIL.



As I write this, I realize there is context you lack to fully integrate this letter into your mental picture of me. I can share with you a personals ad I once posted, when the submissive side of me was as profoundly aching as the broken side, and let you see that part of me in ways you may not already understand. Before I do that, there are basic facts you should know, J, especially pertaining to the side of me that's deferential and submissive.

I grew up in a house full of women and largely absent a male presence. Including my mother, there were four older females at home, and when you consider their friends, and female relatives, and how often my father was away on business or some form of escape, when you think about my formative years being shaped by an abundance of all things female, the picture should start to fill out for you. Yes, there was doll play. Yes, there was dress-up. Certainly, there were dares, and there was smothering, and extra mothering, sometimes in a domineering way, sometimes in a sweet, protective older-sister way.

J, you're an educated woman. I can't imagine it would be hard for you to connect the dots from my early years to the time, decades later, of submitting to a woman, of dressing how she tells me, of slipping into a pair of panties because she tells me my little dick will feel so much cozier that way. I'm willing to bet you've got a better handle now on how coming of age amid dresses and other lacy things, with bath oils and perfumes and lotions and heels and handbags and lipstick and so many girly things that innately felt to me like the materials of construction of a safe, warm cocoon. For the first 12 years of my schooling, most of my teachers were women. At gatherings, it has always felt normal for me to gravitate toward the women in the room, and to become a part of their conversations, and over the years, I have heard frank discussions as I seemed to all but blend into the population of females on that side of the room. And being raised to be a good boy, a good little gentleman, I always did their bidding, going above and beyond to please.

Did I ever doubt my manhood, my gender, my sex? I can't say that. I do know I somehow sensed early on that I was different, but not in a way I or my therapist would call gay. In fact, through all of the stories my sex therapist has heard about my oral skills and fixations, including the one about why I love to give oral pleasure to women, and about my submission to toys and strap-on play, she has maintained that she has never doubted that I am a man. A man, she says, genteel and sweet, kind, with empathy and an above average understanding of women, and with an openness to play and creative expression and new experiences - all of them under the guidance or the command of an open-minded, strong woman.

Along the way, my dick felt like it was disappearing, and the dominance took on a more blunt tone, with me relegated to being useful primarily through my oral skills. And as I felt more and more broken, I longed for the familiar, for some updated version of that safe, warm cocoon.

Now that you know all of that, I will let you read what I posted in that ad more than a year ago:

This will not be for everyone. It might not be for anyone. But, a boy can dream.

Are you dominant, with a tender, nurturing core? Looking for a project, something you can watch grow, like a seedling that flourishes and blooms slowly, over time and under your capable watch? For the right woman, that can be me. But, this is not for everyone who sees herself as dominant.

The right gardener might have other trees that bend to her command, or tower magnificently for her pleasure, or do both to suit her varying moods.