Face Humping Heaven
Read time: 5 minutes. Audio available with a subscription on Substack.
Many people ask me to objectify them but few can endure my conceptions. Objectification is one of my favourite kinks, one that I share, one that I understand intuitively. In particular, I love the challenge of sexually objectifying men. I’ve lived many years being sexually objectified by everyone who lays eyes on me; strangers, coworkers, friends - by literally anyone who gets a tingle in their pants from me. It seemed fairly clear to me from a young age, I simply had two options: I could either shy away from my power, obscuring my sexuality to the best of my ability or I could walk into it confidently, hands firmly on the steering wheel, in control of my objectification, my pockets fuller for the choice. I, obviously, chose the latter.
Oddly enough, the opportunity to objectify men is not an act of malice for me, it’s a cathartic practice in balance, a bonding experience, an initiation. I don’t find this exchange of power anywhere but here and I love it. Listen, I know my pictures will be used as masturbatory fuel, my words and thoughts skewed to match the desires of the watcher, my body judged and placed into imaginary scenarios - and guess what? I enjoy it, I own it, I control it and what I can’t control, I simply let go. Objectification is a part of my narrative and I am the author.
When you ask me to objectify you, you ask me to teach you, to haze you, to welcome you into my practice. It’s transcendental and powerful to control what you can and to fully surrender to everything you can’t. For me, this is the root of most BDSM play; the ownership over one’s own suffering, the beautiful vulnerability and real life power that you can access here. It makes perfect sense to me why you would want to experience that and I am fortunate enough to be able to give it to you.
Oh look - Madame Fluffy Buns is at it again!
An object is a ‘material thing that can be seen or touched’. Okay, so that’s insanely vast. Perhaps this explains the common requests to be a human footstool or an ashtray. Object? Yes. Fun object? No. The world is your objectified oyster here guys and if you’re going to let me pick, I’m going for something a little more… interactive. A punching bag, a yoga mat, an aerobics step, a toilet, how about a sybian? In my opinion, becoming an object involves losing part of your humanity and we’re on the clock here, I’m not waiting 4 hours for your knees to buckle, I want to watch you sacrifice right here, right now.
Like the surfer who waits for the ocean to lift them, smothering sessions are like my perfect wave. They contain vulnerability, presence, suffering, pleasure and luck in perfectly equal, ever shifting parts. They can be delightfully objectifying and like most great things in life, smothering is deceivingly simple. It can be reduced to a monotonous series of movements or it can be a dance back and forth between sacrifice and pleasure, the depth of the experience depends on the partner. Listen, I’ll admit, I have the easier role because, well, I can breathe during my part of the dance. This gives me an elevated platform to work from, everything is easier than basic primal instinct so I’ve given myself a little task to work on while I wait for you.
When you ask me to objectify you, you ask me to teach you, to haze you, to welcome you into my practice. It’s transcendental and powerful to control what you can and to fully surrender to everything you can’t.
The dichotomy is intoxicating. This is our sick little deal; you sacrifice breath and I sacrifice stability. We’re working towards the same goal - my pleasure - and if we work as a team, we can become Team Wet Panties. Unlike getting on all fours and grueling through a half an hour with my feet propped on your back, this will be immediate and require some communication. Like most people, I need a nice steady rhythm to get there. If the rhythm is changed, by say, perhaps, a person needing to breathe then the orgasm train grinds to a halt and starts back up at the beginning. It’s a meditative, slippery practice but someone’s gotta train you!
Truthfully, I resent the theatre of FemDom and rejoice in the exchange of verifiable sacrifice. You can save the bowed head, the meaningless titles and promises, you can keep your lip service and acting to yourself, I want your breath. I want to watch you panic below me, even if it’s only for a moment. I want to witness physical evidence, I want to see your will to make me cum in the concave of your chest, your reddened eyes, the heaving of your suffering body. I want my pleasure to overtake your pain. You need to want my cum more than you want air.
Professional Bubble Butt, Bastienne Cross.
You see, I don’t even have to see you to know that the loveliest thing about your face is that little button in the middle. With a perfect slope up and a squishy little end. The cheeks beside it align perfectly with mine, an adorable little seat for my big, fluffy buns. As a very tactile person, I don’t want to speculate about what the landscape of your face might provide, I want to feel it for myself. The most cerebral part of you being ground down by the most carnal part of me. The squishy nostrils that move when I push my clit up against them, the perfect ridge of your brow as your nose slips inside me, all of it. I want to feel the weight of my body squeeze your eyes shut despite your best attempts to blink. I want to turn the face in your family portraits into nothing but a fuck toy. I want to feel your regret but mostly I want to feel you push through it.
The layer of latex between us makes you feel more like a toy than anything. My instincts want to shove you roughly into place but I know I must be patient. This is where I give. First we establish the rhythm, we test the limits of your lungs. You must trust that I’ll let you breathe and I must trust that you’ll try to hold it. Both efforts must be equal for this to work and we have to work in tandem, adjusting the dials until that lovely harmonic is achieved. Once the timing is worked out, I begin cultivating my orgasm. Rubbing with fingers or a vibrator on my clit until I start slipping back and forth with the rhythm we've established. The only break being your incessant need for air. If I’m given enough of a work up, I can hold my momentum but only for a few moments. You must learn to use your breath wisely.
You can save the bowed head, the meaningless titles and promises, you can keep your lip service and acting to yourself, I want your breath.
You must learn to surrender to my pleasure and I must learn to remember you’re still a person as I draw closer to orgasm. Both roles entail an intensely powerful exchange that takes considerable mental presence and willpower to achieve. Certainly nothing to aspire to or expect of yourself overnight but the end result is certainly worth working towards. I have a couple of trained facesitting subs who literally arrive, we exchange a bit of small talk during setup, they assume their familiar position on the bed, I sit on their face, get to face humping and steadily work myself up to a nice, hard orgasm. I clean myself up, a bit more polite banter afterwards, many thanks and they leave. If they were generous enough to bring a gift, perhaps I might pour myself a glass of the whiskey or wine they left and just chill in my post orgasm glow wondering how the fuck I scored this gig.
Now if that isn’t objectification, I don’t know what is.
Alright, cool, so now I have a nose fetish. Well guys, like most great things in life, once you’ve gained a new fetish from something, it’s time to hang up your thinking cap and go diddle yourself about it. Okay… BRB!
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