On the Ethics of Erotic Humiliation

Pathetic, beta, cuck. Piece of shit? (Really?) Pig, dog, worm, bug, and asshole. Ladies and gentlemen, I think it’s time to get real.

I like a little ribbing and loving humiliation as much as the next person, and maybe more so. I like being physically and emotionally at the feet of my Domme. I like serving and worshipping her, I like genuflecting and ingratiating myself to her power, I like relishing and basking in her glory. And I love it when she teases and bullies me. But for some, that sort of thing isn’t nearly enough.

There are people (I’m sure if you’re reading this you know what I mean), for whom submission revolves around and hinges upon but one thing: the assertion, appreciated most earnestly by themselves, that they are lowly, pathetic, servile, and in all other ways equivalent to scum.

It’s the difference between submission and masochism, and it’s the emotional component of that distinction. This is one I’ve drawn frequently in the past, and it’s one I feel should be enunciated clearly here.

The “BDSM” acronym, as my readers may well be aware, is an overlapping four letter initialism that actually refers to six things:

  • Bondage and Discipline
  • Dominance and Submission
  • Sadism and Masochism

All too often, it’s the S&M third of those six components that gets all of the recognition, attention, and press. In other words, both in pornography and in the popular appreciation, S&M often is kink, and much of what is out there caters disproportionately to that persuasion. Now I am not here to judge or condemn anyone for the way they play consensually with consenting and competent partners, but I will take the opportunity to declare categorically that it is nothing that I, as a bona fide kinky person, have an interest in.

I don’t want emotional pain and denigration and degradation and nastiness any more than I want blood and scat and needles and all of the other extreme masochistic play. So where does that leave me? Where, with a desire for the fun and enjoyment of a little playful erotic humiliation, do I go for humiliation I can trust?

To start with, let’s go over what I want (in an ultimate sense) from the people I play with. When all is said and done, and at every step along the way, I have a need to be respected and valued and appreciated and loved. I need to know, not just feel, that, regardless of the context, my partner not only cares about me and my wellbeing but holds me in high regard and high esteem. Moreover I work very hard to earn and be worthy of that status, and I certainly don’t want it to go out the window when it’s time to play.

So where, then, does humiliation come in in that context?

For one thing, it’s important to recognize that in all this sanctity and majesty and pomp there is a very real and important place for a sense of humor. An active and dynamic sense of humor is critical to what I think of as good humiliation play, and it’s conspicuously missing from what I regard as too much. When it’s degrading there’s often nothing funny about it, and if there is the sub is certainly not in on the joke.

In all humor, there is a conspicuous defiance of expectation and an interplay between what is real and what is said. What this means for humiliation play is that there is an extent to which my Domme can say “mean”, embarrassing things to me, and poke fun at me, and I’ll be able to know that she’s kidding. I’ll be able to know it’s in jest and I shouldn’t take it to heart because that’s not what she’d say if she really had to say what she felt.

In this, I can trust her, and it’s a good feeling to trust, especially when that’s pushed and stretched just a little bit. It’s almost as if her jabs are a test, and to be able to feel myself doubling down on that trust is a nice thing, and it’s something we can share. What this process grants us is a modicum of license and freedom, a release valve that assures us we’re not scrutinizing each other too harshly, that our skins our thick, and that what we’ve built together isn’t subject to misinterpretation and spontaneous unfounded accusations. It illustrates that there is room for error, and it’s a way of showing that neither of us is being too strict with the other.

Now some would say that this much is true of denigration play too, but while that may in some sense be the case I think there’s a point to be made on the subject of what promotes that kind of tacit forgiveness and willingness to be pushed.

I think what I value in humiliation play is the idea that when I’m seen for what I really am in a sexual context my partner is generous and accepting of that, even if those things are expressed in a way that relies on what I’ve described above. If she calls me a “slut”, she’s recognizing the abundance of my sexual drive; if she calls me a “dirty little footslave”, she’s recognizing the essential nature of my orientation to her feet; if she calls me her “bitch”, she’s recognizing our relationship and what I give and will accept from her.

In all of these things and more, however “mean” or bullying they may seem, I feel seen, and seen generously, and seen with love. I feel validated and accepted, and even that it’s our little secret that I’ve chosen to share with her. She’s had the opportunity to discover me, and she’s specifically rejected the opportunity to hate me for what I am. She’s decided to be generous and kind in her heart, regardless of how she expresses that or what she says.

What, then, are we to suppose one is recognized to be when it comes to degradation? When one is called by the names and associated with the things listed above? When one is equated with the things on that list? How are we to believe that the kind of love and generosity I’m describing can embrace those things?

For some people, again, I suppose that what I’m saying still holds true. But that leads me to the other point of distinction– when I arrive at that place of demonstration and exposure and being witnessed, what is it that I want myself to be?

When I get to that place in humiliation, there’s something in it that invites me to look at myself through her eyes, and by proxy through the eyes of others in general. She takes the place of what the world might think of me, and together we judge those things implicitly. What, then, can I own about myself and love about myself through her eyes?

A “slut”? Hell yeah I am, and proud of it. A “footslave”? Her “bitch”? There’s nothing I’d rather be. Paradoxically then, what humiliation engenders in the ultimate sense, is a common and cooperative pride in what may otherwise, unfairly, embarrass me. It’s a way of soothing my anxieties about how I will be interpreted as a person, even if that means taking back the words and rubbing my face in them. And the fun of it is being pushed and stretched and teased into proving that that’s exactly what I am.

So why would I want that to revolve around worthlessness? Repulsiveness? Inadequacy? Abjection? Or shamefullness? What good is there in supposing myself to be these things and trying to appreciate myself in that? To whatever extent any of those things are true, in any case, it’s my duty as a human being to change them. It’s something that if I can recognize, to my sincere horror, there must be a moral onus upon me to reject them and make myself otherwise. The last thing I would want to feel if I really believed any of those things were true, is pride.

But this leads me to my real point, which is what I think to be a fair question that any sub who feels this way should ask themselves– is that what you need to be in order to glorify a woman?

In all dominance and submission there is, by definition, an imbalance between top and bottom, but the question in this case is not how far apart the two parties are relative to each other. The question is where do they stand in the world they make together?

I, for one, refuse to feel less than because I put someone else higher than myself. I refuse to imply that in order to make her great I have to lower myself as a human being. I am not a beta, I am not a cuck. I am a god among men and I want to be ruled by a goddess. I am a king who abdicates my throne to my queen, to give her that place of power and become her footstool and servant. I am great, and in order to serve her I must allow and encourage her to be greater.

This, I think, provides room for honor. Not just for me, but all the more explicitly for her. What achievement is it to dominate the lowly? What victory is it to conquer the weak? And why, if you truly believe women are wondrous, would you accuse her of only being capable of that, or fail to provide opportunities for her to do more?

I think implicit in the idea that a man has to be degraded in order to serve is the idea that without that condescension his woman would be powerless, and that is one that I reject from whole cloth. It’s a vile assertion that I refuse to accept. And I think the women we celebrate deserve better. They deserve our faith, and our trust, and they deserve to be equipped and enabled and empowered by us on their journey. The goal of submission shouldn’t be to become servile to the shallowness and mundanity of what they automatically project; it should be to embrace their potential, to elevate them to their rightful place, and to be inspired to awe by their magnificence.

You don’t love a tree by burying yourself beneath its roots; you’re meant to look up, and watch it climb into the sky. And if you’re lucky you’ll get to climb with it, using its strength for support as it takes you to vistas and ecosystems you couldn’t begin to imagine.

Like so much in kink that’s misunderstood, it’s not about the pain and the distress and the humiliation. It’s supposed to be about love.


© 2019

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NEW HALLOWEEN STORY – Trick or Treat…

Because we’re feeling festive, this story is NOW AVAILABLE for FREE on SMUTProject.com until Nov. 1. Click here to read the whole thing!


Synopsis: Bridget throws an impromptu Halloween get together for her friends, and gives them a naughty demonstration of her witchy feminine powers.

This F+ (Multiple Mistress Femdom) story features:
Foot Fetish, Edging, Orgasm Control, Spanking, Erotic Humiliation, Footdom in Socks, Nylons and Sandals, Trampling and Cum Play.


It wasn’t actually quite Halloween just yet, it was the day before, but as I approached the house, of course, you couldn’t have told the difference. There were glowing three jack o’ lanterns on the steps, each with their own cartoonish, exaggerated expressions, there were spider web decorations on the porch and in the trees, and there were green, orange, and purple lights along the side of the house, pointing upwards and making it look like the “spook factory” that I knew that Bridget delighted in having it be.

In fact, the house had looked like that for close to two weeks, an overeager Bridget having decorated as soon as she had the time, and I smiled as I walked past the skeletons “crawling out of” the yard. What could I say? It was her favorite holiday, and I liked seeing her go a little overboard. I liked seeing the glee and the scheming and the planning. I liked that she put so much effort in and paid so much attention to all the little details, crafting the world that most suited her for the one time of year in which it was suitable to do so.

It was cold, and a thin layer of icy snow crusted the lawn, with its skeletons and foamcore gravestones. She had said it was her ambition to be the scariest house on the block, and as I glanced up and down the street I saw that she had certainly achieved it. I smiled to myself, proud of her I suppose, and stepped up onto the porch.

A big, veiny eyeball stared at me as I rang the doorbell and searched my coat quickly for the stray blonde hairs of my dog, and shuddered a little in the cold. I didn’t know what I had to be nervous about. She had told me that it was just going to be a trial run for tomorrow, hanging out with some of her friends while we all made sure our costumes were perfect, and watched a couple of movies. I guess it was Samantha and Vanessa if I’m honest. We had never had problems or anything, it was just that when Bridget got around them her sense of humor took on an aspect that I never quite knew how to make sense of. It was still fairly early in our relationship, and while I loved her very much I never quite knew what to expect from her. I guess, if I’m honest again, that was one of the things I loved the most.

(…)


© 2018

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InstaDomme: FemDom and Kink on Social Media

It’s not infrequently that I browse the “FemDom” and related hashtags, particularly on Twitter because that’s where we at the SMUT Project feel there is the most to be done when it comes to connecting with those who think seriously about the topic. I look for things to share, thoughts and content to promote, things that inspire me or with which I feel a sense of common cause, things I feel connected with or represented by in a positive and meaningful way.

But more reliably than anything like that, what I find in much greater proportion is a slew of what is, in essence, merely advertising. Not for prodommes, not for pornography, but for a special breed of person that I only became unpleasantly aware of in the last couple of years, and which I’m fairly comfortable in believing not just did not but could not have existed until sometime around then: the “InstaDomme”.

She is, in short, at least as defines the typical case, a very young woman (I should say most often in the range of 18-22), with a relatively new account that has a relatively low number of posts, the sole purpose of which is to provide herself with 1) an income stream under the guise of what is called “financial domination”, and 2) an outlet for her distinct and abundant immaturity.

A typical feed reads as follows (quotes taken anonymously from actual tweets):

  • “Your just a looser #findom #femdom”
  • “Where are my #LittleDick losers? I know you’re lonely and feeling vulnerable. Come to me, weakling.”
  • “bow down to your superior and start $ending cucks”
  • “i’ll humiliate you, spit on you, take all the money you have in your wallet, then make you crawl to the ATM like the pig you are to give me the amount I deserve. and you’ll be begging me for more #findom”
  • “RT Game. $2/$2/$2. 1 Comment per 15 min. Drain this fucking loser #findom”
  • “makeups expensive. New foundation costs me £45. #reimburse me for it losers. #reimbursement #findom #paypig”
  • “money makes me so horny”

And make no mistake, there are accounts like these by the hundreds, even by the thousands.

And why not? Can you imagine the perverse simplicity of it? Imagine being that age and coming across the idea that instead of working hard, whether to produce content or cultivate relationships or even just to interact in a healthy and productive way with those around you, instead of suffering from the pressures that life puts on us all, instead of letting that pressure subject you to the pains of growing into a stronger and better human being, all you had to do to achieve success and provide yourself with cash is to create a couple of social media accounts and accounts on sites to process payment, give yourself a title like “Princess” or “Goddess” or “Queen”, fill your feed with bile, and wait for your rewards to come pouring in.

And oh, do those rewards ever floweth. It’s not just the evidence they post, in the form of screenshots declaring their account has received another $100 or $200 or more, the trophies of their “tributes”. It’s not just that they persist in a way that clearly indicates that it’s working for them. It’s the flood of dozens to hundreds of engagements with what they post; the likes, the retweets, the encouraging and prostrating comments, and followers, followers, followers.

A great many of these accounts have followings from the hundreds well into the several thousands, and the phenomenon is within itself a little subculture. There are promotional accounts solely devoted to circulating this kind of dreck, there are similarly devoted “slaves” who do likewise. The little communities play “retweet games” where their “finsub” or “paypig” has pledged a certain amount of cash for each engagement, and over a certain period of time the girl will delight as notification after notification signals the growth of her payoff.

Supposedly this is an outgrowth of BDSM. It’s a kink, we are meant to believe, and surely, the whole ridiculous sham wouldn’t perpetuate itself without a lot of people somewhere jerking off to it in earnest. But to someone who grew up before and in the early days of the Internet, someone who is old enough to know any different, and someone who knows the kinky persuasion to have the capability of being profound and sacred and deep (namely myself), this characterization reads as both cheap and abundantly cynical.

Calling findom a kink asks us to believe that, for all time, there have been people with a quiet desperation to walk up to a stranger, be spewed upon, give them money, and call it a day. While I find that hard to believe, I find it even harder to believe that the procedural aspects of the practice make any sense before the combined existence of the Internet, social media, cashless finance, and the ability for both parties to be isolated in the exchange. It’s true that we don’t have another word yet for something that arouses a person sexually without some relationship to formal sex (one that while making that distinction could further distinguish something like this from that which corresponds to real BDSM), and I don’t dispute that the whole thing revolves around being a turn-on for people. I’ll even go so far as to recognize that the roles and power dynamics at play bear some resemblance to the practice of kink. But to whatever extent it is an authentic extension of D/s, it’s one that, in my estimation, completely misses the point.

Let’s concede for a moment the assumption that at the heart of all of this lies a true appreciation of something and a deep desire to glorify, adore, and promote it. Let’s suppose that that drive animates the whole process, and that at the end of it all both parties are satisfied and fulfilled in their true and essential nature. What, then, can we say that this particular process hinges upon? What, if we even broaden the idea to include the whole “brat” persona, can we say is really being set on the altar of worship? In answer, I can only find some of the most hollow, vacuous, and ultimately contemptible things.

I feel we must take as read the self-evident proposition that these attitudes and behaviors are not things that most of us would honestly support or encourage in real life and in the real world. I think most of us, even the tolerant ones, would say that these things are reprehensible in and of themselves, and that they are really only tolerable to the extent that they represent a phase through which we all must pass. These are things for which we forgive our loved ones because for a time they are incapable of knowing any better. But instead of waiting politely and sympathetically while they grow out of it while enforcing the social discipline that they need in order to learn that that mentality is not a suitable or appropriate one for dealing with other human beings, this so-called kink thrusts it into the spotlight, showers it with praise and both tangible and intangible benefits, and then prostrates itself before it and presents it with the most essential biological approval.

“And so what?” you may say. “They’re just playing. Why can’t they just be left alone with their kink?”

But kink is supposed to be a mutual thing, an exploration of two or more parties’ selves that lead them all to be in touch with the way that they best are able to be, and there is no way for her to participate in this kink without lowering and debasing herself until she is petulant and abusive and exploitative and divorced from her sensitivity, her care, and her love. The practice is, on its face, one-sided, but it is as though we are looking at it through a mirror; the imbalance doesn’t favor her simply because she is in receipt of something as pathetically hollow as money. No, in fact it is the other way around; it enables a man to pay her to get her to be her worst self.

But what’s worse than that, supposing that we can imagine that these things do not take place solely within the ejaculatory vacuum and that it actually has an effect on this young woman’s life, how can she ever grow and develop into an authentic, self-actualized, profound human being who is in touch with and in control of her highest and best self when the world specifically rewards her for doing the opposite? Does the supposedly unassailable right of her counterparts’ exuberance come at the cost of her future, and of the quality of her life and relationships? Does the willingness to idolize her adolescent misapprehension of the means by which to assign value to herself and her world arrest her development into adulthood? I think these are fair questions, and worth asking.

Women shouldn’t be celebrated for being brats any more than they should be celebrated for being bimbos, or bitches, or any of the other things that are less than their most engaged, fulfilled, and powerful selves, that’s why this species of what is called findom has no relationship to the practice of FemDom, despite the supposed interchangeability of their hashtags.

The women who can rightly call themselves Goddesses or Princesses or Queens, the ones who are truly worthy of the adoration and worship they receive, are inspiring. They’re something to be proud of, something to be admired because of what they have achieved in themselves. They have a glory and a majesty that isn’t free, and that you don’t get for nothing just by being female. But if we teach these young women that it’s only because of their anatomies and their gender, they will never know that that level is theirs to pursue.

In all of these accounts and these personas there is a common thread that the domme should be worshipped for what she is rather than who she is, and we have to let FemDom be about more than that.

A woman’s true divinity is something that is explored, and developed, and nurtured, and earned. It’s what elevates her beyond the mundane, the pedantic, and the cheap, and submission is supposed to be about getting in touch with that, both for her and for the sub. But if we continue to let young women believe they can have it for nothing, and keep paying to convince them it is so, the only thing we will buy is that the real thing will be rarer, and all the fewer will be those who possess it.


NOTE: It is true that some men also participate in the practice of financial domination, in a fashion almost entirely similar to what I have described here. I don’t know how this relates to members of the gay or bisexual communities, but I expect there are adequate parallels. The whole thing reeks to me of a similarly exploitative charlatanism and nonsense, but I haven’t begun to explore the dynamics there, nor am I inclined to personally.


© 2018

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PUBLIC PREVIEW – Crossing Kim (Our Neighbor, Part II)

This story is NOW AVAILABLE to backers on Patreon who subscribe at the $10/month level or higher.  Current subscribers can click here to read the whole thing!


Part II in The Domme Next Door series!

Synopsis: Annie and her boyfriend make the mistake of breaking Kim’s rules, and have to suffer the consequences for their indiscretion.

This F/L (Couples’ Femdom) story features:

Punishment, Edging, Cuntbusting, Cum Play, Erotic Humiliation, Orgasm Control, Sock Fetish, Strapon Play, Dildo Play, and Chastity.


[THIS STORY IS SO NAUGHTY THAT WE COULD ONLY FIND THIS TINY LITTLE EXCERPT THAT WAS SAFE FOR A PREVIEW! ENJOY!]

…loud enough that we hadn’t heard her until she was right outside our door. It was hearing her keys that snapped us out of it. I stopped suddenly as my stomach tumbled, and Annie heard it too and snapped her head around to look behind us. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “I think we’re in trouble.” I could see the shadow of her heels in the space beneath the door, and I shuddered as she stood there for a moment before continuing on to her apartment.

Annie stood up and pushed me back, listening, and then she reached back and pulled me out as she turned around. Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the counter and mine did in my pocket, and when we checked them we each turned them around to show what the other one said too:

Come.

Then, a moment later:

As you are. Now.

“Shit!” Annie said in an emphatic whisper. “She knows!”

(…)


© 2018

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PUBLIC PREVIEW – Personal Trainer

This story is NOW AVAILABLE to backers on Patreon who subscribe at the $10/month level or higher.  Current subscribers can click here to read the whole thing!


Synopsis: In a tiny, private, urban gym, a tough and gorgeous athlete puts a weak slave through his paces.

This F (Femdom) story features:

A Competition/Lost Bets, Forced Exercise, Clothed Female/Nude Male (CFNM), Spanking, Ballbusting, Erotic Humiliation, Foot Fetish, Sock Fetish, and Footdom in Socks.


I stepped up onto the curb and walked down the block past the fashionable little boutiques and the restaurants opening for lunch. I sought out the plain, deep blue door numbered 1441 towards the middle of the block, and found it, trying the handle and finding it locked. I peered through the border of the etched glass pane at the staircase and the exposed brick walls, and then turned to the brass intercom, slinging my gym bag higher over my shoulder.

The door buzzed and I made my way up to the third floor, past the vague sounds of people diligently working in offices beyond nondescript doors, past the ficus trees in large pots, and down a long taupe hallway to an isolated door behind a bathroom. Affixed to the door there was a little black placard indicating that I had found the right numbered unit, and a paper printout encased in plastic which read only, “Athletic Endeavors – By appointment only.”

It wasn’t that I was out of shape. In fact I had a job that was pretty physically demanding and I managed to keep up with my physique thanks to that, which was good because I didn’t really have any particular interest in exercise. But I had heard from a lady friend of mine that training with Miss Jenn not only produced results but was, to use her phrase, a “transcendent experience”.

I had looked at her with a little skepticism. “And what exactly does that mean?”

She had returned my gaze in an unusual way and paused, sizing me up a little, before saying, “Let’s just say it’s an unusual kind of workout.” I wasn’t sure, but I thought she might have winked at me. “I’ll make an appointment for you.”

“Oh, no, really, that’s okay. I don’t think it’s really my thing.”

“Just trust me. Knowing you, I think you in particular might get something out of it.”

I took a breath and rapped softly on the door.

“Well just give me her information then, and I’ll set something up.”

“She won’t do it, it’s referrals only. Her client list is very exclusive. And anyway I’m not sure she’d take you, being a man, but who knows? She might like the challenge.”

When it opened there was a full, statuesque vision before me in a black sports bra with flat, muscular abs stretching out to a pair of heather grey spandex leggings that stopped at her thick, muscular thighs. I caught myself having let my eyes drift down her body and snapped them back to her face. She looked Hawaiian, and had striking features beneath jet black hair that was up in a tight ponytail. Her deep, rich, dark chocolate eyes were calculating and tough, but there was a bright, lush, persistent elegance and gentleness like a waterfall flowing through her strong frame. I looked at her, breathless, floored by her vitality, and she sighed and began tapping her foot expectantly on the threshold. The sound drew my gaze quickly downward, and I saw her thick, white tube socks with thick black rings disappearing into her black and hot pink Nikes.

“Hi, uh,” I murmured as I looked up at her again. “I…”

“Yes,” she said, snapping her foot down a final time. “I know. And you’re late. Come in.”

She stepped aside and shut the door behind me as I entered the bright, open room. It looked like the small, historic building through which I came in from the street had been joined to the top floor of the one next to it, and the room took up an entire floor. The brick of the walls had been painted over in white, and the room was split down the middle into a mirrored half with a ballet rail and a dance floor, which had been covered with thick, blue, rectangular mats, and the other half had thinner squares of grey foam covering the hardwood floor, with a treadmill, an elliptical machine, a set of small dumbbells, a red, medium-sized exercise ball, a pull-up bar, and a rack draped with some colored Therabands. Opposite these were a set of four large, arched windows draped with sheer white curtains, which bathed the whole scene in pale, late morning light.

“So,” she said as she closed and locked the door, “Karen’s told me a few things about you. I trust she’s told you about me?”

“Just that you’re quite the trainer,” I said, and she smiled at the word.

“So I’ve been told.” She eyed my gym bag. “She didn’t say anything about what I do though?”

I shook my head. “She was pretty cagey about it actually.”

“She ought to have been. I don’t think many of my clients would share too much about what I put them through. I offer a very particular kind of physical fitness service. It’s strenuous, demanding, and it’s designed to work your body, mind, and spirit. It’s a workout for your entire being. Do you think you’re up for something like that?”

“Well,” I said, feeling like I had heard that before and still unsure of what she had in mind. “That sounds like quite the experience, yes.”

“Good.” She went to the corner and adjusted the thermostat, and I heard the central heating system kick on. It was warm already and apparently it was about to get warmer. “I hope you brought water like I told you to. We’re going to sweat today.”

She turned back around and I shifted under her gaze as she stuck her hands on her hips and said, “You and I are going to compete against each other for several rounds, and depending on the outcome of each round there will be consequences or rewards for you, which we’ll discuss as we go.” I looked over her muscular body, and I nodded slowly. “As we go on, both the consequences and rewards get greater, and you’ll either leave here completely broken or on top of the world. It’s all down to you.”

I took a moment to consider the prospect, but I was feeling more and more hypnotized by her beauty, her prowess, and her apparent power. So I said yes, ready, or so I believed, for whatever would happen next.

“Good,” she said again.

She walked across the room to the edge of the mat and turned back to face me, crossing her arms and tapping her foot again. “Well?” she said impatiently, looking me up and down. “You think we’re gonna do this with you dressed like that?”

“No, I… I mean I’ll go change.”

“No you won’t,” she replied. “You’ll strip.”


© 2017-2018

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One Year Anniversary!!

Today marks ONE YEAR since the launch of The SMUT Project!

We’ve worked hard, and it’s taken us a long way in just a short time. We’ve:

  • produced over 100k words of FemDom and foot fetish erotica (including 15 completed short stories)
  • as well as 11 thought-provoking essays on kink, BDSM, and the intersection between sex and society
  • established a catalog on Amazon, Smashwords, and Goodreads

AND

  • gained 122 followers between this website, Twitter and Tumblr. (Follow us!)

In the year to come we hope to be able to bring you even more! We’re looking forward to establishing SMUT Project Studios (home to our forthcoming visual and documentary efforts), bringing you new print works and merchandise designs, and continuing to build relationships with other kinky creatives!

Thanks to all of you for everything thus far!

Sincerely,

Mr. Yours Truly