Femdom Cave

Adult Literature for the Discerning Reader

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Femdom Cave

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Femdom Books

KURT STEINER CALLING…

A big hello to everyone connected with my favourite femdom book site.

Yes. Of course. I would say that. Given that as well as being an avid reader of the content provided by its catalogue, I’m also one of its writers, with titles – I’m not so proud (shameless, if you prefer) I’ll forego mentioning them – I’ve provided down the years.

Titles such as:

The Inferior”, “Serving Sreelatha”, and “The Malkin”.

As well as, amongst others, my particular favourite and one I’m currently in the process of extending and revising: “A Journey to Disgrace”.

The last of those titles comes with a fore-and-afterword from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. Though for those of you already writing me off as some crank with a belief in his own spiritual powers – if not the fairies Doyle himself was adamant existed and had photographic evidence to back up his claims – the words of the great man himself are posthumous creations of yours truly and penned simply to serve the narrative of the story.

So much for self-publicising.

The reason I’m really penning these few words is to sing the praises of a female-led literature site that’s been around now from at least 2010 when I first wrote “The Inferior” and must surely be one of the largest sites of its kind to be found on the worldwide-web.

And, yes, I know large doesn’t necessarily mean good.

Cyril Smith springs to mind instantly, even if more youthful readers might need to consult Google to get a handle on my inference.

But in the Cave’s case, I think I’m on relatively safe ground when I say the epithet “Good” is more than well-deserved and the site has proved a wonderful outlet down the past eleven or twelve years for both my writing and the curiosity going hand in hand with it. A sexual curiosity that, as I mentioned at the top of this blog entry, makes me as avid a reader as I am equally driven to place my fantasy life on paper.

And I freely admit that the lack of a physical element to my ongoing fixation contributes hugely to my desire to write about it in fictional terms.

That physical lack, I confess, due to a lack of moral courage on my part that’s twinned with a fear of being ridiculed were I ever to come out to a pleasing female I thought had similar – if from a position of greater altitude – desires as myself.

Whatever the reasons for my social timidity, this is pretty much a first for me, given it seems more confessional in nature than even the stories I put forward for publication.

Those fictional adventures intended by me to provide an outlet for certain masochistic desires; desires whose origins I’m no closer to understanding now than I was when they first put in an appearance (an appearance I can recall, anyway) back in that faraway time of formative prepubescence.

The formative years I speak of having been spent on the East Coast of India in a major seaport with my mother and father, whose work (my father’s that is) demanded he live on a year-in-year-out basis on the subcontinent; though we did travel back to England to see our relatives at least once every twelve months until that time when I was eighteen and returned to take up a place at Bristol and complete my studies before returning to Madras and…

I’ll stop with the personal biography at this point if it’s the same to you. Too many more clues in these days of social media and my pseudonym will be rendered worthless. Michael Caine’s German commando from the Jack Higgins novel and film – the same cockney “Fallschirmjäger” with a remit to take out Churchill – having kept my anonymity until now perfectly.

That desire for obscurity, in this instance at least, yet another example of the social timidity and fear of ridicule spoken of above.

Anyway, what puzzles me about the way my pulse races whenever I hear mention of a dominatrix – and in any of her various forms – is the fact I have no idea why it should be so.

And especially as the prospect of ever actually being made a dominated cuckold, placed in a cock cage, or made to wear female clothing while serving up refreshment at a ladies’ coffee-morning would see Usain Bolt eating my dust as I made my getaway.

And, before you start, the difference between what my subconscious desires and what my conscious needs will tolerate does not make me a hypocrite.

That description would only be valid if I were to be judgemental about those whose subconscious and conscious were in accord and the conscious acted them out in real-time.

Consenting adults and no harm done being the watchwords.

Anyhow, as I was saying before I temporarily derailed myself; the origins of my desires are a mystery to me.   

There were, after all, no Omphale’s, Messalina’s, or Wanda Von Dunajew’s in my early life. No strict governess, no familial corporal punishment, nor even an early girlfriend with instincts, physical, mental, or both, of a sadistic and controlling nature to which a young and impressionable boy or young man might find himself drawn.

My mother was loving and delivered her life-lessons to me with reason backed by a considerable intelligence she placed mainly at the service of my father who, although kind and well-meant, could also be aloof and too wrapped up in the business of his own life to provide my deserving mother with the attention she so richly deserved.

All that said, then where does my own preoccupation with femdom originate?

Picture me holding up my arms in surrender.

I simply haven’t a clue. And this despite having taken the Socratic route as described by Plato and analysed my past. Only to come up from my immersion empty.

Does this mean my life isn’t worth the living, as the great Greek intimated?

Or do I get a pass because I made at least an attempt at examination?

I plump for the latter of the two options.

I also refuse to believe, to paraphrase Santayana, that, like the  “true beast”, the fact I have passions at all is reason enough to accept their existence.

That disbelief, however, was not enough to stop me from enjoying those passions.

And there it is in a nutshell: the pleasure received from the addiction trumping the desire not to be an addict and find oneself afflicted with the humiliations and shame associated with our individual bondage.

Be it nicotine, alcohol, cocaine, or the greed for money and power.

And, in my experience at least, the desire to experience powerlessness beneath the feet of a domestically and sexually dominant woman – be that subjection real or imagined – is at least as powerful and difficult to jettison as any of the compulsions mentioned above.

I certainly haven’t been able to achieve it and I’m under no illusion at my advanced fifty-something age that I ever will. Even if I wanted to. Though I am grateful that my addiction to female domination has always been of the metaphysical kind and the imagination that is nature’s great consolation to us all has, to now, proved enough of a satisfaction when the urge is upon me.

Do you see what I mean about this blog being something of a confessional to me?

To nobody – no matter how close – have I ever confided my sexual predilections and I feel no guilt for the fact.

What occurs within the walls of my own skull is my business alone.

Well… and of those who read my reflections in transcribed form, of course.

I’ve always believed that to be afraid and made guilt-ridden by our own thoughts is surely a one-way ticket to neurosis that runs the risk of becoming a full-blown psychosis of such strength the imagination alone isn’t enough to satisfy the demands of our own particular… kink.

A kink demanding airtime in the real world that could prove harmful physically or mentally, or both, to not just the afflicted in need of reality but the innocent themselves.

In this, I give thanks that my outlet is my writing and I see absolutely no harm in it.

Yes, I understand that everything is in the interpretation and my “harmless” scribbling could be another less stable soul’s blueprint for the discomfort of an innocent.

But what’s the alternative?

Would life really be worth the living if we simply geared it towards the pacification of those less able to deal with the imagination of others as witnessed in painting, writing, tv-series or movie?

A world coloured magnolia simply because a minority of its inhabitants find themselves unable, in either a cerebral or a visceral sense, to withstand the provocation of primary colours without being sent over the edge into the abyss.

Is that the kind of uninspiring world any of us with a desire for something more than the unthreatening and the bland – at least in intellectual terms – would wish to live in?

Not me.

We have laws for a reason but not everything can be proscribed without extracting the taste and spirit from life.

And besides, laws are but guidelines and only come into effect after the act.

They do NOT prevent.

For those of you who have read my fiction, you will know that the object of my fixation is the Indian woman – regardless of status, and most times without being beautiful – who rules her man through her superior cunning and the strength of her will.

A study in the exertion of erotic mind control always leads to the physical joys a dominant female experiences over a vanquished male.

And a study I have absolutely no doubt I will continue to make as long as the spark compelling me continues to ignite my imagination.

Kurt Steiner

Madras

February 2022

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