The Beaver Dome was teeming with lusty women. Many had traveled far and wide to experience the one and only haven for queer women at Burning Man, the annual weeklong artistic community of 45,000 people in the Nevada desert. Every girl had different reasons for attending the Strap-On-A-Thon at Camp Beaverton for Wayward Girls: I love women and live to please them so I’m open to anything tonight…I’m bi-queer-poly and generally a submissive but I have my strap-on and I love to fuck submissive girls…I’m in a relationship and my partner’s not here so I’m just going to watch and help out with supplies. Lube, anyone?
As I was scanning the faces in the lantern-light, she tumbled into the dome, radiating her goddess beauty. She had visited our village that morning, wearing strappy heels, frilly panties and a turban—towering over her admirers like a queen taking a few moments to bestow her royal influence upon her subjects. Lightly she kissed me, and in that moment I felt I had met my female match, one whose sexual power was comparable to my own.
Yet when she is in public, I quake in her presence. This is in spite of our friendship, in spite of her submission to my artificial cock. I had considered dropping by her camp that afternoon to see if she would be attending the strap-on sex party. But no, I had already visited her and her boyfriend a couple of days before; it would’ve been presumptuous to seek her out again. Independent volition is her most seductive suitor.
And so she illuminated the dome with her radiance, boldly breaking the flow of Welcome Circle confessions: “My boyfriend just broke up with me today…basically because I’m too much of a slut. So I’m here to express my freedom and reclaim my sluthood.” Sympathy fanned the flame of recognition. I too have been dumped for being too true to myself.
“We have so much in common,” I said breathily as she nuzzled between me and another woman. We both offered feminine caresses to soothe her aching heart. Then, after she told us what she wanted, the three of us slipped out of the dome and made our way to the dungeon at Camp Kinky Queer. I was still quaking, but no longer from intimidation.
Out of all those beavers, she chose us to help her reclaim her sluthood, and that meant ultimate submission to our desires. She wanted to be punished for being such a dirty slut. But what a beautiful slut! How fair and sweet! She was wearing a long, sheer skirt of timeless royal design, though it was immodestly open in the front. The tiara upon her golden locks may have created the illusion of a princess, but the red panties were as telling as the scarlet letter on Hester Prynne’s chest.
Schmitty and I locked our princess in the stocks. We spanked her for every chambermaid and slave she so shamelessly seduced. We’re going to lock you in the tower so you’ll learn not to shame the kingdom with your sluttiness…I moved in front of the stocks while Schmitty kept her in check from behind. I pulled her golden hair and rolled my nipples just beyond her desperate lips like a carrot before a horse. You want it, though—even though you’re being punished, you still want it, don’t you? She let out whimpers and high-pitched screams, always shaved short as if she wouldn’t allow herself the pleasure of fully expressing her frustration.
The princess slut is a rare archetype of royal beauty. If not the direct descendent of a queen, she probably had royal blood in a past life. Her royalty is evident in the way she carries herself—tall (even if she’s petite), confident, elegant, proud. Professionally, she is a creative wonder, a mistress of self-expression, a courageous leader—usually an artist or healer of some sort. You may see a few of these captivating creatures roaming New York—building business empires, healing the sick, gracing stages, pages and galleries. You might even know one. And if you do, you may not know that underneath all the regal refinement, she’s spreading her legs like there’s no tomorrow.
We gave our princess what she deserved, and I got to fuck my submissive girl. Then they put me in the stocks because I enjoyed it a little too much. They teased and tortured me and I enjoyed every moment. The princess slut enjoys it all—men, women, domination, submission, masculine, feminine, sensuality, kink. The reason why her subjects fall at her feet is because she knows what it’s like to be at the mercy of someone else. And she can’t resist being at the mercy of her contradictory self. If there’s no tomorrow, can you blame her?
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