Strong Women

By Ashley Lister

I was quite surprised when I heard someone describe a handful of my titles as ‘fem-dom fiction.’ I went back and read the title to which they were referring. Sure enough, the central protagonist was female and she did hold the dominant role in instigating sexual encounters. But I had never made a conscious effort to specifically write something in the fem-dom genre.

Whilst teaching a recent writing class, the theme of gender was touched on. Students were arguing the differences between men and women and telling me that women are more softly spoken whilst men usually have more authority. Women discuss things in more details (such as colours, emotions and styles) whilst men are less affective in their language and use their vocabulary to describe the practical and the pragmatic. I listened patiently, before explaining that men and women are exactly the same, save for one trivial difference: men are better at writing their names in the snow.

I know we live in a patriarchal hegemony. I’m aware that studies have been carried out showing that reinforced gender stereotypes are an inescapable part of contemporary culture. But I don’t think that’s a part of the world where I live, and it’s certainly not a factor that has influenced any of my writing.

I was born in a country ruled by a female monarch and governed by a female prime minister. The majority of my teachers were female whilst I was at school and, with very few exceptions, the majority of places where I’ve worked through my life have found me working beneath a female employer.

Which means I’ve never fallen into the trap of thinking women are naturally subservient and men are naturally dominant. I’ve known all along that it’s never about gender: it’s all about the character and their personality.

Glancing through my other titles, I know that my erotic fiction isn’t exclusively focused on the fem-dom genre. I’ve written novels with dominant males and submissive females. And I’ve written novels where heterosexual couples share a parity of status and an absolute equality. And, throughout all of those stories, it’s never been about the gender: it’s always about the character. Dominance, whether it’s sexual, physical or psychological, is seldom about gender. In the world in which I live and write it’s always about character.

To illustrate, the following lines are from the opening pages of my short story ‘Victoria’s Hand,’ which appeared in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology, She’s On Top.

Victoria’s Hand

London, England, 1890

The parlour was quiet enough so Victoria could hear the tick of the grandfather from the hall outside. Stark spring sunlight filtered through the net curtains to illuminate the elegant furnishings. The family’s finest bone china was laid out on a lily-white tablecloth. The afternoon tea was complete with freshly baked French fancies. Sitting comfortably in one of the parlour’s high-backed chairs, Victoria placed one lace-gloved hand over the other, adjusted her voluminous skirts, and stared down at Algernon as he knelt before her.

She knew what was coming.

She had anticipated this day for months.

Before he started to speak, she knew what he was going to say.

It was the first time they had ever been together without a chaperone. Unless he had come to the house with this specific purpose her parents would not have allowed her to spend any time alone with a suitor. The idea of her being alone with a man was simply too scandalous for civilised society to contemplate.

“Victoria, my dearest,” he began.

There was a tremor of doubt in his voice. Victoria liked that. It suggested he wasn’t entirely certain that she would say yes. His bushy moustache bristled with obvious apprehension. His Adam’s apple quivered nervously above his small, tied cravat. His large dark eyes stared up at her with blatant admiration. He looked as though his entire future happiness rested on her response to this single question.

She was dizzied by the rush of rising power.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” Algernon began. “I’ve discussed the matter with my own parents and employer. I’ve even gained tacit approval from the local bishop. But now comes the time for the most important response of all, my dearest. Victoria: I’ve come to ask for your hand.”

She smiled smugly to herself.

Outwardly her face remained an impassive mask.

“Algernon,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said quickly.

She allowed her lips to twist into a demure smile.

He fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a small gilt-edged box. Almost dropping it in his haste he snapped the lid open and showed her a quaint ring that was encrusted with microscopically small semi-precious stones. She recognised it as one of the DEAREST rings that were currently enjoying popularity. The initial letter of each stone – a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, a ruby, another emerald, a sapphire and a topaz – spelt out the word DEAREST. The eclectic collection of colours made Victoria think it looked more like a childish novelty than a genuine declaration of their betrothal.

“This is a mere token,” he explained.

“Yes,” Victoria agreed. She made no attempt to take the offered jewellery. “It is a mere token. With the emphasis heavily on the word “mere,” I think.”

He blinked with surprise.

She could see it was time to test his mettle. Straightening her back, quietly deciding she liked having Algernon on his knees before her, Victoria said, “”Do you want me to consider you as a potential husband?”

“I’d be honoured.”

“Then get your cock out. Let me see what I’d be getting.”

The words hung between them like a thrown gauntlet. The grandfather in the hall outside continued to tick loudly. Algernon studied her face with an expression that was almost comical. “Victoria?” he whispered meekly. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Could you please forgive me and say that again?”

“Get your cock out,” Victoria said flatly. “If I’m going to consider marrying you I want to make sure you’re carrying something more impressive than that crappy little ring you just offered me…”