Understanding What It Means To Be Dominant

When it comes to being in a D/s relationship, both partners – submissive and dominant – take on the responsibility of caring for one another, for being open to one another and to forging a balance so that both partners are happy and equal.

But for the sake of this piece, I’m talking to dominants both fresh and new and still growing.

Being a dominant isn’t simply about getting your own way. It’s not about giving orders and expecting a submissive to follow through absolute – Most Dominant’s don’t even realise that the submissive has the power to choose. They choose YOU to submit to. They have the right to negotiate.

No, being a dominant is about the non-sexual aspects as much as, if not more than, the sexual aspects. I’m talking caring about the mindset of the submissive, establishing a safe place to feel comfortable and safe, striking a balance where both needs are being met OR negotiating how needs will be met and how the two of you will be satisfied AT THE BEGINNING of your relationship.

AFTER CARE is something I see a lot of new Doms either forgetting about or not giving to their partners – some after a pretty intense scene. I don’t like hearing how some are left at that darkened heightened state to question their identity or their feelings.

It’s important to cuddle, to offer reassuring words, to create the safest boundary for the two of you to float back down to Earth into. This goes both ways, as Dom’s do need it too – but all too often I see After Care overlooked by new Doms. It’s incredibly important. A cuddle and Netflix or just the intimacy of bodies huddled together can go a long way. After all, you’re dealing in some heavy feelings and you never know what you’ll unearth exploring that.

And as a Dominant you CAN make mistakes in the role of leadership so long as you acknowledge where you went wrong, understand where you went wrong and learn from said mistake. The way I see it, we are always growing and learning and finding new things out about ourselves.

If your submissive has something to say about your methods, listen. Be receptive. To either that dynamic or for yourself. The worst thing you can do is ignore that and go on your own way because that can lead to rot and ruin. More than this, that could lead to the submissive living in fear of making a mistake because they won’t know how you will react.

So you see, being a dominant is about ownership of yourself and your thoughts and your responsibilities as much as it is about ownership of your submissive. Be accountable for mistakes, be open to growth and be receptive of new ideas and positive changes.

This Is Where My Mind Is At

This is where my mind is at.
She’s making the strangest, muffled cries as her hand desperately and blindly swat at my own hands, both of which have fistfuls of her hair as I hold her pretty little mouth in place over my cock.
I can feel her tongue flick along my shaft as she struggles, as I lean into her so she takes every inch. I’m not much but I delight in the fact that I’m thick, that she will take it all in.

I surprised her while she was on the couch, watching her favourite program.
I stood over her, blocking the view, while the moments ticked by. She tried to look around me at first, giggling, thinking I was having a laugh.
Then I surprised her, surprised myself even, when I lashed out at her and tore her grey, loose shirt, ripping it in half and watching as her tits fell out in a sweet, sweet bounce my perverted mind notes.
Then, grabbing her head with one hand and tearing down my pants to reveal my cock, I guide her over my shaft as she starts to protest.
I hear her but not really — because I’m so driven by the idea of feeling her wet, inviting mouth on me. I want it like nothing else. And it has to be her, this isn’t just any sort of lusting, this is wanting her pretty mouth so I can hear HER pretty cries as she chokes and gags on my length.

Yes, I coo to her, as I gain momentum, as I fuck her slutty little mouth. Yes, there’s a good girl.
Her cries of anguish turn to cries of pleasure. She starts to squeak. It’s almost inhuman, animalistic. I fucking love hearing it because it confirms what I think – deep down, she’s more animal than human and I love that and want to see that more.

I fuck her mouth till I’m about to come.
I want to pull out and blow my load on her tits but to my surprise she stops me. She keeps me there in her mouth. For a moment, we wrestle each other. I want what I want, she wants what she wants.
I get half way. My throbbing cock is spurting over her lips and dribbling down her neck to her tits. She’s looking up at me pleased as she scoops up the thin slithers of cum and licks it off her fingers.

We both catch our breath.

Her Bath

He hears the splash of water from their en-suite bathroom and turns to see her standing in the low-lit doorway. Her nude body, slender and slightly tanned is lit by the very candles she lit for her own bath – the bath he ordered her to run and soak in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand marking the page of the book he’s reading to her while she bathes. Only now that book drops to the floor. He doesn’t do it to punctuate the moment with a gag, it’s just something that happens upon seeing her.

“Seeing her.”

He feels like he is seeing her now for the very first time. It’s in the way the candles light the edges of her nude body, the way her wet hair lay in curls across her shoulders, the way he can just make out beads of water across her neatly-trimmed pussy.

And it’s in the way she stands – confident, still, her eyes not flicking back and forth between his as they do at times but watching him closely. Intently.

He gets the feeling something has suddenly started between them. A battle of wills, a clash of their minds. It is true this occurs between them, this is what has drawn him to her as a friend and lover and Dominant.

And yet…something feels different. Super-charged. Riding the wave high on caffeine.

He feels the rhythm of his heart in his chest and he feels his cock harden.

There it is! The slightest twitch in her eyebrow. The slightest smirk flickers on her face and is gone. She’s playing with him as he would with her.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Her voice is soft but it comes with an edge that he recognises.

He won’t bite though.

“Get on the bed.”

He’s thankful his arousal doesn’t cause his voice to stammer.

She moves past him and he sees that thing she does – the shrug without lifting her shoulders but it’s all there on her face. One might call him crazy for thinking that but he knows and she knows what she’s doing.

She slinks on to the bed, her slightly sun-kissed ass facing me in the darkness. Were it not for the purple night light resting on her bedside drawers, He could see the little things – the freckle on her left ass cheek. Or her trimmed pussy between her legs.

She lowers herself down so that she rests on her stomach and buries her head in her pillow.

As He grabs his own towel, hanging from the door of their cupboard to his left, He gets the strangest sense that she’s grinning to herself as her face is buried. He almost wants to ask but stops himself before the words form on his tongue. He knows she would like that.

Slipping out of his pants and freeing his aching cock, he gently crawls onto the bed behind her, careful of where her legs rest naturally.

He comes to kneel behind her, her ass directly below the throbbing head of his cock.

“We need to towel you off properly.” He says as he runs the cream coloured floral-printed towel over her right ass cheek, carefully dabbing at her still-wet skin.

“You didn’t answer me when I asked you if something was on my face.”

Her voice is muffled as she speaks into the pillow but he can hear the accompanying smile behind her words all the same.

“I don’t answer to you.” He says, moving the towel to her left ass cheek.

Carefully he runs the towel down her left leg, taking his time to work down to her feet, drawing out the moment.

When he reaches her ankles, he moves into her right leg, sliding the towel back up, carefully drying off the sides of her leg, to her ass.

She does not stir.

He raises the towel to the base of her spine and lowers himself to her, his hard cock skimming the curves of her ass. The feeling of her beneath him, his shaft pressing into her fresh, cool skin, makes him want to take her from behind, makes him want to hear her moan those soft cries and whimpers.

But he has her body to dry off.

“Arms up.” He says gently as he slides the towel to the base of her neck, content that he has dried her back.

She stretches her hands out either side of her neck and her body seems to lift and waken a moment as the stretch takes over her. He see her back raise, feels her ass nestle back into him. He wants to guide his cock into her right there – wants to fuck her till she’s winded — but he’s not done playing with her yet.

With his right hand, he presses down on her back, pressing her away from him, her ass away from his cock. He grinds into her on his own terms.

Which is exactly what he does as he runs the towel gently under her armpits, wrapping her arm in the towel and sliding it along upwards to her hands so that he dries every inch.

He repeats this with her right arm.

Then tells her to roll over.

She does – and the two of them come face to face for the first time in what feels like an age.

He throws the towel to the empty side of the bed and rests his hands on either side of her. His eyes travel down to her small tits – dotted with freckles. Her little pink nipples are hard and stiff. He wants to lower his mouth to them and suck them. He feels that hunger more so as he feels the heat from their bodies.

God how he wants her more then anything.

Instead, he looks her in the eye, not being able to help the smirk that spreads across his lips.

She looks back at him, her face unreadable and her eyes ever still.

“What now?” She asks him.

The Dominant Stereotype

When I was first learning about kink, I had this IDEA about WHAT and WHO was a dominant – this strong, buff alpha male with an attitude.

As I began my journey, I learned the difference between what media has projected to us and who we really are. Looking back, it seems such a simple and obvious concept but at the time, I remember easing into this idea of being different. Or being myself.

The traits of a dominant…that’s something that comes up to this day with a reader here or there. They seem surprised by my regular self or are shocked when I mentioned how I’m a big fan of Disney – parks, songs, singing – you name it. And it’s a strange thing to wrap your head around because — while I am dominant and while I like taking, even seizing control or flogging a sweet pale ass or torturing the mind and body psychologically and physically, that’s not who I am outside of kink. Even IN a 24/7 D/s relationship, I’m not switched on – ever-aggressive or forward or controlling.

It’s different to what I thought it was, and sometimes it’s different to what people thought it would be either. Maybe it’s also the image I conjure through stories or dream thoughts I put up. I’m not sure.

Beyond dominance, I’m shy. Soft-spoken. Definitely socially awkward. Anybody, especially on my insta and Twitter, can no doubt confirm this through my random thoughts. Goofy is something people are surprised by too – my silliness in my sense of humour. Maybe that’s my Australian background? A fondness to find humour somewhere.

And to add to this, I think it’s important for any growing dominant or submissive to own who they are regardless of image or label or definition – because they can be restrictive or even damaging to some people. Especially when you’re new and are still forming your own opinion.

That’s my thought for the weekend! Happy Saturday.

If I Could Say A Few Words…

Last week I was lucky enough to be part of Domsubliving’s article on advice from Dominants out there in the blog world – and it got me thinking about other things I would like to tell newcomers or just to people out there coming to terms with their place in the lifestyle.

I want to elaborate on what I wrote and say that you should go easy on yourself. It’s okay to make mistakes so long as you take the experience of it and learn from it so you can apply it to the future.

It’s okay to wear your heart and kinks on your sleeve – it is okay to be YOU. I struggled with this particularly because I thought I was insane for thinking darkly. I’d sit in a darkened car park awaiting a pizza to be cooked and my mind would cook up the image of a woman face down in the concrete, nipples hard and scraping into the grit.

What I’m saying is – it’s okay to think and feel darkly, so long as you understand the lines between right and wrong across fantasy and reality – and this extends to the concepts of D/s.

It takes time to find what works for you as a dominant or submissive and it takes time to break through what we were taught as children to fully realise who we are as a dominant or a submissive. I know this because I was raised Catholic and I still struggle to be domineering and forceful because I’m so apologetic.

And this apologetic side can spread to other aspects of our lives. I unfortunately see this in some readers – some of them come my way and apologise for being annoying when they’re nothing of the sort. It’s why I like to put up a reminder that anyone of any background can chat with me, that I welcome it. That still stands, if you’re reading this and have wanted to chat with me but have put it off out of fear. I promise you are not too much.

But you see, I can’t just promise that – you have to do that for yourself. You have to learn to accept these aspects of yourself and recognise the lines between your Dominant / submissive self.

It’s something that can be with you all your life, learning to be secure and yourself. It takes time finding that balance and coming to be at peace with that balance – but it can be done.

The Queen

She does not understand this – why she has thrown herself down before him, when she is Queen and this is her city and with a single clap of her hands, her royal guard would appear and drag him to the dungeons below. How dare he stand before her with that arrogant smirk upon his face, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture bent, his body not even paying her the proper respects as she finds her own body falling to her knees, bones crunching underneath the hard, cool marble of the throne room.

She wants to stop her hands rising to her hair – she knows what they’re doing, they’re taking off her prized jewels that keep it as her servants made it for her – held upright in a detailed and lavish bun. Yes, she wants to halt the movement of her hands, to freeze them in place, but she can’t. They move on their own accord.

Her eyes are locked onto him! Him in his dusty leather pants and grey jerkin with a torn hole on his left forearm. Him! With what..what looks to be blood smeared across his chest. Bounty hunters and their arrogance!

She feels her eyes draw down into a squint, feels her brow dig down into her skin. There’s a pulse behind her left eye. She gets this when she’s angry – and right now she’s not just angry, she is furious.

Stop yourself, she screams internally, as she watches her hands reach up to the straps of her glittering, glowing ivory dress. You’ve sat at the high seat and commanded armies. You’ve stood in the chambers of arrogant men and voiced opposition. You can do this.

To him she thought with venom, take your prize, your beloved payment and depart this place. I am your Queen, this is my throne room. This is my realm! You have no power here.

Yet no words are coming out of her trembling, dry lips. No sound escapes out of her as her traitorous hands seize a handful of her dress, the rough fabric scratching at her sweaty palms as they pull down her dress, letting loose her full, round breasts.

She feels the warm shame sizzle across her arms, tingling her armpits and flushing her cheeks. She doesn’t like her breasts – a thought she has never admitted to anyone but one maid – Becca. She doesn’t like their shape, triangular almost, with nipples too small and pink.

Realisation like icy water hits her. Why should she care? Curse the man! What does nakedness and body shapes and…and age matter? What was it Janar taught her? To not concern herself with trivialities?

She freezes, dress hanging down around her waist. Her back arches. She can feel her spine straighten. It’s like her body is coming out of a restful sleep, muscles starting to creak and move like some sort of steam powered engine slowly gathering speed.

Why, this man is old enough to be my papa. His face certainly looks it, creasing like well worn leather as smirks. Or is that a snarl? She can’t tell.

No, she can’t tell why she’s in this state. She can’t tell why she’s stuffing the dress further down her waist, revealing more of her pale body.

She knows what’s coming, she can feel the burning heat between her legs reach boiling point as she wrestles the dress down her thighs. Her mind flashes to a moment in time, sitting on the balcony of her bedroom alone and under the moonlight. She had excused her guards, who exchanged looks and faltered at first but left after she had to raise her voice. She wanted to be there, naked under the moonlight. She wanted to feel the cool autumn breeze on her skin. She wanted that breeze to skim upwards under thigh and tickle her bare slit.

More than this, she wanted to be touched. It had been so long since she had a man’s hands on her, rough and coarse and callused. Some part of her knew she could have anyone. She is queen, beautiful, she had that power – but such power was not proper. Was it? For her? She knows what they call her – the young queen. It’s not right. She’s not a child any longer. Her last name day crowned her twenty-two.

She can feel her heart a-fluttering in her chest as she kneels before his man. Where was her power now – now that she was rising to her feet to slip out of her dress further?

And why wasn’t the damned fool helping her? Why was he watching her?

Oh how she could feel his eyes on her bosom, which only made her breathing quicken. She feels untamed and wrong and…and…shamed.

Yet she cannot stop herself from resuming kneeling before him. She cannot stop her hands from yanking the last of her jewels, inherited jewels, free.

Her hair, the lightest blonde, comes tumbling down, tickles her bare back and making her fidget on the spot, her knees shuffling against the marble like some sort of dance.

Her eyes look beyond the bounty hunter to her guards – six of them, their swords unsheathed and ready to taste blood. When had she told them to freeze? Why had she told them to freeze? For payment?

Her hair tickles her left bosom, hardening her nipple. It causes her to fidget further.

The man before her – the dirty bounty hunter – is untying his leather pants. She watches him let loose the knot, which comes unlaced and falls away. His cock spills – no, springs – out of his pants, hard and seemingly aching. It seems to quiver on the spot.

“Your Majesty!” Cries the Captain of The Guard. He takes a step forward, hand on his sword. She has to hold up her hand to stop him, though she’s not sure why. She’s not in charge. It’s all a dream she is watching as a ghost in the throne room. She’s standing off to the side of the Captain of the guard…but she’s also on her knees before the bounty hunter, who takes one step forward. Then another. His hand glides down to clasp around the shaft of his cock. He gripes it tightly and still looks her right in the eye.

His other hand lashes out at her throat.

She feels the grip, doesn’t know whether to feel scared or excited. There’s a place between the two that she wants to reach. A resting place on the bridge between.

It hits her then.

She understands.

His payment.

She goes to open her mouth, to tell him to hurry up about it, wanting to fling the dagger, the barb, at him.

To remind him she is still his queen and in control.

But she chokes on her words.

Can’t get out what’s running in her mind.

She’s looking up at him now, can feel herself frowning.

All the while, he smirks.

She feels her mouth open, her tongue extending outwards.

Not of her own accord.

She takes him into her mouth, her mind racing to categorise the taste of him as he slides further in.

The tip of him hits her cheek, rests its length along her tongue, but he’s guiding it, not her.

It slides further, her tongue wraps around what it can. Taste explodes in her mouth.

She can feel him rocking into her, his cock slipping to the back of her throat and then back between her lips.

She’s torn between catching her breath and wanting more. She doesn’t know why.


She can hear the outrage. She can feel the outrage. Not just from her captain but within herself. She feels alive and dirty all at once.

She does not understand.

The Possessed and The Possessive

Her body is lathered in a thin layer of sweat that catches the light and shines brightly.

Her chest is lifting up off the bed, straining against the rope with every fluttering breath she takes.

He looks at her beautiful pink cunt, smooth and spread open, drenched in anticipation, and he whips her again, just to watch her thighs go to close. Something they can never savour. Her legs are stretched apart. Bound. Her release is monitored by him – and he relishes that fact.

There’s no gag around her mouth tonight, no slither of drool beading down her neck slowly. She huffs and puffs and growls and spits and seethes and drools in between letting out utter obscenities under her breath.

Foul words come out in halves – a …uck here, a …the shit..? There. She’s making little sense.

Watching her body flinch under the leather whip, controlling the whip that comes down upon her stretched out little cunt, her stretched out little cunt spread open by his ropes just for his pleasure, she’s nothing like the woman outside their haven, out there in the world.

He doesn’t recognise this woman spitting out guttural curses, writhing around as much as the ropes allow. Who is this animal? This demon? This creature? What locked up part of her mind did this feral entity come from? The way she speaks, when she’s not breathless, that low register, that barely human growl. He recalls the sensation of a scratchy throat just by listening to her.

The things she says. The things she wants.

It’s infectious. He can feel it creeping over him, slinking down her legs, off her clenched toes and seeping down towards him. He can feel the self he projects to the world fading away. He can feel his skin bristle and crack, peel away. He is tearing free. He doesn’t know who this new person is. They will find out soon enough.

Her transformation sparks his own. They’re changing together.

That’s Life, Right?

I want to apologise.

To the people, who, are very much still in my life, but who I was totally different to before six years ago.

Six years ago I was a man in denial. I was in a marriage I was unhappy in but convincing myself that ‘love’ was something that you tended to in a garden. I convinced myself to stay.

I convinced myself I wasn’t a dominant, that I wasn’t kinky or primal, that I was weird and insane for wanting these dark desires.

I was immature. Even at 26. I was an idiot, emotional, moody. I would discover that I had an undiagnosed anxiety disorder. Looking back, as I write this, I see the seeds of irrational anxiety in my youth. How I couldn’t look at someone for a week when I was 14 because all I could dream up in my mind’s eye was this skeleton underneath…a skull moving as they spoke. Empty eye-sockets where the eyes were.

BDSM and the dynamic behind D/s hasn’t just been sexually fulfilling, it has been somber and reflective because it has helped me as an adult – to converse and to assess and to behave in a way I never have. It’s helped me heal and grow and transform.

Oh I still make mistakes. I still have moments of moodiness. I’m terribly sensitive. I can be hotheaded – a trait I’ve picked up from my father’s side.

But I understand now. I see where I went wrong before. I see what I should’ve done differently. And that’s life right? We make mistakes and we learn from them. Looking back on life and dwelling isn’t the way.

And yet.

I want to apologise to the people in my life. And I’m scared I never will and I’m scared TO apologise. What if they frown and think What the fuck? What if they’ve forgotten? What if it’s a case of too-little-too-late? What if you can never go back? What if it’s a case of me, right now, being emotional ALL OVER AGAIN because life is cyclical and things happen again and again. What if I make it worse?

I overthink myself into oblivion. I’ll say to this my lady later – “I overthink, don’t I?” And she’ll give me that smile, it’s kinda sad, kinda not knowing what to say. The smile that’s sympathetic – and she’ll say, “Yeah…you do.” Because she knows too. She’s seen me obsess myself into a spiral, looking for the perfect answer.

Which brings me back to the beginning. In a mood to apologise but not really wanting to. Fortune’s fool right here though.

A Few Extra Thoughts On Mentors and Mentoring

I want to talk about the mentor role – because I’ve heard a few cases recently where there has been some miscommunication about what exactly a mentor is and how exactly they’ve operated.

I know I’ve talked about it before – and you can find that here – but I thought I’d reiterate for some new readers as well.

Think of a mentor as a friend, a life coach, your very own help line in the game show that is life. They can shed light on the lifestyle, they can recommend readings and resources, they can offer insight on what’s right and wrong. They have a responsibility to be objective and not influence the person learning with their own beliefs. This is – this should be about – the growth of the person and helping them come to terms with their feelings.

It’s a controversial aspect because some believe Mentoring should only be done with people you intend to go further with, to enter negotiations and eventually a harmonious D/s relationship.

Others think that only a Dominant can mentor a dominant and only a submissive can mentor a submissive.

It’s a tricky thing, because I have enjoyed mentoring both but at the same time I have also recognised that I simply don’t have the mindset when it comes to, say, sub frenzy or other deeper, intimate feelings of submission. I can help, I can certainly relate from the other side of the coin but whether that’s enough is up to the individual in what they want and who they want to talk to.

I’ve heard mentors taking advantage of submissive women learning, to give them tasks, to tell them things like when they can and cannot masturbate. If you’re learning and this is the case, if you’re not reciprocating the feelings or interest, then this mentoring person is in the wrong and wholly abusing the chance to help.

A mentor doesn’t have that authority. Plain and simple. They are there, on YOUR accord. To help you. Unless you two click and want to explore things sexually, romantically, they should not be doing such a thing.

They’re there for as long as you need that help. They don’t get to give you orders or tasks.

Don’t let that dissuade you from talking with one – because the thing is, there are some lovely men and women out there that work one on one with people, just as there are men and women out there that will abuse the help for their own personal gain.

If you think you want a mentor, be careful and be slow and take your time and be wary of not only what feels wrong to you that they might be doing but also the frenzy and appeal of BDSM and D/s. It can be all too easy to be swept up when you’re new and learning.

The Wilderness Beckons

Just a few things before we get started – I don’t know if it’s needed but I know it got under my skin so – this piece features anxiety and that terrible mind-altering panic that comes with a panic attack. This may or may not be triggering. I don’t know how good of a writer I am in instilling that into a reader. But I know it gave me knots in my stomach.

Oh and this is long so get comfortable. I hope you enjoy.


The restaurant was alive all around her – a hundred voices buzzing all at once. People gestured animatedly, some laughed uproariously.

Delilah couldn’t shut the noise out. It was going to consume her, this place. She was sinking into the chair and she’d continue to sink until she was absorbed into it, becoming just another piece of the environment.

“Are you okay?”

James’ voice shattered her thoughts into a thousand tiny pieces. They fell away from her grasp and scattered on their dinner table as she looked up at his kind face.

He was looking at her from across the dinner table, a look of concern in his deep, brown eyes.

Delilah’s eyes fell to his crinkled black dress shirt, to the crooked collar. She wanted – oh so badly – to reach across the space between them and fix that. It was bugging her.

She could have, by all means. But something held her still.

Was it the people around her, out at dinner themselves? She thought.

Is it because it’s our nine year anniversary and I’d only make even more of a fool of myself?

No, she thought, feeling her eyes lose focus on the crooked collar before her, it must be the rain outside. It had to be a change in the weather or a full moon or something screwing with her mind more so than usual.

Like a light flicking on, Delilah’s mind was drawn to the uncomfortable warmth in her armpits. She could feel herself starting to sweat. Did she apply enough deodorant?

Her body started to flush with a disgusting warmth that slithered from her spine down to her ass. She wanted to tear off this simple black floral dress and just get naked.

That was a feeling that hit her every now and then. A want, a need, to get whatever she was wearing off of her skin, like everything was itching at her, like nothing would settle her mind until she was completely naked. Sometimes it frustrated her so much she’d scream, other times it came with a sickening sensation that washed over her like warm water. With it, came a surreal understanding – a moment of clarity, perhaps – that what she was experiencing was erotic.

“Lilah? Lovely?”

Delilah looked at James. Lovely, normal James. Friendly James. Sweet James. Safe James.

“Let’s just go home and order something in. It’ll be just the two of us.”

James wasn’t just looking at her, he was reading her face. He knew her fidgeting habits, they had been together long enough for him to know, what he calls, her ‘tells’. Like she was a living poker game or something.

His face curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They were on her, never wavering. Like he held her in his own steel trap.

Delilah wanted to run and keep running, till her panting and heaving and body sweat made her incapable of thought.

She opened her mouth to speak, her lips feeling cracked and dry, but all that came out was a quivering breath.

James, eyes never darting, smile never lighting them, gave a single nod.

“We’ll go. Okay?”

Delilah felt resistance grip her body and mind in a convulsion. James caught this too.

“It’s alright, really. Please, baby. I’m not mad. Okay? I promise this to you.”

His tone was perfect, his delivery sincere. Delilah had no reason to doubt him but doubt, of course, ran as an undercurrent underneath each word, sizzling with each sound the word itself made.

Think of something else, Delilah told herself.

I am a cat, slinking away in the night.

Something else.

I rest my head on a neat pile of foliage.

Something else!

This is the place I call home.

“Let me pay the check and we’ll go, yeah? I won’t wait.”

Before she could get out one word, if she even could – her mouth was hanging open – James rose to his feet and left their table to hunt down the bill.

Delilah’s palms were resting on either thigh, nails dug deep into the fabric of her dress. She could smell the remainder of their food mixed with her perfume. It made her want to be sick.

Her mind fell onto the audible track of her heart beating in her chest and in her ears.

Be quiet, she wanted to hiss. No words came.

What is wrong? With me, with this?

No words came.

The restaurant was going to open its jaws and swallow her whole any minute now – just bare its teeth and consume her, dress and shoes and pretty little panties and fucking everything. She would be gone. Totally.

Run, a voice hissed at her. Her own voice, calm and cool.

Delilah felt acid churn in her stomach, a terrible burning sensation gnawing at her insides.

Run! The voice hissed at her – louder this time.

Delilah shot up out of her chair, her crumpled dress falling back down around her pale legs.

Stumbling on legs like a newborn calf, she moved out from their table and down the gauntlet that had populated tables on either side.

Voices were all around her, overlapping one another. Laughing people, animated faces. Hundreds of conversations filling her mind.

Delilah couldn’t breathe. She stumbled towards the exit in a stupor, waiters and waitresses eyeing her as if she was ill or a ticking time bomb seconds away from erupting and disrupting.

Their eyes on her only drove her forward more so, the sick feeling in her gut rising.

As she reached for the doors to the restaurant, she began to retch. Her lips, sore from being dry too long, held in a sputtering cough.

Was the door to the restaurant push or pull? She didn’t know, she didn’t think. She shakily reached out and pulled the door. Pull was right.

Stepping into the evening was like stepping into a walk-in freezer.

Boy howdy, the chill was a snake winding up around her leg and underneath her dress. She could feel it’s icy touch run over her breasts through her thin, lacy bra and stab at her nipples.

Outside, the city was alive and very much awake still. People flooded the walkway before her, some eyeing her just as the workers behind her did, some pushing past her.

Delilah didn’t notice this. Feeling lightheaded, she crossed the road, her mind on the park across the street from her. Her eyes fixated on the tangled bushes that would shield her from..from all of this.

A yellow taxi came to a screeching halt before her. The driver stuck his head out the window to yell obscenities. This only shot more adrenaline into Delilah’s system. Pinpricks of heat flushed down her head, as if she was standing up suddenly.

Delilah’s legs knew what to do though. They moved quickly – one foot in front of the other, heels click-clacking on the asphalt. Delilah mimicked their rhythm vocally, as if humming to herself, as she crosses the road and pressed her way through treebranches and into the park ahead of her. The rhythm soothed her, distracted her.

When she felt the light from the road disappear behind her, darkness enveloping her, her legs kicked into a run.

A wooden pathway twisted and turned before her and off into the distance but Delilah didn’t care to be led – she just ran.

Was it normal for her heart to beat this fast for her age? Was this going to be her end, having a heart attack on the park grounds?

Delilah let the thought swirl around her and engorge her. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, sweet, sweet air gushing down into her lungs.

She felt her left heel fall off…then the right. She let it go. The ground, the dirt crunching beneath her feet felt right. It felt light, lighter than she had been in months.

Tears dribbled down her eyes, blurring the dark park and bush ahead of her while wetting the corners of her mouth. She could taste it – the light salt taste of herself. She could lose herself in it, the blurred parkway around her her.

Something grabbed ahold of her bare foot and Delilah’s vision lunges forward. She was flying through the air, soaring over a pile of leaves and sticks.

Suddenly pain exploded in her chest, as if she fell on solid concrete. A heaviness that rattled the teeth in her mouth.

Delilah was on her stomach on the ground, leaves in her hair, tears in her eyes. She let out a cough that had been building since she left the restaurant. Her chest heaved, her breasts aching with faint pain. A dry cough came out once – twice, clawing her throat and bringing more tears to her eyes.

She was going to be sick. She just knew this, some sort of sense her mind was firing off to her. Her whole body prepared itself as she began to retch, her stomach muscles convulsing.

She emptied her dinner out on the park grounds in a series of guttural cries.

Breathless, teary-eyed, somehow feeling fucking amazing from the endorphins flooding her system, Delilah knelt there on the floor, her dinner underneath her, sizzling into the leaves in the ground, kinda like the blood from the creature in ALIEN.

When she felt she was done vomiting, when she felt she was done catching her breath, she climbed to her feet, dead leaves sticking to her red and crinkled knees.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to let loose a scream that she could feel lodged in her throat like phlegm.

The only thing that kept her quiet was the idea of being caught – either by someone walking along the outskirts of the park or within.

Fear crept over now, replacing the primal urge to run and be naked. Here she was, standing on trembling legs, in near darkness. The only source of light seemed to be the moon in the night sky.

Delilah felt the cold once more then. It came in waves traveling over her skin. Wind kissed the back of her neck and tickled a strand of her hair.

Somewhere ahead of her, a twig crackled. Leaves rustled. The forest began to move – trees shaking as if they were the limbs of the forest coming to life.

Delilah felt more wind skim across the back of her legs. She spread her legs another inch apart to let it through and felt it rush through the gap between her thighs and leave her.

Her heart was working overtime again, her mind aware of its pumping in her chest and in her ears again.

I’m going to be attacked, she thought. I am going to be attacked or raped or both and it’s going to be my fault because James was back there and James was safe and why did I ever leave the restaurant. I do not like this place, not now, not at all.

From the shadows, a shape emerged – and Delilah willed her legs to move. Nothing.

Delilah couldn’t look away. Her eyes, her mind, was frozen on the shape before her.

She thought of a rapist, of a killer, of a figure with the body of a man and the head of an owl.

The shape itself seemed to ripple, as if reality was distorting around it, bending it to its will – and now Delilah would be next in line to be forced, wouldn’t she?

She caught sight of a leg stepping into the light…then another leg. Leg dotted with hair.

A man, Delilah thought and understood. A naked man. A junkie? A homeless man?

Shame flushed her cheeks for jumping to that conclusion.

Piercing green eyes materialised from the darkness. Dazzling emeralds fading into existence. Stars being born.

The rest of this man’s face emerged from the darkness, staring blankly at her, his medium length dark hair – or shadowed hair – seemingly slick back with something. Sweat?

The man stepped further into the light, his toned arms catching the kiss of the moon. He was naked, Delilah realised. Utterly naked.

She wanted to avert her eyes but couldn’t. Something was holding her in place, keeping her vision on his eyes.

Even out of the corner of her eyes, as he took one step further, Delilah could see his cock, masked lightly by a thin cover of pubic hair.

A breath caught in her throat as the naked man stood before her. He did not speak, he did not smile. He only stood watching her, his glowing eyes never leaving her.

Delilah felt her knees buckle – and tried to right herself – but she collapsed to her knees, inches away from her own vomit.

She knew this, she was thinking this, but her eyes never left the man before. The handsome man, the gorgeous man. Was that a dimple on his right cheek?

Delilah felt lost in a daze, like waking from a dream. Her eyelids felt heavy when she blinked through the tears forming in her eyes.

Before she realised what she was doing, her hands were lifting simultaneously to the straps of her dress. They peeled the thin tangle down her lightly-tanned shoulders.

Suddenly, she knew, deep in her mind and heart, that she wanted to get naked for this man. She wanted to him to see her naked. She wanted him to gaze upon her small breasts, upon the freckle above her belly button, upon her belly button herself.

Why she wasn’t naked already, waiting for him, she didn’t know. How silly she had been, not to be proper.

Delilah stuffed the dress down around her waist, hoping – secretly hoping – this man would like the fluffy detailing of her white lacy bra that hugged her cool skin. She thought it was fun and girly and maybe He would appreciate it more then James did when she was getting dressed for their date. Maybe He knew what to do about her, unlike James.

Delilah peeled off the dress further, wriggling out of it.

She blinked tears away as her hands didn’t miss a beat, they reached behind her to deftly unclasp her bra. Her small breasts felt the bra become unhooked and savoured the freedom, savoured the night air. Her little pink nipples hardened at the touch of it.

Delilah only wanted to please this man. She knew she could do this by offering herself as a tribute. Her body, her mind, her soul. Deep in her heart she knew this to be true.

As her bra fell away, as she tossed it aside, not minding where it fell, she could hear blood pumping away in her ears. The deafening, sickening noise created for her some kind of thick, pulsating beat to which she could continue to undress to.

She shifted from where she was, peeling her dress away from her legs and letting it fall to a clump by her feet.

Now she was just in her underwear – black, lacy underwear, with a little pink bow front and centre. Delilah couldn’t shake the girly feeling that washed over her mind, slathering her body with slick sweat. She couldn’t shake this feeling that before Him she was a child – or worse, an infant.

Panic started to zigzag across her body in thousands of tiny pinpricks of heat. What if she wasn’t good enough for Him? What if He rejected her offering. What if He rejected HER?

The man knelt beside her, her eyes darting between hers, unreadable. His lips parted, he spoke something, his voice deep, the words in a language Delilah’s mind couldn’t process.

Her eyes fell. She wasn’t doing that on her own accord, she just followed the line of sight as they dropped down to his thick, hard cock.

A strange hunger filled her suddenly. She wanted to crawl on her knees towards his cock and guide it into her mouth. That felt, to her, like the right thing to do.

Just letting the idea play out in her mind, like a short film only for her, made her chest swell with pride. Would He enjoy her mouth? Would she be a good girl?

It all happened so fast.

The man shot out toward her – lightening fast, Delilah thought, before her vision went tumbling upside down. She felt the drop in her gut, like she was plummeting down a hill in a roller coaster.

The forest before her suddenly became still. Delilah could see the skinny trees stretch out into the darkness before her. That darkness seemed to swallow everything in front of her. Delilah was on all fours at the edge of the world, leaves and dirt crunching underneath her hands and knees.

Heart rabbiting in her chest, blood thunderous in her ears, Delilah struggled against the Man’s grip but he had her held tightly. She could feel his fingers digging into her sides, her mind painting the picture of reddened fingertips and her flesh turning white at the grip.

Delilah’s nostrils filled with the earthy scent of dying leaves and dirt. The scent of —

Her senses exploded, blood rushing to her head, swaying her vision. She could feel it, burrowing deep into her cunt – His cock. She wasn’t prepared for it, her body wasn’t prepared for it. Her cunt wasn’t ready for it.

Her chest seized tight, knocking air from her lungs. It came out of her in a wheeze.

“J..James…” Delilah managed to struggle out, her mind reeling and racing and running wildly with thoughts. Thoughts that didn’t come fully formed. Something was happening to her mind.

It came to her attention, then and there, her cunt muscles were clenched as His cock was buried within her. It only came to her because when she felt his cock slip out of her, she felt her muscles retract.

A moan escaped her lips as she felt a tickle there between her legs, something she hadn’t felt in a while. Something she now wanted more of – desperately.

Delilah heard Him grunt behind her as she felt the thrust, as she felt his balls smack against the inside of her thigh.

Feeling him fill her again filled her with a giddiness she couldn’t describe. Her mind reeling, vision swaying again, she fell forward, small breasts hitting the rough texture of dying leaves.

They crunched underneath her, pricking her flesh.

It all happened so fast, being flipped over and penetrated like this. And yet…pride was swelling in the back of her mind. Pride tinged with satisfaction – at being chosen.

Her life seemed all the more distant with each thrust the man took.

Delilah welcomed all of it. The force behind her, the earth underneath her, scratching her skin raw. Her knees, buckling under the weight of Him.

Oh she was pinned to the Earth and unable to escape but she wasn’t a victim. No, she was an offering. She felt that more than ever now, pride swirling with the ravenous hunger that had been building in the pit of her gut. She was a fitting offering. Possibly even the best ever. Was that too much to ask of Him?

Delilah felt her body grind into the dirt, creating a little crevice, a little groove. She felt flecks of dirt stick to her skin, rub at her skin.

A part of her wanted to crawl up to her knees and rest up against the Man. In her mind, she could see it just as she could see the ground before her now – she would climb to her knees, His cock slipping out of her cunt, smacking against his legs as she came to grind her ass back into him, teasing her in a way she never could before she had run into the park. Into this other world.

Delilah let the moment wash over her. She could feel his cock stretch her lips apart, she embraced this fullness feeling that made her giddy and made her feel sick at the same time.

Behind her, He grunted with each thrust, muttering under his breath in between panting.

Delilah lost herself in the rhythm of the act, each thrust for her becoming a welcomed embrace and a welcomed retreat. It was intoxicating, addicting. She wanted it, she wanted HIM. Again. And again.

“Harder” She tried to say – but all that came out of her was a squeak.

Delilah tried to speak again. She opened her mouth, her little tongue ready with the words, but instead a growl came out of her.

She felt her throat burn with the low noise, she felt her jaw clench as the end of it came rippling out of her lips.

Frustrated, she balled her fists into the earth and shakily rose herself up on them, in a way that felt like she was doing push-ups. Her arms ached as they took the weight.

Her intent was in lifting her ass back into Him. She wanted to grind against him, to feel His cock nestled between her ass cheeks.

Her whole body started to shake as she rose higher, arching her back and lifting her ass.

An explosion went off in her temples, tears formed instantly in her mind. She had been hit. No – smacked.

Her body was back down against the dirt, her breasts squished underneath her.

As Delilah blinked through the tears, her mind unraveled the thread of the mystery. Her ass was stinging where the man had smacked her. She could feel the bite on her left ass cheek, radiating pain. Pain that felt strangely good.

A memory came to the forefront of her mind, as if rattled loose by the smack.

Delilah was lying naked on her stomach on the bed she shared with James, her head buried into the bed quilt. Her ass was lifted into the air, feeling the cool kiss of the winter night.

Smack me, she had asked James – and he had obliged, only gently. Too gently for her own tastes.

Harder, she had asked, and James tried, but a sinking feeling began to manifest in Delilah. She knew his heart wasn’t it. She just knew.

That was a few months ago now.

Delilah’s mind returned to the present. She was panting, body sinking into the ground, ass stinging even with the cool night air clutching at her skin.

She opened her mouth, to respond to Him, but before the words could leave her lips, pain burst across her right ass cheek, rippling across her body. His open hand.

Then came shuffling and crunching – dirt and leaves and grass rustling. Then crackling. As if a camp fire was nearby. But if a campfire was —

Another eruption of pain, clawing at her ass, this time in the centre, and tougher. Harder. Not a hand this time, Delilah thought, her mind still processing the pain, but something else. A stick?

The something else came across her bare skin again, sending pain pulsating up across her thighs.

Delilah felt the pain, red hot and searing, and knew her skin was scratched open and bleeding. She just knew this to be true.

And yet…that feeling of pride was still with her, still in her, still aching like her soaked cunt. She understood to take this without a word, without a complaint. She would show him that she was worthy, that, yes, she was wrong to lift her ass to Him. Things could’ve come to her in due time.

That’s when she felt the crack of the stick against her cunt.

Delilah let out a howl – not just at the pain of it against her wet lips — she was extremely sensitive. That was an explosion of pain and pleasure in itself.

Before her howl had finished, Delilah was smacked again, this time a jagged piece of branch clawed across her clit. This caused the end of her howl to come out in a strangled whimper.

She could feel it there, the presence of the branch, even when it wasn’t there at all. She could feel its sting along her exposed slight.

And yet, exhilaration throbbed through her body, leaving her a quivering mess on the ground. She had always wanted this, to be spanked, hard and fast and raw. She had always wanted to be at the mercy of James but he confessed to her that he didn’t know how, that he couldn’t find that space.

All of this come flooding back to her as her cunt and ass throbbed with pain and pleasure simultaneously.

“Please.” Delilah managed to choke out. “Please. I will behave. I —“

She felt him enter her tortured cunt then. The rest of her sentence came out in a strained wheeze.

It fell upon her without warning, clawing at her cunt, seizing her leg muscles, blood rushing to her head, her senses in disarray, her vision a blur. Her orgasm came gushing over her in waves, forcing a grunt, deep and alien, out of clenched mouth.

Her face collapsed into the dirt. A dust cloud swept upwards into the air. Delilah let herself rest in the dirt. She was frozen. She couldn’t move. Even when she felt the cock rip itself from her sensitive little cunt, she couldn’t move. Her body went into a spasm but she didn’t move.

She lay there dazed, breathless. Her mind unable to string together a thought.

It was only when she heard the sound of something behind her exposed self crashing into the grass behind her, followed by silence, that she crawled up into a squat on shaky arms and legs. She lost her balance and fell backwards onto her ass. Pain once more shooting up her body in flaring hot tendrils.

Swerving around in a spin, Delilah looked and —- the man was gone. He was gone. Her lover, her punisher was gone.

Her mind was stuttering, trying to form a cohesive thought. Who was-

Why was —

Why did He —

What was so wrong with –

“Come back..” She whispered to the darkness around her. “I’m sorry I….please come back…”

Delilah hugged her knees. Brown, dead leaves stuck to her legs.

She felt her inflamed ass and longed for another smack to focus on. Anything instead of this encroaching darkness.

Her dress and underwear were where she left them. They were covered in dirt and leaves, just like her naked self.

Stunned and dumbstruck, reeling from the orgasm, from the absence of pain and of Him, Delilah began to slowly get dressed again.


James was sitting back in his seat when he saw Delilah emerge from the park.

He stumbled to his feet, the forks and knives on the table before him clattering.

All this time he thought she was in the bathroom. Calming down from a panic or what, he just did not know. Calling her resulted in going straight to voicemail. And who could he ask to check in on her? His only option was to sit and wait.

To hell with looking silly to those dining around him, his mind was only on Delilah and whether she was okay.

James was out the restaurant doors in just one breath. He was crossing the road in another breath, his eyes darting from her dirtied knees and bare feet to her distant eyes, caked with tears.

“Jesus, Lilah, what happened?”

When he reached her, he went to put his arms around her. She shrank away from his touch, her eyes looking down, her lips trembling.

James understood. He knew she didn’t like to be touched at the height of a panic.

Questions and answers would come later. Now she needed rest or a safe place or a bath or Netflix or something.

James put his arm around her slowly, gently. Delilah didn’t shrink away this time, her eyes were frozen on the ground.

Together, they made their way back to James’ car in silence.