Being Naked In The Wintertime

Being naked in the winter time has been absolutely thrilling to me this year. Yes, there have been moments where it’s been a freezing 6 degrees Celsius but this year, I feel like I have been experimenting with letting that cold linger on my body.

I sleep naked in the winter. I have an all powerful blanket – and even my lady to snuggle – but the moments where I first fall or roll or collapse into bed and the cold just cancels out all thought – the sheets are like ice, the air skins across my feet, lifting across my ass and to my cock…it’s….incredible.

Anything I was thinking of before I hopped into bed – responding to email, dinner tomorrow, my cat yowling at closed doors – it’s all gone. I – a Dominant – is completely dominated by the weather. I’m frozen in place – pun maybe intended – my body unable to reboot as my primal side emerges. I suddenly want to roll around and snark and drool and Fuck myself into bed until I come hard all over my own stomach – or just grind into the bed until I fall asleep.

On other days, I find myself naked even with the chill around me. Come 2am, I have sat on my lounge utterly naked and have meditated on the cold, feeling it all around me. Feeling….wild and unabashed and charged with energy.

There’s a peacefulness to being naked during winter. Not only are you striped bare, the cold is confronting. You leave aside your world and are left to focus, perhaps more than ever, on your senses. How your heart flutters, how you are breathing, how the cold reaches in to the very core of you and holds you there to confront the stillness.

We’re so busy, us humans. We’re always thinking of cooking dinner, working hard, remembering birthdays, attending to meetings, making sure to stay in contact with friends and family. We never allow time to just exist in the moment and feel. We rarely stop, put the phone down and sit still a moment.

Perhaps you can do this too. Find a moment in your day, set aside, say 15 minutes. Find your favourite spot to just unwind – your bedroom, your couch, somewhere outdoors hidden from the neighbours.

Put down the phone. Undress. Listen to your world, your heart and your breathing. What do you find in your stillness?

If you decided to try this, do let me know how you found it either by comment section or email. If you can’t unwind and become frustrated, don’t let it get to you – it takes a while to adjust to sitting still. It will take practice.

Why Do You Care So Much?! – And Other Frequently Asked Questions

As I lay in bed and enjoy winter’s gentle kiss on my bare skin, I thought I’d compile a list of frequently asked questions that come my way. It’s not a huge list I’m afraid but hopefully some might recognise themselves in these.

Why do you care so much about the people out there, newcomer or otherwise?

This is a big one that I get, and rightly so I guess. The internet can be a dodgy place and a recurring element that I’ve seen since starting the blog and offering counsel / mentoring is emotionally and physically abusive men, generally preying on women who have started to realise they’re submissive.

I care so much because I guess I see a lot of myself in people that write in to me. I can sense that trepidation and uncertainty. I mean, the world of Kink is so layered and vast that it’s terrifying. Where do you even start?

It’s partially because of my upbringing – I come from a conservative Catholic household – but also because of my insecurity, magnified by my shyness and my undiagnosed anxiety disorder. I was TERRIFIED at the prospect of, essentially, rebooting my life – finding a new place to live, finding someone who would, somehow share my sexual interests. It scared me so much that I stayed in a vanilla relationship longer than I should have.

And…I don’t want people to go through that. Not if I can help them find their voice and confidence and, at the very least, ease their anxiety or minds. I mean, even now I’ll get an email from someone who deleted several drafts before hitting send. Even now, on twitter, someone will message me and say they’ve been reading my blog for years – but haven’t said anything to me out of fear or guilt or shame – and it breaks my heart. Which is why I so often write to tell people it’s okay to write in to me.

This is a long response but another thing people ask after is my patience. The patience I have, with people asking questions – I haven’t hit a point where it’s become a nuisance. And I can’t tell you why I’m not bothered, I simply don’t feel annoyed. It’s just – I want to be available as much I can, and be this secure and helpful support.

Have you ever thought about doing a podcast?

I have, but being so shy and rambling and monotone I don’t know how entertaining I’d be. When I talk for a while, my anxiety tends to put the thought in that I’m self indulgent..or have tickets on myself – and I feel bad all on my own accord.

It’s a nice fantasy to think of having a BDSM podcast where I talk about a few things an episode – I could even have anxiety support sessions where I read a book or something – but would people enjoy it if I was the only speaker? I’m not sure.

I’d need a host that was like me – someone I could riff off and get talking. It can’t be my kitten because, a, her work and B – she is far too shy and reserved! You should’ve overheard me talking to her about voyeurism on a coffee run one day! She kept cursing me with a shy smile and flushing red.

Is being a Dominant exhausting, having to take care of so many different aspects?

Hmm, no! I mean, we take in note structure and mental well being and order – but these things become second nature with practice. And before they become second nature, they are things that you WANT to do – or at least that I WANT to do. There’s a constant drive there for me. Always…kinda like a PlayStation 4 on rest mode..it’s there in the background thinking away.

Because I want this – whether sexually or non sexually – it’s never a point of ‘ugh, gotta whip my lady now..’ It may become routine but it doesn’t become less exciting because of that fact. It’s still a constant pleasure and a thrill, to have the trust of someone. To hear their free moans and to be the one to guide them. To look them dead in the eye and hold their gaze.

The only time I can think of it being exhausting is when I’m in the midst of an anxiety storm and I lose not only will but my entire sex drive. In those moments, the last thing I want to do is be dominant.

What are your kitten’s thoughts on offering to talk to and / or mentor folk?

In the beginning, when I first wanted to do this, she had questions. I mean, even on a platonic level, talking bdsm and the like is still sexual. So that’s more than understandable. So we had a lengthy chat and I told her what I wanted to do and why, sharing how I felt and how I wanted to do something, anything, to alleviate minds and she understood.

She senses my need to share my writings and advice and opinions, though I think she’s worried that I’ll get hurt trying to help when you can’t possibly help everyone. And that’s why I try to help where I can, but not try to pry or overstep boundaries.

And something we always agreed on from the beginning was that bloglife didn’t overspill into any personal time spent together. Birthdays, brunch dates, family time together, Netflix on the couch, coffee runs – I always make time for us and never crisscross.

What do you get out of being a Mentor?

For me, there’s personal fulfilment that I’m getting, because I’m doing something I really want – and that’s helping someone, and guiding them and sometimes even seeing them grow.

I think it’s knowing that I helped in some small way that makes it worthwhile. I mean, I’ve gotten messages on Fetlife and tumblr from people I don’t know saying I was the inspiration for them to confront their own fears – and isn’t that the sweetest thing? It gives me the warm and fuzzies, honestly. I mean I’m just regular bloke from Australia, not even officially trained in counsel but I’m helping someone from the other side of the world. It’s beautiful.

I’ll stop it before things get War and Peace-levels of writing. If there’s a question you want to ask or one you feel was left out, let me know either in the comments below or at darkanddominant@hotmail.com

Remember, we all grow and bloom at different places. Don’t let others dictate your growth. Don’t define yourself by someone else’s thoughts on you – and whether you’re a long time lurker, first time reader or just want to chat all things BDSM and psychological – you are always more then welcome to write to me.

I’m part of the Darker Side of Spice Erotic Con Event – Coming This June 17th!

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Ladies and gentlemen, stop the press! I have some rather exciting news!

For the very first time ever I will be taking part of a BDSM Con Event DARKER SIDE OF SPICE hosted by the lovely and talented erotica author P. Nelson.

What exactly is this event? I’m glad you asked!

Kicking off June 17th and running through till June 28th, Darker Side of Spice is a virtual event that sees over 25 individuals – including best-selling authors, Dominants, submissive’s and BDSM coaches – interviewed by P. Nelson about the lifestyle, their inspirations and all the things you were curious about but never wanted to ask!

Apart from hearing behind-the-scenes stories on writing erotica and how these authors come up with ideas and characters, you’ll also have a chance to delve into such topics as –

· Romance in a BDSM Dynamic

· Facing your Fears about your sexuality

· Characteristics that will drive what kind of Dominant or submissive you will be. 

· What constitutes as Safe, Sane and Consensual. ·

· How to introduce toys to the mix. 

On top of that, you’ll get the chance to grab some goodies, including erotic books and the like! All you have to do is click THIS link and register for your free pass and to check out the other attending authors! You’ll also get to hear my awkward voice debut too!

Arghhh! I’m excited! Are you excited?!

The Fox

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Six degrees Celsius.
80% chance of rain.
That’s just what the weather app told her – the news was different.
She sat on the couch, eyes on the tv, listening to the weather warning – stay inside, they said. High winds coming from the south, torrential rain.
The weather man flashed a smile at her, white teeth, gentle assuring light blue eyes.
Her stomach began to knot though, rumbling and tumbling over on itself, as if folding.
She lashed out at the remote and the room plunged into darkness. 

Her husband had left for work, taking their seven year old son to school – a fact that he sulked against, saying the rain meant they had to play under cover – and he and his friends were about to finish their battle between dinosaur overlords that they began last week. She did not sway though, school was school – and she had to go rain, hail or shine at his age.
Now they were both gone, leaving her to their quiet home, where nothing but the rain cascading down could be heard.

Pulling the nearby cream lounge blanket over her chilled body – the blanket he and her would snuggle under as they tried to squeeze in a episode over Netflix – she moved her free hand over the touchpad on her MacBook and it’s glow lit her face. She didn’t want to proofread and edit, not today of all days, trapped as she was in this storming snow globe, feeling the ice cut right through her blanket and long-sleeved pyjama top to kiss the tips of her nipples, but she had to get something done. Something or anything. 

She got through three pages of this manuscript before her mind began to stutter through her memories. A country girl, she was. Born and bred in Grafton, New South Wales, moving to the city of Sydney at the age of nineteen to room with her best friend while attending college, all the while working at a record store in the city CBD.
She met the man she’d call husband while not even fully understanding what it was she wanted in life, and that whirlwind of time led her to life in Geelong, Victoria – where she suddenly had everything – a beautiful boy, a loving m home, a stable job she enjoyed (mostly) and a sweet man.

Despite this, something had begun to gnaw at the fringes of her mind. It began, she had noticed, when the rain fell a week ago.
Day after day, 9am to 3pm, when she’d pick up her son, she felt something there. Something different. Like a mirror that had begun to splinter, threatening to spread.
She’d put her head down and work, but the silence was heavier than usual. Few times she sat around the house, pausing from her work, feeling agitated and restless for reasons she wasn’t quite sure.
A few times over sharing cooking duties, she had snapped at her husband – no, not snapped. Snarled. She snarled at her husband. Later, in bed, she recalled her husband hurt and startled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He had asked. ‘I’ve never heard you like that before.’
She could only shake her head, the moment a distant memory, as if her mind was already on the case of blocking it.
But she recalled what he had said next.
‘Even your eyes looked different.’ Her husband continued. ‘Like…like amber.’

She closed the MacBook and left it to rest beside her.
What was she thinking? The Victorian Winter had finally gotten to her. It found a thread dangling out of her arm and pulled till she unravelled, exposing her ivory skin, her bare flesh, for the winter to lower and feast upon.
She was happy here, she knew. But wait, what has that got to do with anything? Where did the concept of happiness come from?
She shivered from under the blanket, not sure if it was the cold that chilled her now or the thought. 

From her right came a scuttling sound. Her Frenchie no doubt, wanting her to let him in and turn on the heater so they could snuggle.
She frowned, curled her hair around her ears where they wouldn’t get to her eyes, and rose from the seat.
‘Mason, get out of the rain, boy – you have a house for a reas….’
Her jaw fell open and she could feel her eyes narrow, focused in.
Amber eyes peered back at her from the grey outside.
Carefully, she moved across to the blinds, and began weaving the beaded cord through her cold fingers.
An inch at a time the blinds moved upwards, revealing red tufts of fur, matted back in the rain.
Her eyes met amber and never left, even as the light of the morning filtered through the backdoor.
The fox was standing on the back step, it’s ears flattened, twitching against the heavy rain that fell upon its head. It’s eyes watched her cautiously, wondering.
She, herself, audibly gasped once it came into full view – and found herself unlocking the backdoor and pulling it open.
‘Heyyyy…’ She began – but the fox ran around the corner, obscured by the side of the house.
In its exit, it left paw prints in the mud – a sign of its existence.
Without thinking, she stepped outside. Rain lashed at her skin from all around, each drop crashing down against her pyjamas and drenching it into a thing of weight.
Suddenly she could feel the cotton of her top and bottom cling to her body, framing her hips, her breasts, her ass.
She rounded the corner to the left, stepping through the gate that separated garden from the outside area.
Nothing but the plants she had placed was there. 

‘But…where…?’
Her eyes scanned the corners of her yard. A hole perhaps? Hidden ‘neath the shrub?
That couldn’t be, another thought came to her, we’ve sandbagged the bottom so Mason doesn’t continue to poke his head under to the neighbors side and say hello. 

All of a sudden her mind was back on the weight of her pyjamas. She could feel everything in that moment, the rain bucketing down upon her, the wind tracing across her nipples, the water trickling down her back cold as ice. She grunted, no, snarled, and tore at the pyjamas she bought from Peter Alexander, the pyjamas that she loved for the feel of them against her skin. The fabric made a satisfying tearing sound and the soaking piece came free, her body relieved of the weight. Now the rain relentlessly stung at her skin – her arms, her stomach, her breasts. 

She felt herself snort and growl as her hands now focused on her pants, her bare feet drifting in the mud, encasing her feet in the sinking earth, as she stepped out of her pants one foot at a time. She tossed them into the wall with a huff, pants and torn top, and stood there heaving in the rain, in the storm, the weekly storm.

It came to her then – a huff, a growl, a snort, a snarl, a Welp, a cry. It rose from her stomach, up through her lungs. She began to scream in bursts of guttural groans. She didn’t sound like herself, didn’t feel like herself, something was wrong, something else was with her, no, in her. She could never go back, could never be the same again.
Burning against the onslaught of rain drops. 

Water ran from her forehead down across her eyes. She blinked through them, and found herself unable to stop screaming even though it stung her.
She felt hands claw at every inch of her, leaving red streaks across her chest. They marked her breasts, claw hooking across her nipple, dragging the pain outward.
Her legs, as if unable to take the assault of rain any longer, trembled and collapsed beneath her and she fell to the ground, mud splashing across her knees and face.
This wasn’t her, but who was she? This wasn’t her, the wife, the worker, the mother. The busy bee, say yes, nod politely. Swallow down the hurt, let it lump in your throat no matter what. 

She curled up in the mud, her knees rising back into her chest. The rain now reached to her rear, coming to whip her anus and reach out to lash across her exposed slit.
Her lungs sucked in crisp winter air, the likes of which she had never experienced before. The fresh air swirled down her throat, and she sucked in more, eager for more. 

When her hands found her slit and began to glide across the length of her lips, she did not question it. She stayed in the fetal position, her arm stretching back across to stroke what was exposed. Using the rain water that was beading on her skin, she rubbed her clit, letting her chest rise and fall to take in more of the sweet air.
Time weaved around her, leaving her trapped in a dome where the rain always fell.
She wriggled on the spot, her ass twisting into bed, lathering her back and legs.
Icy muddy puddles pooled around her, lapping at the sides of her stomach.
She lay there feeling her grunting come back, burning up her throat, tearing out between her teeth, leaving a string of saliva to fly across her neck. She felt her face push into the bed, her hands assaulting her slit, working herself into a frenzy. She didn’t know…didn’t understand. She wanted to scream.
She found herself grunting, groaning, spitting. Saliva, mild and thick, ran down across the centre of her chest, coming to hang across the  shape of her breast.
At once she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs clamping down on her hand between her legs. The world around her spun as she blinked away the rain. 

She sucked down more of that air, rolling onto her back, letting herself fall into the muddy puddles around her. 

Just a quick note

If you want to write in to me, be it to ask a question or just chat, please understand that you are absolutely welcome to do so.

I want you to know that you will never be a burden, you will never be a nuisance, you never have to worry about inexperience or outstaying your welcome and you can write as long as you need to. Let it come to you – I don’t mind in the slightest. I will read every word.

Please do not feel shame. Or guilt. Or fear. You are not alone, what you feel doesn’t make you a monster. You’re not a bad person. APPROACHING me doesn’t make you weak.

You’re not silly for asking a question – we all started with our own questions.

And although I can be busy and scatterbrained, I want you to know that it’s not because of you. So don’t let that dissuade you as I will read every word and respond as soon as I can.

I’m writing this because, whether it’s a change of seasons or shift in the moon phase or something grand on a cosmic scale or whether it’s just my mind, I feel something compelling me to write. And since I’m a mystical person, I wanted to listen to that feeling.

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Sickeningly sweet and twisting.

Why do we act the way we do?

Winding tightly around your skin.

What drives us to do the things we do?

Your breath catches on your cracked lips.

Why are we so scared to make an action?

You can feel the heat flush over every inch.

Why are we so scared of ourselves?

Your heart is pounding in your ears.

Is it any less real if you ignore it?

A dull light flicks on in the corners of your mind.

You cannot hide from who you are.

Your head is bowed before the sink.

The more you run, the stronger it gets.

You try to get it under control.

This is who you really are.

Acid rising in your throat.

Take a breath and let it in.

Dreams

For me, dreams are a powerful experience. Some people don’t ever have them – I know my kitten rarely does – while others I’ve had the pleasure of being close to can’t remember theirs or find theirs to be unremarkable.

Mine, for some reason, are always potent. Whether they’re me reliving my past failed marriage and listening to a spectre spit my own perceived failures, dreams of fantasy and horror that inspire me to put pen to paper – or sex dreams – a manifestation of my inner bohemian sensibilities or just cotton-candy sex dreams to pass the time until morning? Or both.

When it comes to sex dreams, I feel everything intensely. Let me paint you a picture – I can feel the sexual tension within the dream, I can feel my cock ease into this faceless lady, feeling her around me. I can feel pleasure, a scratch, a bite.

I wake up with my cock at full hardness, pressing into the bed – and now, for today’s sex dream, I woke up with my fists balled, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. As I write this now, my other hand is still clenched, unable to let that sharp pain from my nails subside. Chasing a dream, I suppose.

The dream in question was a tale of a family divided. I played a brother driving his mother into town, listening to her tell me of their deadbeat husband. Their lackadaisical husband, soon to be divorced.

I dropped my fictional-mother off into town, and then made a bee-line for my fictional-sister to share the news. I found her in the bedroom of her house, apathetic.

The surrealism of the dream didn’t stop there. Anger turned to lust, lust scorched my skin as I crawled upon her bed – and suddenly, in her eyes, I saw it – the acceptance of the need in her own mind.

In the waking world, it all sounds like a bad porno in a low-rent room adorned with pink detailing everywhere – but in the moment, it was frantic. Nothing else mattered but the rhythm between us, the feeling of slipping into her right cunt and feeling her warmth beneath me. I held her arms above her head, light BDSM creeping into my dreams, teasing my lucid self to go further. To dominate,

Before I could come, I awoke dazed to a winterly morning, the chill kissing my shoulders and sending an icy trail down to my bare ass. My fists were balled, my Cock was hard and I had to catch my breath.

I will traverse this day in a primal mood, I will tell you. The closeness of an orgasm will linger as I set about my daily tasks, a low pulse in my Cock will distract me as I attempt to work. And it’s working – I’m here, writing on this blog. But now I must get up, get dressed and greet the day.

I’m sure I’ll dream again soon.