Bigger Brother


Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like being a bigger brother to people out there. I see people run with others on Fetlife and something in me stirs. Something in me wants to protect and embrace and be that bigger brother and I can’t shake it or explain it and I am not sure if I even want to question it.

It comes down to family. Who do you get along with, who wants that part of you in their friendship. It’s a complex series of equations that come down to one thing – friendship and how deep that friendship goes.

And it comes down to being a protector of a little one, or submissive.

And it comes down to bond. The bond that you might share.

Ultimately, that means getting out into the community and given my anxiety, I just don’t know about that. But I do you can’t just force it and that’s not what I ever want to do. So for now, it rests in the back of my mind as a delicious ‘maybe’ or a wonderful ‘possibly’.

But what is a ‘bigger brother’? In my eyes, a friend. A close friend. Someone that you can spill your heart too and who happens to mail. It’s a deep bond, playful but platonic. I can’t speak for the interpretations of others and I can’t speak to the relationship to others but for me, sometimes, I think about being part of a little group and that’s nice.

And that even fluctuates for me anyway. I’m the type of person to go from feeling like a sociable human to being a wolf that’s in a pack of two – him and his submissive. And on those days, nothing is finer than the company of my kitty – or, if we are sticking to the analogy, wolf cub. She fulfils me. End of story.

I  guess it comes down to this: wanting to protect people. Maybe that’s ego, maybe that’s madness, who knows. But sometimes I get feeling like I should be a bigger brother to some, which is quite different to switching to Daddy for my kitten. How the mind alternates! Are you following alright? Yes? No? Maybe? I don’t know.

I don’t know if I will have all the answers but I do know that I just want to take care of people.


This is possession


What is it about seeing her peel off her pants and revealing that pretty ass that makes me want to bend her over the bed and have my filthy way with her?

I know I like claiming what is mine but this is possession right there. I’m not myself, I am somebody else. An animal. A maniac.

Sometimes The Animal Wins

Were we always meant to be perverted?

We have our humanity, yes, and a moral code. The sexual predators are the ones that – for whatever reason – don’t and that’s what separates us from them. But is the line sometimes blurred? Do we make up for our animalistic thoughts by weighing it on the scale opposite from the scale that represents all the good we do in our lives?

Maybe I’m over tired. Maybe I’m onto something, maybe I am talking out of my ass here. Sometimes I look at, say, a waitress at a restaurant I’m dining in. I’ll notice everything from the light of her eyes, how she smiles to the way her breasts curve behind her work uniform. I’ll think about her as she passes me and serves the others. I’ll think about the colour of her panties and whether she is shaven or not. It will twist something in my stomach.

I could be sitting across from a woman while out another night. Her legs could be parted ever so slightly, revealing…what? a hint of the colour of her panties? More of her thigh?

I don’t go out into the night to be a womaniser. I was raised by a conservative mother. My family is mostly full of women. I have nothing but respect for women and yeah, when I feel my gaze is looking at the curves of a lady’s ass, I look away. I feel bad. I’m not always looking, you know, but it happens. And I never mean to.

Which is interesting. It’s like I’m waking up out of a dream. Like the animal takes over and despite my humanity, my own moral code and my family full of women, it wants to know about these women. It has a curiosity. An appetite. A sexual hunger.

She could be a woman just working at the grocery store, tattoos up her arm, long luscious brunette hair. And I think: Is SHE submissive? Does she go home at night and browse these blogs? How many times does she masturbate? What kinks is she into?

It’s not something I think with every woman I look at it, let me clear that one up. It’s just sometimes it happens. Sometimes I gaze when I don’t mean to. Sometimes I think when I don’t mean to. Sometimes, for a moment, it feels like ten minutes but in fact it is a few seconds, the animal wins.

And when the moment passes, I’m back to my old self. I’m head over heels for my submissive. I have no desire whatsoever to gaze upon other women. I retain my humanity and my moral code.

So: Were we always meant to be perverted? Does anyone else identify with my thoughts or am I just a sleazy womanising man? Because if that’s my story arc in this saga called life, that’s kind of disappointing. I thought I was better than that.