The Gift

He couldn’t explain why . . . He just wanted to write on her nude self. He wanted to gift her the only worthwhile thing he found in himself . . . His writing. For that was who he was, that was photographs of what he saw through his eyes etched, in this case, into her flesh.

It was how she made him feel . . . It was the thoughts he struggled to put into words, the words he struggled to shape on his tongue. It was about how her submission cracked the stone away from him, brought him alive, it was about how she made him feel – worthy, as a dominant, as a man forming his own dirt track in the journey of life. It was about love, passion, lust, danger, humanity, darkness . . . and balance.

And after he finished, after he placed the full stop to his feelings for her, for them, above her ass, he would read her his words, all the whole undressing above her, all the hovering over her, his cock teasing her, nestling between her shapely ass. She’d struggle to pay attention, to fight against rising her hips to meet him, distract him, but she’d do her best. She’d listen.

And once he reached that full stop, he’d slide right into her, to fill her, bare as he was born. Their bedsheets, the ink on her body, be damned. That could wait.

Beyond Your Boundaries

Good morning, my gorgeous little pet,

This is what is going to happen when you get home from your work function tonight. As soon as you enter our domain, you are going to undress completely. I want you naked.
Find your house collar and apply it.
On our bed together, you will find my favourite lingerie of yours waiting for you. Dress into that, lay on your stomach – and message me you are ready. We’re going to wait ten minutes before I leave the study. Ten minutes for you — and no phone! No scrolling Facebook or Reddit, you’re going to sit and wait in total silence.

And then…I will come to you.

You don’t need to know why you’ll be doing this. You’ll do what I want when I want, but we both know I delight in your torture – and there will be torture throughout the day, I guarantee this – so I’ll say this.

I know you’ve had a stressful week, rushing around to make others happy, that is why I adore you. And that is why I am going to take, why I want to take you beyond the boundaries of your pain threshold.

Where we go exactly, I cannot possibly know, but I just know…I want to give that to you. I want to see you sweat out everything boiling in your mind, I want to hear you let out a howl that is so rough and unlike you that it claws your throat and leaves you breathless. I want to smack your ass, see you flinch, see you jolt, see your mind grasping at registering what is pleasure and what is pain and getting tangled in the distinctions.

I’m not just going my hand, as much as I delight in the sound of that CRACK on your bare skin, on my open palm. I’m going to use our paddle. Our whip. Our cane.

On your ass first. So I can watch you ever so slightly rise your hips as you beg for a thorough cleansing, a cathartic beating. The type that you will feel when you go out to brunch with your girlfriends on the weekend. Oh how you’ll wince as you sit down. My goodness. How I lick my lips at that idea.

But then I’ll move to your cunt. To your tits. I’ll take my time, marking every inch of you, grabbing my cock while I do, thinking of you soak yourself while you squirm into the bed like a helpless, defensive girl.

I’m curious about The Other. What comes out of you at the height of your desperation, of your frustration. You know the one. When we feel and react without processing, when we don’t have time to analyse a response that’s fitting, when we are stripped free of our armour, in this case the lingerie, my dear Valkyrie, and vulnerable to my every action.

I’ve seen The Other before – spitting bratty venom at me, one eyebrow cocked in my direction, her words barbed and laced with poison, her voice distinctly different then my everyday goddess, sultry and smooth. She’s unapologetic in her filth.

Most of all, I want to take you to such dizzying heights that the world melts away, that we’re high high HIGH in the sky, in shadow of the moon, bathed in monochrome. Or is that monochromatic. I’m no artist. I just want the troubles to wash away and slip off into uncharted space. Like warm water off our bodies from the shower we’ll take together after I have my way away from you, after I fuck you from behind, pulling you by the hair, running my hands over your nipples. Squeezing them till they explode in pain, till I hear you cry lot in said pain.

I want to give you a release. And I don’t want you to hold back.

I will see you soon, gorgeous girl. This Sir is very lucky to have you. Have a beautiful day.

In Which I Discuss My Voice As A Dominant

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been told I don’t enunciate, that I mumble or that I speak too quickly – mostly because my brain is moving so fast and my mouth is trying to keep up. I’ve been told my voice is monotone, often in readings out loud in school, and for this I’ve been super self conscious about it.

From time to time, I have thought about the use of our voice a lot when it comes to sex, D/s or BDSM but it’s something I haven’t touched on before. And it’s only now, when I’ve started recording notes to myself as I string together a novel I am working on, that I have started wondering more about what our voice means – to me, to ourselves and to the people we touch in our lives.

For starters, I don’t really like my voice. Some people seem to. Back in 2017 when I regularly streamed on twitch, a viewer told me my voice was putting her to sleep in a really relaxing way. Others, my partner, the people I have touched in my own journey, have said it’s a wonderful, deep voice that is sexy or soothing or something of the sort. I usually, awkwardly, give thanks. I’m starting to try and accept these compliments because I usually negate it straight out as second nature. Something a therapist has said to me that has stuck with me.

But where they hear sexy or relaxing, I hear clumsy, awkward, bumbling. Your very own Inspector Gadget. We are our own worst enemies right? And yet oddly, still I record to myself. It helps me sound out structure when I’m struggling with connectivity between words.

I used to struggle with the concept that to be dominant was to slip into a role, that I needed to build a voice. A voice that could be commanding, that has an edge, that could be effective. I think my background in theatre – I used to do school musicals and a few plays on the side even then – probably gets tangled in that respect, that I try to, not necessarily be someone I am not, but to be projecting my voice. Like there’s a tiny director inside me from off the stage telling me to speak to the grandma in the back row.

But something about striving to be theatrical felt disingenuous to me. Yeah, I could flirt or be playful or slip a innuendo here or there – try as might, as awkward as I can be, these things come out of me – but to be a role? Outside of say a specific roleplay? To put on a mask? As much as I like acting, I feel like taking off that costume piece by piece would be more fitting to who I am. To strip down the layers and be bare.

And the more I learned about BDSM, D/s and my myself, the more I realised, it WAS less then a role and more of myself that bubbled to the surface. And the more I became aware of THAT, the more I became aware of the shifts of my voice – how it can change, deepen, when I talk about a really good book or something I’m passionate about, or how it darkens when I’m horny. Or how it becomes biting when I’m facing a bratty side.

These are all natural things that come to me, that I’m not entirely conscious of until they’re out of me, when my guard is lowered, when I’m comfortable.

Our voices are unique, are what make use that rare, wondrous experience. I still have reservations about speaking unless I’m super comfortable with the person, and I can’t see what others see in me, but I try to take solace in the fact that they see something there in the first place. Something is anything right?

‘For My Own Amusement’

She steps out of the shower, wearing nothing but a white tank top, no bra and plain grey panties — and he can’t help himself.

A change takes over him.

He seizes her by her wrists, she cries out in surprise – a series of squeals that’s a sonata to his ears.

Before either of them realise it, she’s up against the wall, her lovely hips and thighs pinned, her right leg bent at the knee.

He thinks of her ass up against the wall — and feels himself growing hard, can feel the ache with every passing second.

‘What are you d-‘

He raises the water bottle he has in his right hand — and squeezes it. Water comes squirting out. Like paint to a canvas, it paints the image of her curvaceous tits, adding shading to where her areola is, adding lines of depth in the drenched fabric where her nipples are hardening.

But the best part is not how the now-soaked cotton tank top clings to her tits, to the frame of her body, it’s the shifting expressions across her face. The fury, the shock, the indignation. She turns her green eyes onto his dark brown eyes, shaped in her shifting moods, and he can’t stop the smile that comes to his face.

‘Play with yourself for me, little pup. For my own amusement.’

Gone is the fury, the indignation.

But shock remains, so does humiliation. Kinda like how the T-1000 shifts through its multiple forms upon its destruction in the sea of molten steel.

But there’s something else written in those deep green eyes. Understanding.

Her mouth is open, cute little lips glistening with saliva in the light of the hallway, but only a guttural click is coming out, as the words are trying – and failing – in her throat.

As her left hand runs down the frame of her body and slips ‘neath her cotton panties, he says to her, ‘Look at me while you play. I want to watch you.’

And still she cannot talk. She merely nods her head in understanding, knocking loose strands of her wet dark brown hair down around her forehead.

Her hand starts to move from under her panties, knuckles taking shape against the thin cotton. It’s a sight that takes hold of him – he slips his own hand under his jeans, grabs hold of his cock and squeezes out the ache. It only helps for a few seconds. The ache returns almost instantly.

Her eyes don’t leave his. He sees her wavering breath in them, sees the struggle to control her breathing, sees her FEEL her own knees buckling as she touches herself.

‘And what are we doing, hm?’

Her mouth – still open – tries to form the words.

‘I’m…’

She cuts off as her eyelids flutter. She fights them open, keeps her eyes focused, tries again to speak. But he can see the struggle in her eyes.

‘I’m…playing…w-w-ith m-my clit.’

‘Yeah?’

He knows that she’s a little shy even after all their time spent in their shared multiverse of darkness. He pushes her what feels like the right amount.

‘How’s it feel?’

She swallows – it’s an audible click in her throat.

‘So….g…’

Again, her eyelids flutter as her fingers work her delightful slit. Again, he can’t help himself. How has he ever managed to be a dominant around this wild untamed brat when he can’t discipline himself? He yanks her panties, exposing creamy pale thighs and her hand parting a bare, beautiful slit.

Her eyes bulge, almost turning golden from green as she looks at him, that shock registering. But she doesn’t look away, she keeps going. Her fingers are working smoothly, delicately – she has this rhythm down pat.

She doesn’t even register her delight when he tears down his own pants and reveals his throbbing, pulsating cock.

Which wants her as desperately as he does – it bobs in the air, eager to rid itself of that maddening ache.

That ache that he can feel like cobwebs across his arms, like butterflies fluttering about in his stomach, like chills creeping down his spine.

As he watches her, he can hear his own heart in his ears, pump pump pumping away. Badum badum badum badum.

With his right hand on his cock, he reaches out and pulls at her tank top. It comes down in the most humiliating fashion, with her left breast slipping out, her nipple looking achingly hard.

Her pale face flushed a shade of red as she kept her eyes on him. She sucks in her lower lips and bites down.

And he can’t handle it. He breaks his own rule, breaks eye contact, he needs to taste her. He pins her to the wall further as he presses against her, his cock hitting her thigh.

As he grabs her left breast and squeezes it violently, his fingers catching her stiff nipple and pinching, he feels her hand brush against his cock and grip it firmly. He lets her grab it.

He continues where she stops, spreading her lovely lips with his fingers and finding her clit.

By then he presses his lips to hers – and they both exchange a rushed, throaty moan, the scent of their breath appealing to one another in a strange, primal way.

She breaks the kiss to let out another moan, a frenzied moan, a hurried gasp. He gets the message, he quickens his assault on her lovely slit, gliding his thumb over her clit, slipping his fingers inside her soaked pussy.

She’s muttering something in his ear but he’s focused on the rhythm, the feel of her thickened arousal on his fingers.

Then she cries out, sharp and loud in his ear but he doesn’t care one bit, he’s grinning, he’s admiring her, he’s enamoured with this wild beautiful woman that has chosen him to bare herself to.

Her body jolts in a series of spasms as a shy smile creeps across her face, as she pants in his ear.

They lock eyes.

He grins.

‘My turn.’

Reflecting On My Own Upbringing

When I was 22, I suffered a panic attack over my sexuality that stretched out for weeks. I remember calling my mum up and in between shaky breaths asking her ‘What if I am…this way?’.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could almost hear the cogs ticking over in her head as she thought through it. Just as I couldn’t take it anymore, was going to blurt out abutting to subside my anxiousness, my mother replied ‘welll….then I guess you would be.’

Now..to my mother’s credit, she’s changed a lot over the years since. I think she grew up with the times, with her children. She’s still very conservative she has her – in my opinion – bonkers views about, say, two women raising one child, but she’s accepting somehow. I see the good in her, the love, overriding her own belief system.

To her credit, she tries to understand. When I said I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, she didn’t get what I meant. She thought anxiety could be dealt with, that me not eating was a bit dramatic. I had to explain it to her and slowly she has come to learn about how it affects my mind.

I’m saying all this to you because I’ve inspired by an instagram user’s story about her own upbringing and toxic purity culture to share a bit about the ways in which it has affected my own. In the chances that, like me with the user’s brave words, I would come to reflect and digest on my own upbringing.

Is it weird I sat staring at this blank screen for the longest time? Drumming up thoughts like – ‘Don’t use your upbringing as a crutch. Pull yourself up.’ – I feel like there’s truth in that statement but I also feel like that’s the old world parenting coming out in my thought. Being tough on myself.

I was raised Catholic. I attended Sunday or Saturday mass, I did my confirmation, reconciliation, communion, Palm Sunday, Ash Wednesday, Station of the Cross. I got soap in my mouth when I – at ten years of age – blurted out “For Christ’s Sake!”.

I came from a household where one sister was strapped after being caught masturbating. Where my father caught me looking at porn and played it back in front of my mother as some sort of weird power trip. I remember I would go on to – at the age of 17 – argue with my father about the merits of the film Eyes Wide Shut, an adult exploration of lust and love and infidelity. Oh and orgies.

I remember even renting an R18+ crime film when I was 14 and my dad confiscating it after we were out of the rental store. I’d joke and say he wanted it for himself but he was legitimately furious.

I love my parents, they’re genuinely good people. I always had clothes on my back, I got an education at school and I was allowed to go to parties as a teenager. And as an adult, I have a good relationship with both. I can see they’re human, mortal. Comprised of light and grey. I consider that a blessing to be in my position.

And then there’s religion. In a way I should thank it — it drove me to explore the darker side of my nature, to shout degradations and growl orders, to enjoy running naked when I felt, in my heart, that I was doing something wrong and bad and unwholesome.

I wasn’t spoken to about sex. It was never raised, even as a teenager.

I used to get spoken to about living in sin in my early days, that I couldn’t live that way. I used to get talked to by my mum about marriage and children. But not about sex or masturbation. There was a wrongness in the back of mind on things like that..being naked and such. It feels like a dream now, recounting it.

But I wouldn’t be who I am without that attraction to that delicious edge because of religion. But it took me an age to get here.

When I was in my early twenties, my interest in BDSM hit my head fully formed. And I kept running from it. I can distinctly remember being on chat rooms late at night, getting the inspiration to talk to someone about it. Then I’d close my computer and kill the chat. I was an anxious wreck. This was terrifying to me, I couldn’t rewrite my whole life. Who would accept me? Not my parents.

And it would come back again a few months later. And again I would explore for the evening…feel guilty…and bury the feelings.

Why? Because I was freaked the fuck out by it. It felt…wrong somehow. Why would it feel wrong? Why wrong? Why was I feeling that? I don’t know. All I knew was that I felt wrong, I felt bad, I felt INSANE. I was told to be a gentleman to women, to treat them kindly and I was wanting anything but in my dark desires. Degradation and humiliation was the tip of the iceberg, my gateway drug to kink.

That feeling of guilt made me anxious. Me being anxious made me moody. Me being moody made me hard to live with – irritable, sad, feeling so horny that I felt like I was an addict, which further made me anxious.

I was married by the time I was slowly starting to accept my kinky side. I introduced it to my then-wife. I explained what I was feeling, what I’d like to explore. I ran dressing her up for her day by her. Her response? ‘Only if I get to pick the clothes’.

She didn’t understand, she didn’t get it. I was crushed because I felt in my bones and she didn’t. I hate how I felt then – like I was going to have a mental breakdown. Like I was going to snap..there was this urge to be…bad and just let loose and not care. This would led me to the doctors where I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder because I stopped eating or sleeping.

Even now, years after this…after our divorce…I can feel that storm within me. Even now, when I write a story, I can’t help but think ‘this is it…this is the one that has gone too far.’ – that I should feel guilty for feeling dominant, primal, sexual. Me.

Is this a product of my anxiety or are there ties to my upbringing? Sometimes it feels so deeply intertwined that I’m not sure, ask me again tomorrow.

But I do know that if you’re in a similar situation, you are definitely not alone.

Sex And Death: On Horror Films And Being Primal

This is how it goes.

A camp counsellor impatiently waits for her hunk of man to return from taking a leak so they can resume their sensual picnic away from their camp duties.

The sun is setting, casting a glow across the nearby lake. A glow that reaches up out of the waters lapping the lake edges and falls across this camp counsellor’s – let’s call her Jenny – body.

Shadows stretch out from the trees above, casting Jenny and the plaid picnic blanket she lays on in darkness.

She’s undressing down into her skimpy underwear, a deep purple. Her panties hug her ass and her bra shows off her tan lines.

But she keeps undressing.

She lifts off her bra, throws it aside, reveals her freckle-kissed tits.

Giggling, she wriggles out of her panties, revealing untamed pubic hair.

This will surely be a surprise for him – let’s call him Kevin – when he gets back. This will knock his socks off.

Suddenly the masked killer appears! Jenny can’t see because she’s rolled over and sunbaking.

She only catches on when the killer grabs her roughly in a way so unlike Kevin and whirls her around so she’s on her stomach, fully exposed to this stranger.

Before this killer plunges down his weapon – let’s go with a classic and say Machete – into her chest, maybe he’ll be forceful with her – grab her tits, twist her nipples till her brain misfires over whether to choose pain or pleasure.

Eventually though, the kill will come and with it…a release.

So why does this appeal to me?

A NEW BEGINNING

When I was 12, I began to run naked.

It was innocent at first. Just me feeling the long grass whip my legs and the breeze against my body.

I don’t know where it came from, that idea, I just knew that I wanted to do it.

And the feeling was exhilarating.

This was partially, I think, due to being raised Catholic – there were rules to follow and hell to pay otherwise – and partially to just exploring a whole other side of..well, me.

In my teenage years – that’s when it got to be sexual. Or perverted. Or weird. Or all of the above?

I distinctly remember going for a run one afternoon after it rained and being charged by the bush around me – the sight of the lush bush, the smell of rain, the freedom, I collapsed to the ground and began to grind my cock into the earth. It was wild, feral, animalistic. I felt different, like I was in touch with something deep and primal – something I had never heard discussed.

My teenage years was also where I REALLY got into horror. Aliens, Predator, The Thing, Scream, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th. I devoured anything I could find – namely American slasher films but also a lot of Asian Horror and French Body Horror as well.

Horror was always a part of me, I think. I remember being scared by Gremlins or ghosts in Ghostbusters I and II as 6 year old. There was just something about…the unknown. The things no one talked about to me as a kid – folklore and monsters and the metaphysical. Sure, being Catholic meant I knew about angels and God and satan. But that was all regulated to pretty thin, safe stories about good and evil and it didn’t feel as personal as, say, a one on one discussion.

Horror was also probably one of many elements that would factor into my anxiety disorder so there’s also that. But that’s a cliff note right now.

But an interest in the horror genre was also the effect of something else – of experiencing the darker side of life, humanity and our feelings. It was me looking at the world and fascinated by the dark and the weird and the supernatural.

I was 14 when I first saw John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978). I remember a friend of mine pulled me into her room and showed me her list of horror films on VHS excitedly – and I’ll never forget my experience with it.

Where my previous experiences with a killer – Freddy Krueger or Jason – felt fantastical and sensationalised, there was a disturbing stone-cold reality to Michael Myers that chilled me to my core.

And in the opening moments of the film, when he, as a child, peeks into the bedroom of his sister and saw her sitting in front of her mirror topless, there it was: unglamorous, unsensational. Just nudity and sexuality in a horror film.

But it did something. It was disturbing, yes, but it lit up something else in my mind and touched on something psychological. Something that found this voyeuristic moment alluring and erotic and arousing. What was it about watching this naked woman? About her unsuspecting self?

Slasher films became my go-to horror film. Not only was I a film enthusiast and loved looking at effects work, I was always drawn to why they were the way they were. Even when their own filmmakers admitted to moments of nudity and sexuality as a way to sell tickets- and what sells better then the build up and release of sex and death! – I was still fascinated and confused by the reaction the films had in me – this slight arousal to the moment – the voyeurism. The chase. The climax.

I wasn’t aroused by the bloodshed and gore, you see. It wasn’t about the violence, it was about the build up – and the Predator and the prey.

PART II

With me realising I liked that part of myself came the realisation I liked dominance. I liked verbal degradation and humiliation. It came out one time during intense play with a girlfriend and we both were drawn to it. It was just a big pot of all these ingredients and I had no idea what to think about any of it.

I buried the feelings.

And long story short, it was only when I was 26 that I began to properly explore my kinky side. And with that came the realisation I was primal.

Suddenly it all made sense. Suddenly I knew why I loved being naked, why clothes felt restrictive, why I wanted to run and fuck and pump her cunt with cum in the forest – it was that term, that damn umbrella term. All these crazy feelings of lust and love and excitement and rage and sadness were me getting in touch with these primal feelings.

It was all primal. That was the attraction to the horror film. The Predator stalks the prey. There’s a thrilling chase and a struggle, there’s gratuitous nudity and things that were forbidden to me – sex and violence. It all came together.

Okay, sure, the reaction is scientific. It’s the build up of adrenaline – a totally normal physiological response in the body that people can and do experience when watching horror.

But am I wrong in feeling that it runs deeper then that? That there’s also a reason to being drawn to the stark sensuality and visceral voyeurism of the horror film? Or is it because I’m what is labelled primal that it triggers a response in me? OR does it go back to a very animalistic part of our humanity? Something that links back to our history as cavemen? Is it the mind’s way of racing to understand what’s on the screen? Kinda like how in Stephen King’s IT and how the mind perceives the entity as a giant spider because that’s the closest it can understand it?? I don’t know. I’m just a writer, don’t ask me.

All I know is that the tan lines of the victims, the exposed skin, the forbidden sex, the forbidden watchfulness of the killer – it’s all very, deeply, visceral and erotic.

THE FINAL CHAPTER…?

So is this about nature or nurture or both? Did my love for the horror genre not only develop my sexual taste but my anxiety? Is horror responsible for the anxious dominant I am today? Where does it begin?

Am I alone in that attraction – to the horror genre, to the slasher film, to the Predator and the prey hunt?

And why does feeling primal feel lonely? There are other people out there, other primal beings on their own journey. So where on this plane of existence did that come from?

This is how my mind goes.

A Moment In Time

As the rain beats steadily on the windows of their bedroom, she slips out of her thin robe – the robe that hugs the exquisite shape of her and leaves nothing to the imagination.

He’s asked her to slip out of it, the question, the soft sound of his voice, hanging in the air as she unties the threads that hide her form.

She squirms on the spot, wrestling the robe out from under her, but her eyes never leave his. Earthy, he thinks, as she looks up at him, like the green of a rainforest ground. Her lips part ever so slightly, giving him a glimpse at the – he can’t help but laugh inside in his own mind in utter disbelief – perfect alignment of her teeth.

Everything about her transfixes him, the melodious sound of her voice, the way her eyes flicker between warrior woman to obedient pup, the shape of her legs – legs for days, he jokes to her – and then feels bad, thinking like a misogynistic jerk, even though the other part of him knows he is twisting his own mind.

Twisting reality.

The robe passes over her breasts, the black star print of the fabric rippling across the shape of her nipple hardening underneath. Then it slowly pulls back the curtain, slowly revealing her bare breasts.

Bare breasts that rise with her deep breath…then falls back down as her body deflates.

Is she nervous? He wonders, looking into her eyes that express nothing. They’re glassy, dreamy, like a cartoon cat or animated lady adoring something.

Adoring him? No. Surely not. Why? That can’t be. Why – and more importantly – how?

How can that be?

The robe hangs on the edges of their bed together – then slips away, floating to the floor where it’ll lay for the remainder of their evening.

Now she lays beneath him, completely naked, and he looks to her as if he’s seeing her naked for the first time.

That feeling never goes away. It’s always the same – his stomach twisting as he takes in how her hair rests, how her eyes glitter, how the muscles of her neck seem to tighten in anticipation when she swallows.

How her breasts are lightly tanned – she’s used the height of their backyard fence to bask in the summer sun, much to his mixture of emotions. Her topless self, sometimes even naked self, soaking in the sun, brings out a beast he wrestles with.

Is it selfish? Is it possessiveness? Is it both?

And she knows this to be true. She winks and her eyes take on a glint as she smirks. Oh she knows what he’s wrestling with. One time afterward she even kissed him on the cheek and brought his hand up to cup her breast, feeling the radiating warmth.

He took in the heat, and let her feel his own, his twitching cock, as she led him to the bedroom where they let out their animals together.

He can see she wants to ask what he’s thinking of as he kneels beside her – so he gets to the point. He plucks out the red marker and her eyes find it instantly.

“I want to write on you how I feel about you.” He says.

He wants to say more, the words are there, but he has a feeling if he does so he’s going to jumble them up and it’ll come out a mess.

Instead he gets to his plan.

His cock is aching, standing to attention. His erection happened instantly. She always that effect on him. He wants to squeeze it, wrap his hands around its shaft and SQUEEZE but he stills himself.

He writes across the tips of her breasts in his scrawl GORGEOUS KITTEN.

She winces at the letter G – then giggles. A smile breaks out across her ever-reddening face.

“It’s cool.” She says softly.

Around her left areola he writes BITE ME – and on her right SUCK ME.

It’s getting harder for him to gather his cool. He can smell the scent of her and suddenly his mouth waters like he’s been wandering the desert.

Going vertically down her chest, he writes the words L-O-V-E-D.

Her cute little stomach rises with what he hopes is a stomach flip of her own.

“Are you having fun there?”

The brat rears its head.

“The time of my life.”

His voice comes out in a drawl, his mind on the next set of words that will run across her cute, lightly tanned thighs – PRETTY LITTLE PLAY THING.

“Genuine question – are you going to help me wash this off later?”

He couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face, the smile he got from just hearing her playful sass.

“You keep going, I think I’ll just watch you wash it off myself.”

“Could you resist that?”

“I’m going to take you pretty hard when I’m done here.”

He couldn’t resist the bait.

“Oh I’m sure you are.”

He looked up from where he was hovering the marker over her left thigh. She looked back at him, smirking.

So he wrote MISS BRAT.

She lifted her leg up to get a look and craned her neck.

“That’ll teach me.”

He simply looked at her and put his hand on her thigh – she giggled at his touch – and lowered it back down.

But something must’ve held her still. She did not say another word as he wrote across her legs – INCREDIBLE – nor did she giggle.

His mind was already on flipping over, on drawing across her ass the word MINE.

On pulling her up to her knees and slipping into her from behind so fast and hard and furious because fast and hard and furious seemed like the only word to SATIATE his pulsating cock.

On slipping back into that frenzy of parting her lips and feeling her around him as she gives herself over to him, shedding and shredding and cracking open her skin as she transforms into her own animal.

But one second at a time.

One word at a time.

‘Untitled Free Verse Poem’

There are no pictures for it I can find, no scenes from a movie I can capture.

It exists in my mind only.

Be my muse, be my doll, be my wide-eyed wonder.

Let the curtain of water fall around us, sting our flesh, feel like stones.

I don’t care.

I want you on your knees before me, beads of water covering your breasts, nipples aching from every smack, smack, smack of the water over us.

Your hair in strands and curls across your face, dangling at the corners of your eyes.

Like an animal peering out from between the bushes.

I need to fuck that wet, luscious mouth of yours.

I need to feel you around me.

I need to disappear with you,

In this moment,

In this realm.

I need you.

Do you need this as badly as I do?

——-

Sometimes I dabble in odd free verse poetry. I’m not very good but it’s just something I have to get out creatively to satiate myself.

The Journey Onward

I was sitting here, just musing about this blog and my writings and how – in the span of it being here in cyberspace for six years – I have gone from newbie dominant to making mistakes and learning from them, from learning from conflict within myself or relationships, from opening my email and helping others, even when I wasn’t sure if I have the answers. I mean..I still wanted to help.

And I’ve been thinking lately where my blog would ‘evolve’ or ‘go’. I mean, beyond the cyclic nature of musing over my dominance every now and then.

And I think this place here, where I share my innermost thoughts, is my journal. It’s like I’m traveling on a train, looking out at the passing landscapes, the rolling countryside, and I’m jotting down my dreams, my fantasies, my experiences and my thoughts. All of my thoughts – my messy head, my anxious mind, my bad writing. It all comes out here.

You’re welcome to sit down across from me, ask me what I’m writing, exchange ideas and philosophy, even insecurities. I welcome the company.

And I like to help, of course. Where I can, if I can. I don’t ever know if I can but I don’t want to stop trying. I’ve been asked what do I get out of it – “what do you get out of mentoring?” – well, what I get is a hope that someone’s chest will feel a little less tighter knowing they’ve asked their questions, that they’ve felt heard and they know they’re not alone. I don’t hold any assumptions, I’m just some guy, but I do like to help.

But I don’t know where this blog will go, to tell the truth. I know I feel content with the knowledge I’ve acquired as a dominant and lover – but that doesn’t mean the nomad in me will stop wandering the road or that the writer in me will stop musing on stories, poems or experiences. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to stop leaving my door open for anyone to stop by if they need to chat or ask anything.

On the other hand maybe, to you dear reader, I’ll become like that one band that starts to repeat itself after a few solid albums. I don’t know – but if so, I’ll thank you for coming along for the ride.

I started this blog to make sense of my head, to put down into words my thoughts and feelings so that I could make sense of it, so that someone else – anyone out there – could stop by and make sense of it.

I think I’ll be doing that time and time again – in between stories and real life experiences and so forth.

And while I don’t know where this blog will go…dear reader, you are more than welcome to come along for the ride if you want. Your company will be very much appreciated.

The Primal Predator

Surely It’s got to be a primal trait, right?

Enjoying the way her beautiful chest rises and falls with her steady breathing. My eyes traveling to her lovely neck and thinking about the whimper she’d make when I wrapped my hands around her throat and squeeze.

In my travels to find photos to inspire my mind, writings, sex life, I came across a gif of a woman cornered. The unseen figure had a knife trailing across her flesh, sliding underneath the strap of her nightie.

To me, it feels like such an animalistic mood or mindset – finding myself enthralled by the sight of her before me, taking in the tiniest details. How huge her eyes might seem, how glazed they might be. How she might stand there. Would she defy me? Would she be testing me in a battle of wills? Standing her ground? Would she hit me back with a verbal sparring? There’s a part of me that would like a challenge.

That’s another thing. There’s something alluring about that invitation to spar mentally, to begin the match, the chase, the hunt – whatever you want to call it. However it begins, it’s a connection between two minds. And that’s incredibly attractive. In a way, that’s really what helps drive my dominance – that connection between minds.

But going back to my earlier wandering thought – I don’t know, it just seems like such an animalistic thought process that’s almost seperate to dominance because of how my eye is drawn to those things. I mean – and this harkens back to my sadistic side – there’s a curiosity that I have with how the individual reacts before me. There’s a sadistic glee that creeps into my bones, at hearing their whimper – and it’s a smirk that spreads across my face as I see their eyes flicker with that dance between obedience and disobedience.

It’s an aspect of my dominance that comes and goes like the seasons. With the sporadic Melbourne weather we’re having here – the change between wild winds and rain and strikingly sunny days – there seems to be a change in my mind. I’m feeling that charge, that atmosphere that could drive me to strip a poor pretty little thing of her singlet (tank top for the un-Australian) just because the sight of her shoulders makes me ponder deeply.

I immediately self sabotage – calling myself a typical male or a dirty man – something I think that is from my own childhood – being raised as a strict Catholic. But it’s there, this mindset to cut away her clothes with a growl and see the look in the eyes of the fellow primal someone that stands before me and wants to see just what kind of animal resides within.

And I guess I ask the question, that it’s got to be a primal trait, because of how intensely I focus on the little reactions. It just seems like such a predatory aspect, a laser-focused sight on the tiny, beautiful features of a person. The things that fascinate me.

Whatever it is, however predatory it may be, it is a big part of who I am. I don’t want to deny it anymore, I want to understand it.