What Is The D/s Dynamic?

It’s easy for me to use the term ‘D/s relationship / dynamic’ in my blog, because it’s something I’ve actively sort out and taught myself about. But for beginners, for people new to the lifestyle, there’s some confusion about what exactly it entails in a day-to-day relationships.

 

With this post, I aim to clear the air surrounding the terminology, dispel any miscommunication about its meaning and discuss what this means for both parties involved in the dynamic.

 

 

The D/s Dynamic

The D/s dynamic is an alternative style of relationship involving two consenting people who fall into either the category of a Dominant or submissive.

Though the D/s dynamic can involve sex and the joys of BDSM, it can be entirely non-sexual. Each partner has something within them, a longing if you will, that is something beautiful and psychological.

 

Dominance

The Dominant cannot expect the submissive to bend to his / her will. If they think that is Dominance, they are false. A good Dominant is a compassionate teacher, one willing to be patient and to guide and instruct and, above all, to love.

The Dominant is the protector of the submissive. Personally, I want to say Guardian – or Gatekeeper, as each role in the dynamic takes on a lovely, almost mythic quality.

What new Dominants need to consider is that Dominance isn’t about inflicting pain or dishing out humiliation and stern punishment. It’s so much bigger than all of that. It’s about the Dominant coming to the understanding that they are in charge of the well-being of the submissive and as such, a punishment’s role is to curb a negative behaviour in the submissive.

 

Submission

 I say this to every newcomer to the lifestyle that identifies as submissive – submission does not mean you automatically become a plaything for a Dominant. The submissive has the right to hand that power over.

A submissive deserves to be treated gently and with kindness. They may be ferocious outside of the dynamic, but within the dynamic, there is a soulful softness there that the Dominant needs to respect.

Over all, the submissive has a larger hand in the dynamic, for they give the power – and furthermore, consult with the Dominant on what actions may or may not take place in this established universe of theirs.

Established Boundaries

 When undertaking this relationship, it’s important to establish boundaries. Discuss amongst each other what you fancy and don’t fancy. Be very thorough about the guidelines because any miscommunication may cause tear in the relationship, leading to negative habits forming down the line.

Communication is paramount. The Dominant must feel secure enough to talk about their desires without feeling inexperienced while the submissive must feel able to talk openly about any inner feelings at ease.

A ‘safe word’ should be thoroughly discussed and understood. It means stop, either to clarify in the moment or because the submissive is uncomfortable or in pain, either psychologically or physically. The word must cause the action to stop completely, so both parties can discuss how to move forward.

 

And Now, A Personal Example…

 At the beginning of my relationship with my kitten, my first fully fledged D/s relationship, I was a rough Dominant, in the sense that I was still learning how to talk and communicate.

I made the unfortunate mistake of punishing her, when she did something wrong, for things we didn’t communicate upon establishing our BDSM contract. I.E – I BROKE THE MOST IMPORTANT RULE: ALWAYS COMMUNICATE OPENLY.

 Because you know what that lead to, my foolish mistake? My best friend, my baby girl, being scared of herself, of making an error. Of me. Isn’t that heartbreaking? I still feel like shit for it.

Luckily, I learnt from my mistake. Our dynamic is healthier for it. And if I am ever out of line, either grumpy or what have you, I can trust she will stick it to me and snap me out of a funk. Thankfully, it hasn’t come to that yet.

So learn from my mistakes. Communicate each and every day. Because you know what? At the end of the day, this is a companionship. This is friendship on fire, this is your best friend. Own her, guide her, but treat her with love and respect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Differing Views on Sexuality

 

IF you were to google, say, CowGirl Dominatrix, just look at some of the images you find – from photo shoots to drawings and 3D Renderings.

I did, myself, after wondering what that would really look like, or what people would think it really look like. Because – let’s face it, there’s no right or wrong answer. People adapt what they like, they shape it into something they like.

I was surprised to find a lot of steampunk influences in what a CowGirl Dominatrix would look like. Steampunk, for those unfamiliar, is a hybrid genre. It’s like taking a 19th century aesthetic but blending it with a futuristic setting. Which makes sense for the Dominatrix visuals I came across in my journey, much like these:

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But it’s not entirely what I, personally, had in mind. Which is fascinating to me, because it’s so different from what I’m finding on google – that and it’s says a lot about my tastes and views.

For example, my defining CowGirl Domme would not be dressed out in black attire seen in these images I posted. It’s more fascinating, more alluring for me to have this Domme hidden in plain sight.

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I’m not really interested in the exaggerated sexed up CowGirl that revels in short frilly skirts and unbuttoned blouses. It’s strange, because as a writer, if I were writing a western themed piece of erotica, my Domme would be this normal next-door Jenny. Tends to her father, takes care of the farm. Whips the curious boy or girl in the barn once the sun goes down.

That’s interesting for me because I can explore daytime Jenny as well as free uninhabited Jenny. Something I strive for with the duality in my life, and something I love to teach to anyone that wants my mentoring.

And the most interesting thing here is that someone could come along and say I’M boring, and they prefer the looks above. Or that maybe the looks above are Jenny’s true form. Maybe that’s what she wears when the sun goes down. I don’t know.

I like Jenny, I’m already forming an idea of her. Kinda like a Disney Princess but one that’s been shifted on her head – she seeks adventure out of her daily life. She is getting the feeling she’s pretending to be someone she’s not. Maybe I need to write a series just to give Jenny a life and room to breathe. Characters tend to haunt me if I don’t.

People have different opinions on these natures of things. I love that. Because it’s fascinating to understand why, and after all, it just creates new stories to watch unfold. That’s always a beautiful thing.

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #5: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

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My hand is clasped around the chain that clings to her leash, our leash. The one we picked out together.

She stood before me, dressed down in all of the ways; pink splotches covered her nipples where I had smacked her gently moments ago. Her face wears a frown.

She had on her heel boots, the one she wore to work this morning. This much I let her do.

 

Maybe she had a rough day at work, we all have rough days at work, but I did warn her. Gently.

I told her that her sass has no place at the dinner table.

For whatever reason, she chose to ignore that reason.

This act wasn’t a mistake, an error in judgment, no she knew the rules – we went over them by candlelight the night I claimed her in the great storm of 2016. Every detail, every loophole, every reason was covered. If I made a mistake, she corrected me. If she made a mistake, I corrected her. And tonight, well tonight she was at fault.

 

I must admit, when I told her her punishment and a hint of fear flickered in her eyes, there was a little tickle deep down in my cock. My love, ever smart and anticipating, caught unaware.

‘Baby, it’s cold outside’ she said, slipping into her baby girl mode instantly.

‘You should’ve thought of that, my sweetling’ I replied.

 

Her frown as she undressed, lifting her floral dress overhead and tossing it to the floor to reveal today’s underwear – a black strapless bra and rainbow panties, laced with black lace on the outskirts of the fabric – made me grin. I could feel that side coming out of me then. The primal side. The sadistic side. The Master was meeting the Daddy half way and merging.

 

‘Leave the boots’ I said. ‘We can’t have your feet frozen’

She looked at me venomously but I did not relent. A punishment is a punishment, which is the nature of the beast.

 

In silence I fitted her collar around her, the one she wears at home once she slips into her around-the-house clothes, and in silence I led her outside.

 

My heart began to flutter. Would there be people walking their dogs tonight? It was 7-30pm; the sun was yet to set. It was certainly likely.

 

I moved ahead of her, keeping my hand back, forcing her to walk behind me. That was how you kept Dominance with pups’ right? And tonight, she was my little puppy.

 

We turned the corner and began to walk down Lavender Street. Suburbia was quiet. No domestic arguments, no dogs barking or cats fighting. It’s as if the neighborhood knew the punishment as well. Perhaps that was true. If it weren’t by now, it certainly would be soon.

 

I looked back at my little puppy. Her little pixie hair was an auburn tangle, her green eyes fierce and fixed on me. I kept my gaze until she broke it, looking down at her feet. Not something we practiced, but I didn’t raise it at that point in time. I would carry out the punishment before I showed any warmth.

 

With her eyes down, I looked down at her body. They were covered with Goosebumps, prickles all over her arms and breasts. Her small breasts in the moonlight took on an ethereal form. She is my angel, she always will be. I hope she remembers that.

In that moment, I wanted to lower my mouth onto her hard pink nipples. Perhaps my saliva would make her cold but hopefully the warmth that comes from such an action might counteract such coolness.

 

Nevertheless, I strayed my mouth. This was a punishment after all – and I will fulfill it. Around the block, was the full punishment. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

The weather tonight was a cool 16 degrees Celsius. There was a bite to the air and a gentle breeze that traveled up my spine every so often. The primal being within me chuckled at the idea of it affecting my little puppy. I felt strange for the feeling, a pang of guilt hit me, but I shook the thought before it could spread like an illness through my mind.

 

The sweet and heavenly image of her bare ass, pale and covered in goosebumps, brought me back from the darkness – and I found myself smiling.

 

I looked back at her, my little puppy, which cast her eyes down at the ground as she walked along behind me, the chain rattling as we moved.

 

We turned the corner – another right. Just another right at the end of this street and we’ll be back on the street we live in. I’ll turn on the heater; I’ll let her pick a movie.

 

Behind her, my little puppy kept her arms by her legs. Her mound was neatly trimmed. I wonder if I should ask her to style a new design for me. What would she say? How would she feel? Hm.

 

She felt my gaze and looked up at me, and in that moment something seized my chest. What I said about her being an angel, something ethereal, was genuine. But in the light of the dim streetlight, she looked mythical. It gave me chills and I wanted to kiss her there and then. I could’ve very easily taken her, lying her down on what could be the wet grass and slide into her just to hear her deep grunts. Something about that was so….there is no decent word.

 

There came a cough from ahead of us – and my little puppy whined.

With a gentle tug of the chain, she began moving again.

When a woman and man came into view, walking their lab, the woman let out a noise signifying distaste. The yellow lab bounded over to us, eager to sniff my little puppy’s body. For a second, I was eager to let it. But the couple, their faces twisting into snarls in the night, wheeled the lab back and quickened the pace. My little pup and I kept moving.

 

Shortly, we arrived back m out the front of our house, my little pup close behind me, her frozen hands on her body as I turned the key in the door and stepped inside.

 

I ran her a bath, hot but not scalding, hoping it would bring her back into our realm, back into our house.

 

As she slid down into the bath, sighing as steam rose off her mythical body, she whispered low and wavering. I didn’t catch what she said and I didn’t ask her to repeat it, I let her bask in the warmth.

 

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #2: Silent Night

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Rachel watched herself in the mirror as she shakily undid her plain black bra, watching it as it fell at her feet and revealed her breasts, red splotches covering her areola and nipples.

“Jesus” She let out in a hoarse whisper, and felt a stab of guilt as she did so, given the circumstances.

Despite all this, her cunt was still alive and on fire, pulsating to its own rhythm, something Rachel wasn’t in tune to. It scared her. She wanted no part in it.

Yet as she peeled off her panties, emerald satin with fine black lace detailing around the edges, she could smell the strong aroma of her cunt.

It was so strong it almost made her gag, not for distaste but because her own scent was intense. She could count on one hand the times she had witnessed that, and she didn’t care to count them out right now.

Rachel needed to shower, scalding hot or freezing cold, both were acceptable. Anything to shake the uneasy feeling that what she had done was wrong, terribly wrong.

But all she could think of was laying back on the bed behind her and finishing what she had started. She could watch herself, which was something she had wanted to do but felt weird about it. Narcissistic. She would only point out the flaws in her body anyway, right?

Well, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to watch her fingers glide over her wet slit and slide –

 

It was the middle of summer and yet when Rachel stepped out of the car alongside her family, steam escaped her lips as she let out a sigh.

When she agreed to make the nine-hour drive from Melbourne to Sydney, she thought she would just be spending time with her family.

Yet somewhere between the first and ninth hour of the drive, the thought did occur to her: Mum is going to make me go to Christmas Mass.

It was, after all, her mother’s tradition. Family, even. Rachel’s mother and father were raised Catholic and so raised their three children, Rachel, Louise and May, in their image.

The thing about growing up Catholic though, you merge with the thoughts of the world. You develop a mind of your own. You start to wonder about how and why and why not and before long, you’re agnostic.

Rachel never wanted to go to Mass. She wanted to just soak in the hot tub and read and not even think about Jesus Christ or our sins.

But when she ran the idea by her mum, and when her mum said, with a roll of the eye – something none too subtle and obviously meant to be taken to heart by Rachel – that she was an adult and can do her own thing, Rachel know then that she was trapped. Her mum – excellent at the guilt trip.

 

So Rachel donned the least offensive thing in her wardrobe, something that wasn’t a dress with zombies on it or skeletons or her beloved Pacman dress. She donned a simple black dress, elegant and tasteful. It ran to her knees, didn’t show any leg or breasts or anything the churchgoers or Jesus might find offensive. She even wore tasteful panties without really knowing why she bothered to wear tasteful panties in the first place.

Does God find Poison Ivy and Batgirl panties bad taste? What about Tinkerbell? She does look like a harlot..

Whatever God’s tastes were, Rachel and her family walked into the church in complete silence.

 

It would be odd to say that the church is an ancient thing, considering most are, but it is – it has sat on the corner of the Western Suburbs of Sydney since 1989, when she was a small child. She had her communion here, she was baptised here, and the same old priest that took her confession after she was caught masturbating in the toilets by Miss Fletcher in grade six was still tending to the local flock at the ripe age of 400.

 

Save for a few rows at the front of the hall, the church was unusually empty this Christmas Eve. The times that Rachel had been, the church stalls were packed to the brim and people who came too late to grab a seat stood in lines with their backs against the walls.

 

Rachel found herself supressing a smirk. Everyone had the same idea it seems, thought she, as she followed her Mum into the Church stall.

Thin padded cushions lined the Church stall seats, though it should be said that that didn’t really help at all. Rachel could feel the wood beneath her, rubbing her boylegs into the curves of her ass.

“Jesus” Rachel whispered as she swung her knees to the right to reposition herself.

It was only when she had grown comfortable again that she noticed her mum, sitting across from May, glaring across the stall at her. She heard me blaspheme, Rachel said, I know she did.

 

Her mother didn’t pass on a message back to Rachel; however, she merely glanced coldly at her.

What more does she want, thought Rachel, I am here instead of listening to the crickets and relaxing.

Then the Mass began and Grandfather Priest waddled to the centre of the altar looking like Death itself. He already had the skeletal outline, thin wisps of facial hair on his chin and looked fragile. All he needed was a scythe.

His voice sounded more fragile than he looked, like somebody at the end of his rope, as he struggled to get out the greeting.

Rachel felt cruel to snicker, but the snicker came all the same to her.

That was when her mother leant across May to tap her on her shoulder.

“Honestly, Rachel, you’re 19. Act like it.”

Rachel thought she was.

 

The last Christmas Eve Mass Rachel attended, she was 17. Still in secondary college – or High School. Back then, living under her parent’s roof, she had to. But now, living out of home, finding her own way in life, even if that was working at the local cinema, she didn’t have to sit through the mind-numbing event. She didn’t have to feel bad yawning during prayer.

Something tickled her ankle and Rachel flinched, to the surprise of her family squished around her.

Rachel caught the eye of her mother – cold as ice – and ignored trying to figure out just what those eyes were saying. Something had brushed past her leg.

I did, came a voice. Smooth. Gentle.

Rachel could hear it but not see it. She turned around to see if her family had seen – but their eyes were forward listening to Father Death.

Down here.

Rachel looked down and saw two golden eyes the size of pebbles and barely visible in the darkness of the space underneath.

Don’t scream.

The serpent coiled into the light, wrapping itself around Rachel’s leg and squeezing gently.

Rachel, it hissed. O Rachel, your mind is running, sweet child.

Rachel looked to her family, who didn’t notice her. Even her mother was looking forwards, eyes serene.

 

The pale green snake reached her knee, its golden eyes watching her closely.

Rachel felt hypnotised by its gaze, as if she was falling into a dream.

That was it, she thought, I am asleep. I had fallen asleep during prayer.

Doubtful.

The snake’s voice was in her head, its voice oddly calming.

It slithered under her dress. She could feel its oily skin against her bare thigh.

In all the worlds, in all of rhyme, spin and seek and fear the chime.

Rachel could feel the snake slither across her cunt, could feel the tickle of its body against her skin.

In all of the worlds, each one is the same, you see. And you, O Rachel, are the same in all of the worlds.

Rachel tried to speak but all that came out was a whimper through trembling lips.

She felt violated as the snake began to slither up her stomach, next stop – breasts.

Rachel went to stand up, but the snake hissed beneath her dress. She could see it move in a wave, zigzagging across her chest, which tightened with every chest.

Do not move.

Rachel wanted to ask why her, but the words never came. If she moved quickly enough, she could grip the snake from her body and squeeze it till it popped, but would it bite her first? And why could no one see this happening?

Her family rose and repeated the prayer that Father Death had spilled from his elderly lips. No one seemed to mind that Rachel did not move, not even her mother, whose face no longer registered cold.

Rachel felt the snake move across the curves of her breasts and let out a whimper, it sounded deep and unlike her. The sound frightened her more so.

When the snake coiled itself out the top of her dress and around Rachel’s neck, Rachel was shaking like a leaf. The sudden urge to urinate hit her then, and she struggled to keep it back.

 

She could feel the snake move behind her neck, brushing her auburn hair as it slinked its way across her left shoulder to in front of her face, where it watched her with those haunting golden eyes.

For fifteen agonizing seconds, the snake gazed at Rachel and Rachel gazed at the snake, all of a sudden feeling that summer heat on her neck and cheeks.

The pale snake then slithered back around her neck and feeling its absence, Rachel turned to see it slither into the next Church stall and away from view.

Rachel went to let out a cry, to let out a sob. All that came out was air.

 

A gust of wind struck her fiercely, knocking her head back against the Church stall seats hard, sending pain running through her entire her body.

Though the pain soon subsided, leaving through the tips of her toes, a gentle breeze remained, running against her back.

Rachel looked down and saw her own nude body. Horror washed over her, warm and unrelenting. Panic gripped her throat as she tried to scream.

Not one soul in the church looked at her, all eyes were forward.

The breeze was all around her now, on the tips of her nipples, at her bare shaven cunt. It slithered, just like the pale snake, across her arms and down her legs.

Rachel looked forward to see that Father Death’s gaze was directly upon her.

Rachel realised he had just finished his sentence, as faces began to turn to look at her in all directions.

Even her family looked back at her, eyes warm and accepting.

Rachel looked from her family to Father Death, her words catching in her throat. She choked on their sounds.

Father Death extended one skeletal and withered hand in the air and that’s when the churchgoers rose again.

An altar girl appeared from a doorway on the altar. She was a thin, Hispanic woman. Lines of red paint were smeared vertically across her breasts, as if painted hurriedly.

 

That’s when Rachel realised Father Death was pointing towards her. No, at her.

The altar girl turned to look and found Rachel. Even from here, Rachel could see she did not smile; she merely stepped out across the way towards her.

“Well, go on” Said Rachel’s mother, but Rachel just stood there frozen in silent horror, unable to process what was happening.

The altar woman made her way to Rachel, stopping on the outside of the church seats. She kneeled, her breasts swaying before Rachel’s face as she leant down.

Rachel found her sharp brown eyes and slender face beautiful.

When Rachel’s mother gently shoved her, the Hispanic woman rose to catch Rachel in her arms so she did not fall. Rachel found her face nestled in the woman’s small breasts, smelling the strong smell of paint.

 

In complete silence, as the church hymn Silent Night was sung by the churchgoers, Rachel was led to the front of altar. Goosebumps formed across her arms and her hard frozen nipples ached.

Behind her, the churchgoers began to form in a single line, their head bowed quietly as they sang to themselves.

Rachel wanted to scream at them, for someone to help. But nothing came out except tears from her eyes.

When she reached Father Death, she recoiled from him. Up close he reeked of wine and sweat, even with his head bowed down as he himself sang.

The Hispanic altar girl turned to face Rachel now, and Rachel saw that in one hand she had a small bucket and in the other hand a paintbrush. She moved towards her.

“No,” Father Death said gently. “After.”

The Hispanic woman bowed and placed the items back on the altar. Rachel watched all this with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Eyes forward, Child. You have been touched”

Before Rachel could speak or ask why, the Hispanic woman, who now stood besides her, singing quietly to herself, turned her head forward.

 

The line of churchgoers had become two. The line to Rachel’s left lead to the Hispanic woman, whose pale arms rested behind her buttocks.

Rachel watched as the first person in the line to the Hispanic woman, a woman that looked to be in her thirties, knelt before her.

“The body of Christ” said the Hispanic woman.

“Amen” replied the woman, her eyes large and eager.

When the woman inched forward and lowered herself on the Hispanic woman’s cunt, suckling gently, Rachel’s arms and legs fell limp. The anxiety that was bubbling in her stomach drove its way up her throat.

She finally found the strength within herself to scream before something struck her from behind and then she only knew darkness.

 

Rachel woke to a start, gasping, catching glances from her family around her.

When the priest said ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord’, Rachel was the first to rise from where she stood and the first to leave the church.

 

Rachel sat on the edge of her bed, her hair strewn across her face, hands between her legs, fingers dripping with her excitement. She held in her gasps as she furiously drove herself to orgasm.

Behind her, coiling along her bed, the pale snake hissed and spoke aloud you are lost within a dream, child.

 

The Art of Choking

I was worried ‘the art of choking’ sounds pompous but it felt right. There’s an art to many things – shaving, cooking, even getting dressed.

And considering how my last post on choking was in the infant stages of my blog, back in 2015, I wanted to write something more refined on it as we speed towards the end of 2017.

The trick with choking is that it’s all in the control. It should go without saying you don’t want to crush that beautiful throat like a can, it’s about applying pressure.

For me, applying pressure is like a slow build of tension. Things start off gentle but the more it goes on, the more the pressure escalates to a point.

I say ‘to a point’ because, well, everyone will have a different threshold of how they like it, that’s the nature of the beast.

Kitten and I, we like things a little tougher, a little rougher. So I know where the line is when my hand is around her sweet pale throat.

If you’re worried about where the line is for you, if you’re new to choking and you want to try it out, experiment with pressure. Don’t go in like you’re The Terminator – be gentle.

The best thing is that you can set a whole play session to exploring what works and what doesn’t.

Ask your submissive if you’re unsure. Don’t be embarrassed to learn, that can be how you grow together. And that’s half the fun!

I used to be hesitant about it myself. In the moment, I could go primal and lose myself. This was back when I was finding a balance.

My lovely lady helped me find my way. Reassured me what was okay, that it was fine to tighten my hand around her neck. We were in sync in this regard.

It took a good few months to be okay with this. I’m a sensitive soul after all. When she’d start to struggle to breath, I’d panic. And she’d smile, gently telling me it’s okay, then later pleading with me not to stop.

So in the end, it’s not about how hard you can choke, it’s about pressure and how gently you can increase or decrease in a safe manner.

Don’t be afraid to experiment, so long as you’re gentle and safe about it!

The Dominant’s Growl #10

Are you a natural Dominant or are you a learned one? Or both?

I would probably say I began as a natural Dominant, because I can remember it coming to me out of blue during interactions with an old girlfriend of mine.

I had no idea where it came from or why. Well, if I had to guess why, I would say this particular lady was a lady of mischief. And there was resistance there that came out sexually, which – luckily for me – she responded to. If she didn’t, I’d imagine I would’ve caught the train home and listened to some angst ridden metal band that I worshipped as a teen. (Note to self: Is metal an aphrodisiac? Part joking, part curious).

ANYway, the other half would be that I taught myself the kind of Dominant I wanted to be, the kind of partner I would be interested in, and the rules and regulations that I need on my own life to keep me sane.

And I guess I knew I was growing as a Dominant – and as an adult, really – because it suddenly wasn’t just about my needs. I had started to wonder about the needs and mindset of a submissive. I developed a desire to nurture, which is why I repeatedly offer counsel here..

If you’re skimming – allow me to surmise: I started off feeling natural thoughts but through my experience and encounters with submissive women, I learned. I made mistakes and recovered from them.

What have you learned about yourself in the past year that surprises you?

It would be my desire to nurture.

Even as a Dominant, I’m always anxious to make sure my role is keeping things for my kitten well and in tact so that she is happy and fulfilled and loved.

I do this because I’m scatterbrained. It’s easy for me to get lost in my mind, like some sort of weird wonderland labyrinth. And my kitten is kind of this centrepoint of my world that keeps my feet on the ground.

So I guess the more our relationship goes on, the more I’m finding how deep this love runs. It’s like…falling in love all over again and wanting to protect but not protect too much that it’s overbearing.

So to sum it up, I’ve discovered I like to take care of her, and I’ve discovered I like to help others as best I can as well. Which is why I talk a lot about that Daddy side within me. Is that making any sense?

In Which I Discuss My Writing Style..

Something I do in my free time is offer up my writing services – proofreading, editing, sometimes people want an original story. And so I have a file with some of Creative samples across many different genres – Fantasy, Thriller, Erotica.

The erotic one I have on sample is Zoe. I’m very proud of that, mainly because I wrote it in a fever – I slipped away from myself and was there. I can still hear the crickets and feel the heat of the locale.

But one thing that struck me with this piece that I put on my Creative Writing sample list is that it’s explicit in its use of language. ‘Cunt’ is used quite freely, and I’m sure I dropped a few f-bombs, as my characters tend to live their own lives.

I used to wonder if this was a suitable point of reference. People (Some people) are put off by it, others don’t seem to mind.

But tonight, as I sit here in this comfortable weather that sits somewhere between Just-right levels of coolness, I wonder what draws me to use such language – language I don’t use myself in real life. Unless severely frustrated, or turned on.

What I keep coming back to is that I enjoy the toughness of the word. It is coarse and unrefined and I always felt that some characters, not all but some, would grasp at these words first when trying to form thought.

But in saying that, and at the risk of sounding pretentious, there’s a beauty to that roughness as well. There’s something delightful about tapping into this sense of being in a state of arousal, one where the right word might not come to you, so you grasp for the explicit one. Fuck, tits, ass.

I do take into consideration the character – who they are, who they were, who they are in the moment – but I am aware that when things get animalistic or raw in the heat of these moments, so does my language.

Which is why there is a recurring theme in my writings of people getting down and dirty and unrestrained (or otherwise) because pushing people to the brink, to see what occurs when they topple over, can be a thrilling thing.

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. I don’t like deconstructing what I’ve done because it takes something out of that unrefined piece I write at 2am – but at the same time, I have been wondering why I chose to put Zoe on the list. And in doing so, I have wondered if it would be a bad choice. Which is why I ended up offering alternative pieces of erotic fiction.