Protocol in a D/s Relationship

Protocols in a D/s relationship are a set of rules and concepts agreed upon by both parties and set in place within their relationship to provide organisation, structure and even a peace of mind.

But if you’ve found my site, are curious about the lifestyle and you haven’t had a chance to dig deeper as of the moment you read this– well, hopefully I can shed some light on some of the areas protocol can cover in a D/s relationship.

First off all, I think the most important thing you can do before hand is to have a conversation with your better half, about each other’s needs and wants. See what they are interested in or opposed against, as there may be certain things you can tweak, like the name you give each other, or special unique rituals you share. Maybe there will be a compromise you have to make with certain areas, such as physical interaction if your partner as sore joints or a medical condition.

The Introductory Phase

When you first begin implementing some of these concepts, keep in mind to work through the aspects slowly.

If I may use my own experience here – things can get overwhelming fast and the mind has a funny way of twisting any forgetfulness of concepts and turning that into a false sense of personal failure. My own partner experienced this when she forgot aspects when we first entered into a D/s relationship and even when she realised an aspect wasn’t to her liking after all months after training.

We all learn and adapt and grow and change in different ways, so it’s always worthwhile to approach learning something like this radical change – with patience.

 

Body, Behaviour, Attitude

When you think of body and behavioural aspects in a D/s relationship, chances are one of the first things you’ll think of is kneeling. There are A LOT of kneeling positions and stances a submissive can take in different circumstances but I couldn’t even begin to tell you about them because it’s not something I’ve personally explored beyond a couple of basic stances. So as much as I’d love to say I am well versed in names and positions, I would recommend a little research into some positions and such that you’d like to explore.

I think you’ll find that your attitude and behaviour and the way your body wants to react will come to you naturally. Maybe it has and someone out there has put a name to it already! The important thing is to trust yourself and your thoughts, no matter how abstract and wild they seem.

The right look in a submissive or dominant’s eyes, a beautiful way to stand for your partner – these are all erotic aspects that charge a relationship. Hell, the look my lady can give me sometimes, that I know is a surrendering of her self and senses to me, is enough to drive me wild and insatiable.

Speech Protocols

Speech Protocols are concepts designed to train the submissive to speak according to the specific D/s relationship – a concept chosen and customised by both the Dominant and the submissive.

It can begin with the Dominant and the submissive finding what speaks to each other personally when they come to addressing each other and when or how often? The boundaries are there for them to decide – and this can extend to other areas in their life, such as if they want to maintain speech protocol in public where their kinky sides are hiding in plain sight.

When it comes to addressing each other in a social setting that won’t draw attention, you can get creative. Think of subtle ways in which you can address each other – a casual hand on the shoulder, a gentle tug on the ear lobe. The possibilities are endless!

But speech protocol doesn’t end there – it can tap into other aspects of behaviour, such as if the submissive mishears something the dominant says and will ask a pardon instead of a ‘Huh?’ or a ‘What?’. Perhaps the two personalities will come to an agreement where the submissive refers to herself in third person and in a pet name, e.g ‘This pet had a good day, thank you Sir.”

When I mentor people and this topic comes up, I always like to ask folks what speaks to them personally, deep down in the gut. What ideas tickle their stomach and cause them to laugh nervously?

Personally, I have found that asking them that helps them mull it over and think about what they’d like to be addressed as and what they’d also like to address their dominant.

Dress Protocol

A dress protocol can be a thrilling protocol to experiment with one another. Not only that but it can mean control and order and peace for both personalities and can centre the relationship and the dynamic in both minds.

Speaking personally, there’s a wonderful sense of ownership and control that can come with the various degrees of dress protocol. You’re suddenly in control of someone’s life and wellbeing. There’s responsibility there, but also an intoxicating edge to explore and experiment with dress codes.

How can you dress your submissive around the house? Around work? Parties? Dinners? What if you want to be geeky and buy her some DC comic-themed underwear? It’s all about finding a balance for the dress code in her life, or your life together – but always be open to negotiation

Rituals

Rituals in a D/s relationship are a fun way for both personalities to feel fulfilled and centred throughout their day and week.

From formulating and preforming a mantra – a passage of words that serve as positive reinforcement, while also serving as a type of affirmation to health, mind and relationship of the submissive to themselves and their world – to little gestures such as the submissive asking if they can share the bed of the dominant, asking if they can visit friends, leashing a submissive of the evening as a form of relaxation to even doing household chores.

These rituals come down to what the two of you would like to explore in your relationship in terms of cementing each others’ presence in your lives, either when you’re together or apart from each other.  Have a think about what you want to explore with someone, or with each other. Have a think on the ways in which you want to explore your Dominant / submissive side? What tears at your skin, claws to get out?

Things to consider…

Be patient with one another – this is a time of growth and of learning and sometimes that can take a few tries to perfect and to master.

Be open to change and to suggestions and to new experience – especially new experiences and most importantly, make sure that everything you have agreed upon together is safe within the realms of negotiation.

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.

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. 

12 Days of Kinkmas: Day #11 – “A Kitten for Christmas”

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She kept the best gift for last.
After all was unwrapped on their quiet Christmas morning, after they had their breakfast together – coffee and blueberry bagels – she disappeared into the spare room of their first house together, pulling open the cupboard door and reaching up over head to grab the box with the red and white stripes pattern.
She returned to him waiting on the couch patiently, hands in lap, and gently sat the box down in his lap.
“What’s this?” He asked, eyeing the box suspiciously.

She knew he didn’t like surprises – and something in her delighted in this small twist of fun she was doing to him – but she nodded towards him in a gesture that said open it and see.
He did so, carefully lifting the lid with both arms to see — the contents wrapped in plain gold wrapping paper.
He sighed, the way he knew she found funny, and paid no mind to the delicate wrapping paper, tearing it free and finding –
Cat ears around a headband.
He pulled it out of the box, running his hands over the black fuzz on the ears.
She couldn’t supress the smile on her face, it spread like wildfire, her cheeks taking the full brunt of the force.
Below the cat ears was a pink collar, as soft and fuzzy as the ears, with a little silver pendant attached reading Kitten.

“Interesting…just your size.”
He placed the collar on the cat ears – there was more to come.
Below the collar was a medium sized butt-plug, sleek and black. Attached to the end of it was a cat tail, soft and fuzzy (again) with a white stripe down the middle of it. All of this bought for just $79.99 – though he would never know that.
“I…must say. I am lost for words.”
She knew this, could tell this, from just the sound of his voice. He had this tone about him when he couldn’t find the words. It was a sweet feature. Genuine and shy and honest.

She could tell he liked it though, she could see thatin his eyes, the way they lit up with mischief, his mind going a million miles an hour just thinking of the possibilities.
Before she could talk about it, before she could say what was on her mind or even address how they’ve both been wanting to explore this part of themselves for the better part of their busy year, he was already getting up, pink fuzzy collar in hand.
“May I…Or would you rather –“

She was already brushing the intruding hair out of her eyes and behind her neck before he could finish.
With the collar attached, warm and snug around her neck, she felt truly at home – comfortable. At peace. She could tell by the way his eyes were beginning to glass over at he was at the same spot she was.

He put his arm around her and drew her in for a cuddle.

12 Days of Kinkmas – Day #5 – ‘Born Again’

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Seventeen year old Jennifer was sprawled out on a towel on the floor, dressed in only her lime green cotton panties. Her long blonde hair fell across her snow white-skin, curling around her small breasts.
Freckles spread outwards in a sporadic pattern across her stomach, where they would reach across her thighs and around to her ass.
Never had she felt so alive than she did now.
Never had she felt like someone understood her so completely, in all of the ways, like Caleb did.
He stood before her, completely nude, her boyfriend of just one year, messy crop of blonde hair.
“Are you ready?”
“Mhm…”

Her response came out strained, rushed by her giddiness, her breathlessness.
She reached down, arms brushing past the curves of her breast, to peel back her panties and toss them aside.
The basement in which they were in was silent, save for the low hum of the mini fridge tucked away in the corner across the other end of the room.
Light filtered in through the window next to where Jen lay. Outside it was a summer’s day, middle of December, but you’d never know by the grey skies and gentle wind a-blowing.
Jen felt her nakedness now, could feel the cool air around her exposed nipples, around her shaven cunt.
Caleb let out a sharp exhale, then his eyes narrowed and focused downwards.
Something in her mind told Jen to close her eyes, she followed suit.

When the stream hit her, she jumped – and instantly felt like a fool. From somewhere behind her eyes, Caleb was moaning in relief.
The stream lashed at her stomach, warm and stinging. It travelled upwards across her breasts, falling across her hair and pelting at her skin.
Jen felt that breathlessness rush out of her tightened chest and up through her throat. She joined Caleb in the fever dream, in this frantic vocal act.
She wanted to reach down and relieve this building pressure in her clit but she remembered Caleb urging her not to before hand, demanding it to her as he had liked to do since they began to be more intimate.

The stream splashed off her breasts and onto her chin, leaving a droplet on her lower lips.
Almost instinctively, she licked her lips and tasted a saltiness her mind instantly described to her as ‘sweet’.
The stream travelled downwards, marking her stomach with its sting, wavering slightly but still with a power to pelt.
It reached between her legs, scalding her clit before traveling downwards across her clit.
Her legs trembled at the sensitivity, at the act, at something she wasn’t quite sure she could accurately describe if someone had asked her.
The pressure in the stream began to falter, coming to drip across her right leg in short bursts before dying completely.
The two teenage lovers panted breathlessly in that moment, maintaining eye contact.

Every inch of Jennifer’s body was stinging from the shower, tender to the touch, coated in Caleb’s essence.
She only had one thing on her mind then – could she play now?

 

 

 

12 Days of Kinkmas 2018 – Day #1: ‘Olives’

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There are volumes unspoken when she asks if he can place the olive into her mouth himself.

Outside the boundaries of their existence, wind howls and rain lashes at the windows. Inside, the only noise comes from her wet lips as she parts them gently. Otherwise, if there were other forces, other creatures occupying the same space, they were not stirring like these two.

He didn’t like olives at all – the texture, the taste – the horrid salty bitter taste that seemed to evolve in his mouth after taking it in.
What even was that change in taste that crept up on you?
So when he ordered the pizza – Joe’s Special – without the olives, lo and behold, maybe to spite him, maybe because it was late on a Friday, maybe because it was close to Christmas, business was booming and the maker was exhausted, the olives were here after all. Mocking him, as they lay scattered across the topping.
When she said she’d have them, he started peeling them off and placing them on a clean plate.
No, she had said, turning to him, looking at him with her green eyes that seemed to come alive and deepen, feed them to me.

He hesitated, looking at her, a lock of sandy blonde hair covering her left eye, a mischievous grin spreading across her face like light streaming in slowly through a window. She stood so close to him he could smell her – not the ghost of her perfume from work – no, her. Her scent.

Suddenly he became aware of more – the outline of her nipples through her grey singlet, the shape of her breasts as she leaned inward to him, looking at him with the intensely lit green eyes.

And her lips…

When he placed the first olive into her mouth, he did so timidly. She giggled, and it was like the old cliché – like music to his ears. When he placed the second olive into her mouth, he noticed her tongue dart out ever so smoothly to pull the olive into her mouth.
He watched her, curious, as she swallowed and look back at him, waiting patiently.
What was behind her eyes, he wondered. There was mischief, yes, that much was in her smile, in the way her eyes focused up on him from where she stood. There was something else though. A seed planted.

Suddenly he wasn’t standing before her in their kitchen anymore, suddenly he was in some darkened corner of space-time where she was taking his cock into her mouth – and he could feel her. Her wet lips coating his shaft with her own saliva, he could feel her moan vibrate around him as she took his length in. He could hear her lips smack – in eagerness? In catching a breath? – As he pulled out of her. He could see it in her eyes that she wanted it again – hungrily, breathlessly, desperately.

Yet he was standing in the kitchen, her opposite him, her mouth parted gently, waiting for the next olive, her eyes glossy, mischievous, wondering – in space-time? Perhaps.

 

I’m a Dinosaur In An Ever-Changing Landscape

It’s strange for me to think how I’ve been blogging for three and a bit years now. It’s strange because when I started, I met some fellow bloggers and got – invested? Attached? Too close? – to their musings, their stories and their voice. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve but I didn’t expect to be drawn to this.

In the beginning, they would challenge my perspective, offering fresh insight. I recall someone writing to me and asking if I would talk more about the psychology behind Dominance and how it relates to me – things I never considered, or at least took for granted as they were every day material for me. I recall talking to someone about their frustrations towards their own marriage, offering what little counsel a regular Joe like me could. I recall challenging perceptions of readers as they challenged mine, all kindly of course. Most of all I recall that investment in their lives as much as how they could invest in my own.

And then their words would stop. Their journey through life and kink and BDSM would go on outside of the interwebs. That could be for any number of reason – personal, lack of interest, maybe they felt they said all that COULD be said (a fear of mine to be sure) – or maybe life, ever the meddling mistress, got in the way.

So then comes a new group of bloggers, each with their own distinct voice and perspective, each with their own attitudes and backgrounds – to challenge me, to chew a piece of my mind, to understand.

It’s strange to consider that, in terms of the Internet and WordPress, or even in BDSM, that I may be a dinosaur. An ageing lizard. I mean, three years is a long time to blog. Will there be a point where I just start to repeat myself? Will I become obsolete? AM I obsolete?

My mind is drawn to one specific encounter – a tumblr account, now deactivated – I don’t blame that, Tumblr can be weird – who said my words had inspired her to seek the D/s life she’s always wanted. I still hold that as a badge of honour – again, because I’m a regular Joe that struggles with self worth. But then, for whatever reason, this person disappears.

At this point I would put the phone in which I scribble thoughts down, turn to my best advisor, kitten, and say ‘Am I over thinking things?’. ‘Am I over-thinking things?’ – a question I’ll often ask her during a misunderstanding between family, friends, work or when I’m writing a long-winded piece such as this.

Still, the idea that I’m some sort of relic – a dinosaur, a fussy Daddy, a fuddy Duddy, an old man blogger, one of the last of the few that signed up in 2015 to blog and is still writing, who knows – it just makes me wonder what sort of relevance I can bring? Or if I’ll be disconnected from the ever-changing landscape?

Or maybe I’m just over thinking.