Catharsis In Darkness

He wanted to make her cry.

He wasn’t sure why, not exactly, he just knew that it was something that he needed to bring out of her.

When the cane came down across her breasts and a cry spilled loose from her lips, deep and raw, he felt that within himself. He felt that as much as he felt the residue of pain around his fist that clenched the wooden cane.

It was a sense that came to him crackling across his body like electricity. He needed to push her into a different place and space, in order for her to feel, to purge.

Was he abusing her? Taking advantage of her emotional state?

A thousand voices cried out in protest in his head as he brought the cane down upon her flesh, but not once, in her strangled cries, did she utter her safe word.

Was it, then, HIS responsibility to gauge her limits and decide? Or did he trust that she’d meet him half way. Did he have to let go as much as she was?

Something about that was thrilling.

Something about the way her cries squeezed out of her chest as the cane struck her turned him on. Made him hard. He had never heard that in someone – a desperate cry. He wanted more of it. He hit her harder and the rush came, for both of them it seemed. She tilted her head back and inhaled as if breathing for the first time in months.

He laced every strike with a slice of degradation intended to cut, intended to play upon her mind. She was a fool, she had made a mistake, she was a pathetic little horny bitch.

The words sliced at him just as much, feeling coarse on his tongue, yet seeing her body tense, her breasts rising as she took in a shuddering breath, made the act worth it.

He was addicted, some part of him knew, to her darkness and his own. He felt it tearing at his soul, pulling him under with every strike. He wanted to go, wanted to drown beneath the waves. He was tired of fighting back, of being good, of worrying if he was a monster or a man.

More importantly, he wanted to see welts rise across her breasts.

‘I am an idiot. Yes, Master.’

She recited back to him what he spoke to her.

‘I am such a goddamned idiot, Master.’

Somewhere in his daze, he must’ve told her to repeat after him.

Was he in control? Was he really?

He watched her turn, facing her back to him. His eyes fell upon her ass, her beautiful pale ass, so perfectly shaped, freckles sporadically lined across each cheek.

When he strikes her, she grunts shrilly, in a way he’s never heard her before.

His cock is fully hard, aching to the point of pain to take her. As if he will go mad any moment now if he doesn’t.

He stills his impulse to fuck, and strikes her right cheek.

She falls forward, not expecting it.

He pauses, waiting. Listening for the safe word, but she gathers herself. She straightens her back as she’s on her knees.

When he strikes her again, she is composed.

When he strikes her again, she makes no sound.

When he strikes her again, she begins to sniffs.

He listens for the word.

It never comes.

Monsters

Ever since I was a young kid I was drawn to monsters. In the beginning, it was a child’s fascination with the unknown – grotesque ghosts, feral werewolves, unstoppable aliens, the very creatures from hell. I enjoyed their otherworldly presence, I enjoyed seeing something from somebody else’s nightmares.

As an adult, I still have this fascination, this…longing to see something beyond my own wildest nightmares. But there’s another layer there now – a new appreciation. Some monsters are tragic, creatures that were either once men, now different – creatures that are hunted for their own feral behaviour, creatures that have their own tragic background.

As an adult, the monsters that stay with me are Dracula, Dr. Jekyll, The Wolf Man, The Phantom of the Opera and so forth. Each of these characters are men struggling with something inside of them – this terrible self that can be destructive and alien and unlike who they are beyond the transformation. And though them I see tragedy and humanity and duality – and myself.

My mother, my sisters – they all raised me to be proper. They taught me values and morals that I carry with me every day of my life. I live by a few codes of honour – be kind to others, treat others as you want to be treated, be a gentleman not only to your loved ones but to the world around you – I certainly falter, some days I feel flat, prone to hotheadedness. I’d certainly never be violent – I detest violence – but I can be moody.

More than this, I can be primal and flirtatious and crass and sexual and just generally odd. I used to be terrified of this side of myself – this side that felt like being rough, that would think of such dark things….this side that would watch The Evil Dead and be aroused during the scene in which the vines of a tree, possessed by such dark magic, raped a poor unsuspecting soul.

After I would come back from a primal descent, shaken and panting, cock still throbbing from the throes of orgasm, everything I thought of in the moment would crash over me — and I’d be horrified.

That wasn’t me, I would think. How could I think such violent things? How could I get off on the things that go against everything I felt normally? You must understand I would never legitimately hurt someone outside of a controlled environment – think consensual non-consent – but the sheer idea of concepts new to me at the time – concepts like bruising, impact play, biting, choking, forcing my way into someone just to feel my cock split apart wet lips – horrified me.

I felt, in all honesty, like Dr. Jekyll discovering Mr. Hyde – who was this opposite? This feral doppelgänger? Why did I think such wicked thoughts?

And, fast forward years later, these wicked thoughts, this opposite man, still resides within me, carefully restrained through controlled environments and a watchful eye. It’s almost like a beast soothed by my other – kitten. Who helps me come back down, who accepts this creature and gives herself to it in love and adoration. If I am the beast, she is the beauty – one I’ve been looking for my whole life, soulfully fulfilling and accepting.

Maybe I’m not a beast or a monster or a creature, maybe I’m human with dark tendencies and that’s all she wrote – I don’t know. But I still feel it, you know? I feel it in my bones and in my heart and in my cock. I feel this ferocious energy, this mindset that says ‘don’t poke me, I don’t want you to see what happens if you do.’ I feel it all, and some days I accept it and some days I am scared by it, thinking —- am I alone? Or are there men or women like me out there?

30 Days of Kink – Day #2: List Your Kinks!

Describes what it is about being Dominant or submissive that excites and arouses you the most.

Here’s the thing – I wrote a list of links but it felt very cold and disconnected and by-the-numbers. I guess that was unavoidable though because lists are lists right? That’s how they go.

Anyway. My kinks are varied. I like a lot of psychological acts like sensory deprivation and orgasm denial – acts to really bring a mind to its darkest corners. Of course that crosses into the boundaries of Consensual Non Consent, wherein lies some nipple and breast play-torture. I do love to bite, slap, smack, suckle, stretch, pinch, squeeze and pull.

As a primal I am into exhibitionism, pet play and voyeurism. I guess cages and collars and leashes can be added in this category, as I love to lead a good kitten, bathe her when she’s dirty, feed her when she’s hungry.

There’s a sadistic side to me that likes to indulge in face slapping, hair pulling, degrading physically and verbally, spitting and flogging. There’s something liberating about tapping into that mindset. It’s almost a feral energy. If that makes any sense to either the dominant readers or submissive ones.

As to what excites me the most about being dominant, that kind of ties into yesterday’s entry — I like the psychological aspects behind it. That is to say, sharing this untethered connection with someone and peeking behind the curtain into their mind. I like knowing how people behave and why they behave that way behind closed doors. I like sharing that rawness with people.

But there’s other things right? The spiritual ever-in-need-of-balancing urge to dominate. I need that certain dynamic and I can’t really explain why it’s so important or how, only that if I can’t have that, it’s imbalanced and I’m moody and it’s just a spectacular human mess, right?

On top of all that messy qualities, there’s an interest in that edge of sexuality. A calling to, what I perceive to be, darkness. An interest in tapping into that animalistic and brutal and unfiltered vein and seeing how deep the rabbit hole is. A way to experience an edge, danger, in a safe and controlled environment, either by myself through text or with another being.