Her Bath

He hears the splash of water from their en-suite bathroom and turns to see her standing in the low-lit doorway. Her nude body, slender and slightly tanned is lit by the very candles she lit for her own bath – the bath he ordered her to run and soak in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand marking the page of the book he’s reading to her while she bathes. Only now that book drops to the floor. He doesn’t do it to punctuate the moment with a gag, it’s just something that happens upon seeing her.

“Seeing her.”

He feels like he is seeing her now for the very first time. It’s in the way the candles light the edges of her nude body, the way her wet hair lay in curls across her shoulders, the way he can just make out beads of water across her neatly-trimmed pussy.

And it’s in the way she stands – confident, still, her eyes not flicking back and forth between his as they do at times but watching him closely. Intently.

He gets the feeling something has suddenly started between them. A battle of wills, a clash of their minds. It is true this occurs between them, this is what has drawn him to her as a friend and lover and Dominant.

And yet…something feels different. Super-charged. Riding the wave high on caffeine.

He feels the rhythm of his heart in his chest and he feels his cock harden.

There it is! The slightest twitch in her eyebrow. The slightest smirk flickers on her face and is gone. She’s playing with him as he would with her.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Her voice is soft but it comes with an edge that he recognises.

He won’t bite though.

“Get on the bed.”

He’s thankful his arousal doesn’t cause his voice to stammer.

She moves past him and he sees that thing she does – the shrug without lifting her shoulders but it’s all there on her face. One might call him crazy for thinking that but he knows and she knows what she’s doing.

She slinks on to the bed, her slightly sun-kissed ass facing me in the darkness. Were it not for the purple night light resting on her bedside drawers, He could see the little things – the freckle on her left ass cheek. Or her trimmed pussy between her legs.

She lowers herself down so that she rests on her stomach and buries her head in her pillow.

As He grabs his own towel, hanging from the door of their cupboard to his left, He gets the strangest sense that she’s grinning to herself as her face is buried. He almost wants to ask but stops himself before the words form on his tongue. He knows she would like that.

Slipping out of his pants and freeing his aching cock, he gently crawls onto the bed behind her, careful of where her legs rest naturally.

He comes to kneel behind her, her ass directly below the throbbing head of his cock.

“We need to towel you off properly.” He says as he runs the cream coloured floral-printed towel over her right ass cheek, carefully dabbing at her still-wet skin.

“You didn’t answer me when I asked you if something was on my face.”

Her voice is muffled as she speaks into the pillow but he can hear the accompanying smile behind her words all the same.

“I don’t answer to you.” He says, moving the towel to her left ass cheek.

Carefully he runs the towel down her left leg, taking his time to work down to her feet, drawing out the moment.

When he reaches her ankles, he moves into her right leg, sliding the towel back up, carefully drying off the sides of her leg, to her ass.

She does not stir.

He raises the towel to the base of her spine and lowers himself to her, his hard cock skimming the curves of her ass. The feeling of her beneath him, his shaft pressing into her fresh, cool skin, makes him want to take her from behind, makes him want to hear her moan those soft cries and whimpers.

But he has her body to dry off.

“Arms up.” He says gently as he slides the towel to the base of her neck, content that he has dried her back.

She stretches her hands out either side of her neck and her body seems to lift and waken a moment as the stretch takes over her. He see her back raise, feels her ass nestle back into him. He wants to guide his cock into her right there – wants to fuck her till she’s winded — but he’s not done playing with her yet.

With his right hand, he presses down on her back, pressing her away from him, her ass away from his cock. He grinds into her on his own terms.

Which is exactly what he does as he runs the towel gently under her armpits, wrapping her arm in the towel and sliding it along upwards to her hands so that he dries every inch.

He repeats this with her right arm.

Then tells her to roll over.

She does – and the two of them come face to face for the first time in what feels like an age.

He throws the towel to the empty side of the bed and rests his hands on either side of her. His eyes travel down to her small tits – dotted with freckles. Her little pink nipples are hard and stiff. He wants to lower his mouth to them and suck them. He feels that hunger more so as he feels the heat from their bodies.

God how he wants her more then anything.

Instead, he looks her in the eye, not being able to help the smirk that spreads across his lips.

She looks back at him, her face unreadable and her eyes ever still.

“What now?” She asks him.

The Dominant Stereotype

When I was first learning about kink, I had this IDEA about WHAT and WHO was a dominant – this strong, buff alpha male with an attitude.

As I began my journey, I learned the difference between what media has projected to us and who we really are. Looking back, it seems such a simple and obvious concept but at the time, I remember easing into this idea of being different. Or being myself.

The traits of a dominant…that’s something that comes up to this day with a reader here or there. They seem surprised by my regular self or are shocked when I mentioned how I’m a big fan of Disney – parks, songs, singing – you name it. And it’s a strange thing to wrap your head around because — while I am dominant and while I like taking, even seizing control or flogging a sweet pale ass or torturing the mind and body psychologically and physically, that’s not who I am outside of kink. Even IN a 24/7 D/s relationship, I’m not switched on – ever-aggressive or forward or controlling.

It’s different to what I thought it was, and sometimes it’s different to what people thought it would be either. Maybe it’s also the image I conjure through stories or dream thoughts I put up. I’m not sure.

Beyond dominance, I’m shy. Soft-spoken. Definitely socially awkward. Anybody, especially on my insta and Twitter, can no doubt confirm this through my random thoughts. Goofy is something people are surprised by too – my silliness in my sense of humour. Maybe that’s my Australian background? A fondness to find humour somewhere.

And to add to this, I think it’s important for any growing dominant or submissive to own who they are regardless of image or label or definition – because they can be restrictive or even damaging to some people. Especially when you’re new and are still forming your own opinion.

That’s my thought for the weekend! Happy Saturday.

If I Could Say A Few Words…

Last week I was lucky enough to be part of Domsubliving’s article on advice from Dominants out there in the blog world – and it got me thinking about other things I would like to tell newcomers or just to people out there coming to terms with their place in the lifestyle.

I want to elaborate on what I wrote and say that you should go easy on yourself. It’s okay to make mistakes so long as you take the experience of it and learn from it so you can apply it to the future.

It’s okay to wear your heart and kinks on your sleeve – it is okay to be YOU. I struggled with this particularly because I thought I was insane for thinking darkly. I’d sit in a darkened car park awaiting a pizza to be cooked and my mind would cook up the image of a woman face down in the concrete, nipples hard and scraping into the grit.

What I’m saying is – it’s okay to think and feel darkly, so long as you understand the lines between right and wrong across fantasy and reality – and this extends to the concepts of D/s.

It takes time to find what works for you as a dominant or submissive and it takes time to break through what we were taught as children to fully realise who we are as a dominant or a submissive. I know this because I was raised Catholic and I still struggle to be domineering and forceful because I’m so apologetic.

And this apologetic side can spread to other aspects of our lives. I unfortunately see this in some readers – some of them come my way and apologise for being annoying when they’re nothing of the sort. It’s why I like to put up a reminder that anyone of any background can chat with me, that I welcome it. That still stands, if you’re reading this and have wanted to chat with me but have put it off out of fear. I promise you are not too much.

But you see, I can’t just promise that – you have to do that for yourself. You have to learn to accept these aspects of yourself and recognise the lines between your Dominant / submissive self.

It’s something that can be with you all your life, learning to be secure and yourself. It takes time finding that balance and coming to be at peace with that balance – but it can be done.

The Queen

She does not understand this – why she has thrown herself down before him, when she is Queen and this is her city and with a single clap of her hands, her royal guard would appear and drag him to the dungeons below. How dare he stand before her with that arrogant smirk upon his face, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture bent, his body not even paying her the proper respects as she finds her own body falling to her knees, bones crunching underneath the hard, cool marble of the throne room.

She wants to stop her hands rising to her hair – she knows what they’re doing, they’re taking off her prized jewels that keep it as her servants made it for her – held upright in a detailed and lavish bun. Yes, she wants to halt the movement of her hands, to freeze them in place, but she can’t. They move on their own accord.

Her eyes are locked onto him! Him in his dusty leather pants and grey jerkin with a torn hole on his left forearm. Him! With what..what looks to be blood smeared across his chest. Bounty hunters and their arrogance!

She feels her eyes draw down into a squint, feels her brow dig down into her skin. There’s a pulse behind her left eye. She gets this when she’s angry – and right now she’s not just angry, she is furious.

Stop yourself, she screams internally, as she watches her hands reach up to the straps of her glittering, glowing ivory dress. You’ve sat at the high seat and commanded armies. You’ve stood in the chambers of arrogant men and voiced opposition. You can do this.

To him she thought with venom, take your prize, your beloved payment and depart this place. I am your Queen, this is my throne room. This is my realm! You have no power here.

Yet no words are coming out of her trembling, dry lips. No sound escapes out of her as her traitorous hands seize a handful of her dress, the rough fabric scratching at her sweaty palms as they pull down her dress, letting loose her full, round breasts.

She feels the warm shame sizzle across her arms, tingling her armpits and flushing her cheeks. She doesn’t like her breasts – a thought she has never admitted to anyone but one maid – Becca. She doesn’t like their shape, triangular almost, with nipples too small and pink.

Realisation like icy water hits her. Why should she care? Curse the man! What does nakedness and body shapes and…and age matter? What was it Janar taught her? To not concern herself with trivialities?

She freezes, dress hanging down around her waist. Her back arches. She can feel her spine straighten. It’s like her body is coming out of a restful sleep, muscles starting to creak and move like some sort of steam powered engine slowly gathering speed.

Why, this man is old enough to be my papa. His face certainly looks it, creasing like well worn leather as smirks. Or is that a snarl? She can’t tell.

No, she can’t tell why she’s in this state. She can’t tell why she’s stuffing the dress further down her waist, revealing more of her pale body.

She knows what’s coming, she can feel the burning heat between her legs reach boiling point as she wrestles the dress down her thighs. Her mind flashes to a moment in time, sitting on the balcony of her bedroom alone and under the moonlight. She had excused her guards, who exchanged looks and faltered at first but left after she had to raise her voice. She wanted to be there, naked under the moonlight. She wanted to feel the cool autumn breeze on her skin. She wanted that breeze to skim upwards under thigh and tickle her bare slit.

More than this, she wanted to be touched. It had been so long since she had a man’s hands on her, rough and coarse and callused. Some part of her knew she could have anyone. She is queen, beautiful, she had that power – but such power was not proper. Was it? For her? She knows what they call her – the young queen. It’s not right. She’s not a child any longer. Her last name day crowned her twenty-two.

She can feel her heart a-fluttering in her chest as she kneels before his man. Where was her power now – now that she was rising to her feet to slip out of her dress further?

And why wasn’t the damned fool helping her? Why was he watching her?

Oh how she could feel his eyes on her bosom, which only made her breathing quicken. She feels untamed and wrong and…and…shamed.

Yet she cannot stop herself from resuming kneeling before him. She cannot stop her hands from yanking the last of her jewels, inherited jewels, free.

Her hair, the lightest blonde, comes tumbling down, tickles her bare back and making her fidget on the spot, her knees shuffling against the marble like some sort of dance.

Her eyes look beyond the bounty hunter to her guards – six of them, their swords unsheathed and ready to taste blood. When had she told them to freeze? Why had she told them to freeze? For payment?

Her hair tickles her left bosom, hardening her nipple. It causes her to fidget further.

The man before her – the dirty bounty hunter – is untying his leather pants. She watches him let loose the knot, which comes unlaced and falls away. His cock spills – no, springs – out of his pants, hard and seemingly aching. It seems to quiver on the spot.

“Your Majesty!” Cries the Captain of The Guard. He takes a step forward, hand on his sword. She has to hold up her hand to stop him, though she’s not sure why. She’s not in charge. It’s all a dream she is watching as a ghost in the throne room. She’s standing off to the side of the Captain of the guard…but she’s also on her knees before the bounty hunter, who takes one step forward. Then another. His hand glides down to clasp around the shaft of his cock. He gripes it tightly and still looks her right in the eye.

His other hand lashes out at her throat.

She feels the grip, doesn’t know whether to feel scared or excited. There’s a place between the two that she wants to reach. A resting place on the bridge between.

It hits her then.

She understands.

His payment.

She goes to open her mouth, to tell him to hurry up about it, wanting to fling the dagger, the barb, at him.

To remind him she is still his queen and in control.

But she chokes on her words.

Can’t get out what’s running in her mind.

She’s looking up at him now, can feel herself frowning.

All the while, he smirks.

She feels her mouth open, her tongue extending outwards.

Not of her own accord.

She takes him into her mouth, her mind racing to categorise the taste of him as he slides further in.

The tip of him hits her cheek, rests its length along her tongue, but he’s guiding it, not her.

It slides further, her tongue wraps around what it can. Taste explodes in her mouth.

She can feel him rocking into her, his cock slipping to the back of her throat and then back between her lips.

She’s torn between catching her breath and wanting more. She doesn’t know why.


She can hear the outrage. She can feel the outrage. Not just from her captain but within herself. She feels alive and dirty all at once.

She does not understand.

The Possessed and The Possessive

Her body is lathered in a thin layer of sweat that catches the light and shines brightly.

Her chest is lifting up off the bed, straining against the rope with every fluttering breath she takes.

He looks at her beautiful pink cunt, smooth and spread open, drenched in anticipation, and he whips her again, just to watch her thighs go to close. Something they can never savour. Her legs are stretched apart. Bound. Her release is monitored by him – and he relishes that fact.

There’s no gag around her mouth tonight, no slither of drool beading down her neck slowly. She huffs and puffs and growls and spits and seethes and drools in between letting out utter obscenities under her breath.

Foul words come out in halves – a …uck here, a …the shit..? There. She’s making little sense.

Watching her body flinch under the leather whip, controlling the whip that comes down upon her stretched out little cunt, her stretched out little cunt spread open by his ropes just for his pleasure, she’s nothing like the woman outside their haven, out there in the world.

He doesn’t recognise this woman spitting out guttural curses, writhing around as much as the ropes allow. Who is this animal? This demon? This creature? What locked up part of her mind did this feral entity come from? The way she speaks, when she’s not breathless, that low register, that barely human growl. He recalls the sensation of a scratchy throat just by listening to her.

The things she says. The things she wants.

It’s infectious. He can feel it creeping over him, slinking down her legs, off her clenched toes and seeping down towards him. He can feel the self he projects to the world fading away. He can feel his skin bristle and crack, peel away. He is tearing free. He doesn’t know who this new person is. They will find out soon enough.

Her transformation sparks his own. They’re changing together.

A Few Extra Thoughts On Mentors and Mentoring

I want to talk about the mentor role – because I’ve heard a few cases recently where there has been some miscommunication about what exactly a mentor is and how exactly they’ve operated.

I know I’ve talked about it before – and you can find that here – but I thought I’d reiterate for some new readers as well.

Think of a mentor as a friend, a life coach, your very own help line in the game show that is life. They can shed light on the lifestyle, they can recommend readings and resources, they can offer insight on what’s right and wrong. They have a responsibility to be objective and not influence the person learning with their own beliefs. This is – this should be about – the growth of the person and helping them come to terms with their feelings.

It’s a controversial aspect because some believe Mentoring should only be done with people you intend to go further with, to enter negotiations and eventually a harmonious D/s relationship.

Others think that only a Dominant can mentor a dominant and only a submissive can mentor a submissive.

It’s a tricky thing, because I have enjoyed mentoring both but at the same time I have also recognised that I simply don’t have the mindset when it comes to, say, sub frenzy or other deeper, intimate feelings of submission. I can help, I can certainly relate from the other side of the coin but whether that’s enough is up to the individual in what they want and who they want to talk to.

I’ve heard mentors taking advantage of submissive women learning, to give them tasks, to tell them things like when they can and cannot masturbate. If you’re learning and this is the case, if you’re not reciprocating the feelings or interest, then this mentoring person is in the wrong and wholly abusing the chance to help.

A mentor doesn’t have that authority. Plain and simple. They are there, on YOUR accord. To help you. Unless you two click and want to explore things sexually, romantically, they should not be doing such a thing.

They’re there for as long as you need that help. They don’t get to give you orders or tasks.

Don’t let that dissuade you from talking with one – because the thing is, there are some lovely men and women out there that work one on one with people, just as there are men and women out there that will abuse the help for their own personal gain.

If you think you want a mentor, be careful and be slow and take your time and be wary of not only what feels wrong to you that they might be doing but also the frenzy and appeal of BDSM and D/s. It can be all too easy to be swept up when you’re new and learning.

On Inexperience, Writing & Self-Exploration

I’ve been pondering about a question that came my way…gosh, a few months ago now I think? Time has been weird lately – but it was about whether someone who is new to BDSM could write about it, fictional or otherwise, successfully? Or have it be correct in any way?

I’ve been thinking about experience a lot – when it comes to BDSM. I’ve been in a bit of a teacher / mentor mood, I guess, because someone new to the lifestyle wrote in to me and expressed frustrations about being ghosted by a potential Dom due to a lack of experience.

I can’t say I agree with that reasoning but I certainly understand how one could come to think like that. But I digress.

I think that when it comes to writing about BDSM, it’s important to trust in where your mind wants to go, do you understand? Because when you put pen to paper, you ignite your mind. You form a sentence. Then another one. Then you create a paragraph.

Or you don’t. Instead, your heart’s a mess and so is your writing. But it’s down, it’s on the screen or the page and you’ve trapped it. Whatever is in your head is there, frozen in time. A symbol of YOU.

What I’m saying is – writing is cathartic. And through exploring it, you’ll find pieces of your self, through which you night learn some truths about your tastes.

And if you want to write about a specific moral scenario – a rape fantasy, say – do what feels right to you. It’s only a fantasy. But if that’s not enough, write your thoughts on it in a seperate file or page. Explore how you feel about whatever it is you are confronting. Hell, ask the community. Ask me, my door is open.

Regardless of inexperience. Or shyness.

Writing…whether you want to and you’re either a dominant or a submissive or both, it’s about discipline. It’s about sitting down and confronting structure. Not just of words but of your mind. So find a time in the day to write 300 words. Do it again the next day. Leave each break on a moment you are excited to come back to. In a week, you’ll have a decent chunk of the story or your thoughts out.

As for that pesky experience thing, that’s another realm of variables. What if you are knowledgable enough about BDSM but aren’t in a circumstance to explore physically to gain more of an understanding of your wants and needs?

The best answer I have for that is one that might not be to your interests. When I was alone – a lonely dominant, I guess you could say, I peered into the depths of my sexuality. I explored and became comfortable with nudity. I explored my pain threshold, my comfort with verbal degradation. I found new ways to heighten masturbation. Little things that excited and stimulated my mind.

Everybody is different though and to that, one must find what works for them. But still, I think there are things you can do to gain experience.

Please don’t let shyness deter you. Or your writing. Or your self-exploration. Or from reaching out to a friend, the community, a Dom or sub or even me. There’s no easy way to say this but you’re going to have to jump into that pool if you want to write or to reach out. And just like coming up for air after that plunge, it all feels a little bit better after you jump.

Seriously though. You’ve got this.

Let’s Talk About The Erotic Melodrama – 365 Days (2020)

This is my conversational two cents on the freaking No. 1 most watched or streamed movie in Netflix Australia currently — the Italian / Polish Erotic Drama 365 Days.

First off, you can thank TUMBLR – OF ALL PLACES – for bringing this to my attention. They say they have gone SFW but plenty of sex and nudity and female-presenting-nipples get through somehow, which is where I found a user recommending this to the dominant behind their own blog-thing.

I’m intrigued. So I googled it – man kidnaps girl and gives her 365 days to fall in love with him. You have my attention, go on. Oh it’s Italian? This could be different. It’s on Netflix? Okay, let me watch it right now. Stop everything, universe, I must see this.

And here’s the thing about 365 days. Its two leads are gorgeous people, man and woman, its sex, hilariously framed to intrusive and loud electro-pop and power ballads, is kiiiinda sexy, with some fun set pieces, and it’s plot is your typical, pretty formulaic sex fantasy. Very much Mills and Boon.

If anything, it’s very much this big Italian soap opera — with sex. Which is a lot of fun, especially when the film reveals it does have a sense of humour. I like that. All this sounds amazing in itself, right? But like, I can’t not approach things from a writers perspective – and here, character development is minimal and unbelievable, dialogue can be pretty bad and the plotting is just your typical fantasy fluff. It doesn’t even get that kinky outside one or two sequences. Although, props to Laura’s best friend Olga being a voice of reason as Laura starts to fall for Massimo.

I will say this – the two leads embody their roles really well…but both roles have very thinly-drawn development. There’s personality to them but not a whole lot of depth. There doesn’t have to be some grandly plotted yarn here but for a premise so dark and twisted, I would’ve liked to have that psychological component here to be developed. I would’ve liked to have been challenged more.

If all this sounds like your jam, if you can get by on it, all the power to you. I mean that genuinely. You’re not even alone because freakin’ Australia seems to be gobbling it up. Do we love a good sex movie? Are we deprived? What’s going on, guys?

I was on board for the soap opera fun and sex scenes filmed like a music video to the pop music this production team really wants you to buy. I like myself a gangster drama normally.

But…it’s pretty average. Watchable but average. I have definitely seen far worse but I have definitely seen far better and sexier and kinkier.

We Betray What We Know To Be True

We betray what we know to be true.

Who we are. What we desire. What we want to say.

Films. Television. Literature. Teachings and Teachers. Parents and parenting. For years people have been discussing and studying and teaching what is right and what is wrong. How to behave and how to not behave.

It divides us from them. For, if we take away that line that seperates us from them, where does it end? What does that say about us?

Leave it to the Dream Weaver to tell us. If we’re lucky we’ll forget by the morning – how it felt to be pressed against her from behind, peeling down her g-string and seeing that wet piece of fabric peel down the curves of her ass, her scent lingering in the air. Scalding blood pumping in your ears, heart pounding in your chest.

How it feels for her to slip into submission, to shape the words on her tongue that announces to the dream world that she is, in fact, a free spirit. Free of a lacklustre life, an emotionally stagnant marriage. How badly the desire is to form the words that hang loosely on her tongue – Yes Sir or Yes Ma’am – without feeling that mind-shredding, body-trembling guilt.

Some like to justify this betrayal. “This is a sacrifice and that’s what being an adult is all about.” They like to dig deep into the piece of the sandbox that has been left for them because that’s easier. That’s normal. That’s right.

It is normal to fear what we don’t understand. To stay, because it is comfortable. But that hole within you? Gnawing at you, waking you up in the night with a hard cock pushed into the bed or a wet cunt soaking your thighs, either one leaving you breathless? That’ll grow bigger.

And bigger.


Until you can’t think of anything else, until the maddening desire to touch or seethe or spit or growl overwhelms you, suffocates you, envelops you, until you are utterly feral, possessed by your basic instincts.

And you’re back at the beginning, staring into the mirror while the wild, untamed animal within you stares back.

Who are you then? Who do you want to be? What do you want to say?

We betray what we know to be true – because the alternative is terrifying.

Let’s do a June Q/A!

Ladies and gentleman,

Long time readers and occasional lurkers,

How are you? I am well, all things considered. I wanted to write and let you know that I’m here and working on things to put on this here blog- which is one reason why I’ve been more quiet than usual.

I want to do a Q/A. So if you have anything you’d like to ask me, be it a take on something, about my writing or even the lifestyle in general, you are welcome to write in the comments below or in an email, which is always open and I’ll put up responses here and to you as well!

You are not a burden, a pest or a bother. I am always happy to chat away – man or woman or nationality. We are all in this together!