12 Days of Kinkmas – 2018 Collection

Since the beginning of my blog, I’ve run a 12 Days of Kinkmas where I write Christmas-themed erotica each day for 12 Days, sometimes with an overarching concept that weaves between all 12 stories.

For anyone’s viewing pleasure, and forgive my reposting of sorts, I’ve collected all 12 from 2018 if you missed it.

1. “Olives

2. “Cult of Helen”

3. “My Girlfriend Is A Sexy Alien”

4. “She Was The Wind”

5. “Born Again

6. “Through The Window”

7. “The Dance”

8. “The Gift”

9. “The Interview”

10. “Nightmare Inn”

11. “A Kitten for Christmas”

12. “The Dreamer


Just Write

So. I just got an email from a reader of my blog and it struck me as sad and it’s for these reasons that I want to write this piece.

If you’re going to write in to me, if you want to write in to me, there’s a couple things I, personally, want you to know and understand.

I’m not as busy as you think. I’m not running around like a headless chook, know that while I may work, I also definitely check my email daily and respond in full as soon as I can.

I don’t respond to emails to be polite to you, to what a reader described as ‘a self proclaimed fangirl’ – I respond because I want to. You must understand, I started this blog not just to share my fantasies and satisfy a part of me, I did it in case it could inspire someone as awkward as I was when I started off.

So I love hearing from people – young, old, male, female, Australian, American, Norwegian – the more the merrier. Language barriers be damned! I love conversing with people and I love talking BDSM and it’s lifestyles.

Whether you’re a fan or seeking answers or even if you a bone to pick with me about something I wrote. Grill me. I welcome all of it, criticism, friendly chatter, the like.

You’re not bothering me. At all. In all my years of blogging, in responding to the kind people that write in, I can honestly say not one email has bugged me, not one. Even if one person has a laundry list of questions, I’ll sit down and work it out with them until they’re more spent then I am. Seriously. So never ever think that YOU are the person that will be too much for me, because that just won’t be the case. Try me, I dare you!

Do you want to write but don’t know what to say? Do you feel stupid because I can talk so openly and you find it rough to? I’ve had years to process how I feel, to work to rise above my own shyness. I was the same as you in the beginning. We all start somewhere and blossom on our own time.

I will say this though – just write. Don’t worry about grammar or context or anything, just write. I honestly care not for long novel-length texts, I read every word and respond. I’ll even write a long novel-length email of my own.

Start at the beginning. Write how you feel. Find a place to start at, to get the ball rolling, and then just let it go – just write and let it loose. If it feels good, write it. If it doesn’t, write it anyway and send it.

Too many times have I read that someone wanted to write in sooner or deleted several iterations of the email they just sent – and it breaks my heart.

I know I can’t TELL people what to do. I know I can’t get people to talk as frankly as I do, but I’m writing this because I want you to know, anything you have to say, in any way, is perfectly A-OK by me and that you should not feel shame or delete what you write, because I mostly certainly want to read it. Don’t even press that delete button or I’ll slap a crop against your knuckles!

Be yourself. That’s all I ask of you. Everything else, please don’t worry. I’m not as scary as your mind makes me out to be!


The Guilt Behind Enjoying Dark Erotica: And Why It’s Okay To Talk About it

I have this ongoing relationship with my dark thoughts where I accept that they’re there and I own them, but their origin and reason for existing alludes me. Sometimes I catch myself mid thought and think ‘wait, you went there? Really?’

My readers have pulled me up on my darker stories before. Some have expressed their confusion on why they enjoyed a rape fantasy while my twisted takes on Disney princesses has polarised some enough to write in to discuss any themes at length. And any response (including response length) is welcome to me because good or bad, as long as you’re polite I’m happy to talk out philosophical differences with you. To discuss.

Some readers cannot though, which is why I’m here – this darker side of our minds is so different, so potent, so alien that it alienates the reader out of fear of being judged by the others that come to visit the same blog. They just can’t find the words because everything feels wrong. I’m there too, with my own stories. It’s a terrifying thing, this feeling that you might be THE ONE that scares others away.

What we need to understand is that there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. There’s a difference to the rules in the fantasy and the rules of reality – rules that govern your own life and the code of honour you live by.

When it comes to actively expressing these fantasies and bringing them to life, consent is there to form a new set of rules to keep peace of mind and safety. In this circumstance, as long as it’s discussed thoroughly and safety is paramount, living the fantasy should be – should feel – right.

But when it comes to looking at a fantasy and thinking about why it turns us on and how, it’s important to remember that enjoying something so decadent and devilish doesn’t change who you are outside the realm of fantasy, because we know that if we’d act out these fantasies, we’d have safety and protocol.

It doesn’t change how you feel about your marriage or your kids if you like a story about a poor pretty little thing being chased through the forest — because this is a seperate fantastical space for you to explore. You enjoy this feeling, this hunt, this setting, and there is no shame in embracing this as another aspect of your mind no matter the background.

Believe me, I’ve been there before. I’ve wondered about my sanity, about what my life and morals mean if I love to write rape fantasies. The answer is – I like it for the fantasy, I like it for how the fantasy feels to me in this context only. I don’t find an actual act of rape arousing at all. I’m not violent in any way. There’s just a thrill to explore something so dark and violent in a safe environment.

So please, The next time you find yourself battling a similar reaction to erotica that’s challenging, either on my blog or otherwise, remember its not a reflection on who you are as a person. It doesn’t make you broken or wrong or sick. You are a healthy person bravely exploring a part of your mind that others wouldn’t even dream to.

And if you ever find the need to talk to me about a story of mine that’s so dark and compelling to you, I don’t care how long winded and messy it is, I would love to hear it.

Be gentle on yourself – and always practice safety with each other.

Good Little Catholic Girl

Dark hair, olive eyes.

What are you doing here? My Daddy’s downstairs.

Loose white singlet, nipples poking through.

No, that’s crude. Crudecrudecrude.

A fistful of hair, air squeezed out of her.

You have to go.

Empty words through soft whimpers.

Hands on her throat, clawing, digging, squeezing. Choke.

No. Nonono.

Like a kitten frozen by her mother, she’s still.

Eye contact. Hands go limp.

A rough kiss. Tears and sweat and saliva. Saliva so sweet it beckons another kiss.

Fabric tears. Shorties slink down slender legs kissed by sun. Cheerleader legs.

She watched him by the seats, on the field, wondering, wanting, wavering.

Pink cotton panties. Little bow tie. Lips showing through.


No, this isn’t right. My Daddy will hear.

Good little catholic girl. Saintly. Church every Sunday. Good. Proper. Well-behaved. Never smoked. Never drinks. Loyal to God.

A fistful of hair, dragged down degradingly, wet lips trailing his stomach.

Fabric tears. Jeans fall off, no belt, lips trailing, voice muffled, fistful of hair, down on his cock.

A pause. Resistance. She looks, eye contact, raises her mouth to speak. A single string of saliva connecting his cock to her lips.

Resistance. Force. Her mouth goes down. Hits the back of her throat. A gag. She continues. Compelled. Forced. Intrigued.

Time. An age. Her – confused, eager. Well behaved. God will love her.

He pushes her on her back, slick, aching. Throbbing. Pulsating. Wanting.

Pink cotton panties come peeling off down legs with skin like freshly peeled fruit.

Shaven. Fresh. Who’d have thought?

A blush. Burning skin. Ferocious aroma. Slink sleepily into a saintly slumber. Duty. It’s piercing when he enters her. It’s piercing when she stares at him.

dark hair, olive eyes

It’s piercing when he stares back at her. His cock reaching inside, claiming as far as it goes.

She flushed red. Sighs. Moans. Cries.

Vessel for the taking. Well behaved little catholic girl.

Jesus fucking Christ.


The first thing I noticed when I woke up was how hard I was. I was lying on my stomach, you see, so not only was I pressing it into the bed, aching like I rarely do of a morning, but I could feel, not just the tip of my Cock, but it’s entire length. Pushing up between my stomach and the bed, fighting to get free. Fighting for relief.

The second thing I noticed was the memories. Once aware of my surroundings, they come rushing back. I suddenly felt her hesitance, as I unbuttoned her blouse. I could feel how wet she was when I slid the full length of myself inside her. Do you know how powerful that is? To feel that so strong after waking? I could feel her essence coat my shaft right down to the tip of her balls – and through that, I felt an awareness of her.

I could hear her curse.

The word ‘fuck’ slithered out of her lips in a hushed strained voice.

I remember the way my name left her lips – panicked, wondering, hesitant.

‘They’ll catch us’ she said. ‘They’re coming up the stairs.’

I can feel her urgency even writing this now.

Oh me, the dream me, was not worried. He was alight with a buzz, you see. It was the energy rocketing through his veins, the flip side of cortisol, but he was not scared. Dream me was confident.

She squeaked as I took my stride, sliding out then easing in.

‘Where are you guys?’ Came their voices. The voices of family. ‘What are you doing up there?’

My sister – my dream sister – my not-sister. My sister from another mister’s memories. My sister with someone else’s memories. My doppelgänger of a sister, her features changing, her face shifting into something like playdough, had my memories from another life, how wet she was, how hard she was.

‘I’m here’ she croaked. She was winded beneath me. It wasn’t my weight, you see, but my cock, knocking the wind from her sails.

She was nude beneath me, her body pale, resembling something else from another life. This isn’t her, not my sister. Not really. Who is this woman beneath me, wriggling in ecstasy, feeling that terrible fullness of me inside her, the type that eats at you, the type you feel even after the act. Who are we, that we have given ourselves over to lust, in all it’s frenzied, frantic power.

She, this stranger, will feel it long after dream me is no longer conscious.

I ponder all this, cock ever hard, coated in sweat, the remnants of an orgasm lingering, as I shake off somebody’s else’s life.

Untitled Erotica

It’s somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak, this delicious sound. It comes rushing out of her lips as his slides his cock into her.

He can feel her stomach construct beneath him, her legs tightening beside him

She tries to speak, this light blonde blue eyed darlin’, but all that comes out is a strained whisper. A husky moan.

Her grey dress, a collage of 1980s science fiction pop culture featuring the likes of Marty McFly, Doctor Who and Luke Skywalker, is bunched up around her stomach, ready to be lifted up and over.

Her panties are simple – dark green and cotton. Bought down at plaza at the K Mart. He’s seen her there before a coupla times.

Her dark green panties are pulled to the side, revealing a cunt with blonde fuzz growing back across her lips. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. The holiest Of holies.

As he pull them down her pale legs, they tangle. He thinks of a scrunchie. He thinks of their bodies strewn across her bedroom floor while the party outside rages on. He thinks of her dumbass boyfriend with the jock friends and the shaved head and the tattoo of 49 on his biceps even though he’s like 30 and no where near that age. Or her age, 23.

But it’s fleeting, these thoughts. His cock aches with an intensity he’s never experienced. It drives him forward, pulling back out of her so the tip of his head teases her lips before he slides back in, her low gasp a sonata to his ears.

She’s telling him they shouldn’t, he needs to get off, they need to stop, this is wrong, this is wrong, but she doesn’t move. She struggles, she kicks her legs, as if her body agrees with the idea of getting away from him but her mind isn’t. Her face is contorted, yet he sees her still, the woman he’s known, the one underneath, locked away.

Her grey dress goes up and over. It’s not as easy as he’d like, some part of her resists,yet he continues. He spots her rib cage as he pulls it over her. Then he sees – she’s not wearing a bra. Her tits are small, even lying down only her nipples remain, pointed, betraying her words.

Her hands so swat at him, feebly, lazily almost, so he holds them above her tangle of sun kissed hair.

With his left hand, he has to see for himself. He runs his thumb along her stiff nipple, a small beautiful nub. Her response is that low wheeze.

He can’t recall how they ended up here, these old friends. He’s conscious of this as he is driven by the need to push and pull, the need to pump. Everything is vulgar. Yet the plunge on the bedroom escapes him. He must have her. He must taste her lips.

She’s insulting him now, spitting her words at him. They come out razor sharp, seething with venom. He’s never heard her like this. Is she crying or is that a moan? But something has him now and he can’t stop. He might never stop.

He can smell her, all around. This rich aroma. It floods his senses. He thanks the universe he can finally understand, can finally breathe her in.

Her cries, her insults, her whimpers quicken. Tangled between a cry and a moan, a wheeze and a breath, she curses him, in front of all the devils and angels and beings watching.

It’s all there – hate, love, rage, betrayal, lust, pain, pleasure. She hits his back hard, once…twice. He barely registers, quickens, frenzied, grunting. All of his life is in that thrust.

As he lowers his mouth and sinks his teeth into her pale neck, she comes. It’s demonic, possessed, traveling from the pit of her stomach up her throat and out her lips. The tail end of her orgasmic cry comes with another curse. With tears, resentment.

He can’t control himself, he slips out as he reaches to kiss her lips, but it’s already in motion – he comes – shooting his load across her stomach, painting her tits in its image. She shrieks out loud, then pauses, panting. She’s frozen.

Though their eyes have stayed locked on for this entire time, he registers her fully now, as she registers him entirely. Her deep blue eyes regard his in the silence.

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #4: Jingle Bells


“There’s no way,” Katie blurted out.

As soon as she did, she realised she had made a mistake.

I am Katie. Katie the Cat. I am his.

The little mantra she had made for myself when we began dating came back to her lips.

Katie the Cat. I am his.

A note sat on the kitchen bench, scrawled in his busy handwriting.

Sometimes He would leave Katie notes before he left for work.

Sometimes it was little messages, sweet little nothings.

Other times it was tasks, orders. The words were commanding, as if someone else had written them. But Katie knew it was him. She had met both men.

Katie the Cat

Katie stared at the note left for her, anxiety prickling her skin.

My dear little Catty


I hope this sees you well.

I have a task for you today. Something to keep you on your toes.

Below this letter, I have written a shopping list. You are to complete it today.

You’ll notice the package beside this note. Open it. I have found you a cute little decoration you can attach to your nipple piercing. Something with bells. ‘tis the season, no?


You are to wear these when you go shopping – without your bra. Bring in the new season. Should you complete your task, you will be rewarded. How you’ll be rewarded, you’ll find out in due time.


Your Master



Katie looked down at the package beside the note.

Katie had had her nipples pierced for her 24th. It was something she had always thought about up until that point but had chickened out. Would she always want, she had wondered.

With shaking fingers, she carefully unwrapped the sheer white fabric that had been tightly wound in a bow.

The piercings hidden beneath were metallic in shades of green and red. When Katie – Katie the Cat – picked them up, they jingled, echoing in the empty kitchen.

Without a bra?

(Katie the Cat)


Could Katie even do that? Was she capable of such a thing?

Katie and John had been together ten years, ever since coming out of highschool together and into adulthood for good.

They had started as friends, ended up as lovers and stumbled across BDSM and all its mysteries together.

Katie was no stranger to being daring, she had overcome her teenage shyness for the better part of her twenties.

She knew she could follow an order – when John asked her to masturbate as she drove to work one day, she did. When John asked her to collect the mail from their mailbox in nothing but her collar one Sunday afternoon, she did.

But to go out into public without a bra on? Was she good enough for that?

Was she pretty enough for that? Did she look good?

Should a slave concern herself with the thought of others, came another question within her mind.

And still, Katie (Katie the Cat. Katie, who is His) couldn’t help but wonder.

Without finding the answer to the question, Katie had inserted the new nipple piercings left for her.

Outside, the weather was a blazing 34 degrees C and Katie was likely to cook in this weather, should she not wear appropriate attire.

Rummaging through the clean washing she’d yet to fold, she found on a cotton light blue dress, as comfortable and light as it’s colours were.

She grabbed the shopping list, took a look at herself in the mirror and sighed.

No big deal, Katie the Cat has done quick late night shopping with no bra on before, so no big deal.

No big deal.

The shopping plaza buzzed with voices of all ages. Families walked doggedly on their way to the cinema, mothers held their screeching children, a father and his son walked by Katie, on a mission to find an early birthday present for their mother and wife.

Katie felt and heard everything. Every voice, every turn in her direction, every gentle breeze from a busy person passing by her – every little thing.

Over the buzz of the families, over the stores and their respective music blaring as if in competition, the jingle was soft. It was nothing. You could barely hear it.

Getting out of the parking area was a different event entirely. The ring became an echo, bouncing off one concrete wall and firing off a nearby car.

As Katie exited her own car, a woman in the car beside her was madly texting on her phone, her fingers in a marathon of their own.

A P plate was smacked down on her windshield – a provisional driver.

The young woman had looked up from her phone when Katie closed her door, but something deep down made her wonder if she heard….

Katie the Cat, she did not hear.

Katie hoped she didn’t.

Katie felt and heard everything. The fabric on her breasts, the gentle breeze of the air con snaking its way up her legs and across her thighs. She was aware of the jingle behind the store music, could feel a slight pinch on each nipple where her new decoration hung from her piercing, the bells coming to rise from her dress and fall with each passing step.

Katie was no longer worried about how her breasts might appear to an outsider, she could feel herself growing aroused by just wondering if someone could hear the jingle, since they definitely could see it through her faded blue dress thanks to the outline.

It wasn’t just the decorations that hung from her nipples that fell forward, it was her breasts , which swayed freely as she walked.

Katie the Cat thought Katie. On a secret mission, Katie. You are His.

It took an hour and a half to complete the shopping list that John had set out for her, and though the lady behind the small counter with the auburn hair, smile lines and unkempt eyebrows, looked at Katie (Katie the Cat) with a face that said I know, Katie looked back at her with a face she hoped had said And now I don’t care.

As she pushed the trolley out of the supermarket, the pinching sensation brought on by the decoration tugged at her piercing, pinching the tips of her nipple — and a smile formed across her face