Wave-Length

Her pain healed him as much as it did herself.

Through her gasps and moans, he felt a piece of himself coming back.

Through her tears, her whispered confession if her fears, heightened by pain, brought out by pain, he found another piece of himself in sharing that moment with her.

Suddenly she was not a stranger anymore, suddenly he understood her behaviour, suddenly it all made sense to her, the past weekend, the past days, the frustrating silences where her tongue froze, words stiff on her lips, things she wanted to tell him but didn’t because she doubted — herself.

He held the chain connecting the clamps to her nipples, he controlled the surge of her pain, opened the door to pleasure. The endless stream of consciousness funnelling itself from her mind to his. He understood the right amount and adjusted accordingly – and she…she understood to trust him, to allow him herself, to allow herself to let go of control, of the desire to hold back. No one had wanted her mind before, why should he? But no, that was not correct. That was something else, something damaging burrowing into her skull. She needed to fight back on that thought because he…he was there for her, and would always be there for her, through the bad and the good, through the pain and the pleasure, through the devastating cries and the moments of raw human vulnerability.

He needed to let go as much as she did, had wanted to before but always doubted himself and his place in her life. Each and every day.

Pulling the chain so that she rose, in anguish, in tears, in pleasure, took every aspect of himself, to look past a gentle nature, to take himself there to that secluded part of his soul she had always marked – and in turn take back there, to show her around the place, the place that was hers.

Through her pain they opened a wave-length only they shared. Maybe it was always there, this ability to communicate, but maybe pain was the tool, however controlled it was – or had to be – needed to take that communication further.

Sex, Death and Nightmare Fuel

You know what’s interesting? Why my brain mixes filthy sex in an absurd setting with the horror genre.

I mean, one minute I’m hiding in a factory warehouse with a beloved actress from her friend transforming into a werewolf she beast — and the next I’m driving an American car while a Greek woman is naked and grinding into my kitten from the passenger seat of the car.

If I were to tell my mother, the gentlest human I know, the woman who would literally wash my mouth out with soap for cursing, this she would stop and think a moment — and say ‘Well, you didn’t get this from me.’

So why, brain? Tell me, why.

I’m an avid horror fan, ladies and gentleman. If you’re a long time reader you may have probably picked up on that fact – I merge erotica with dark fantasy and usually horror and I can tell you right now that a lot of my stories are purely from dreams – there’s hardly any fat or any filler I add later, it’s purely dream or nightmare fuel.

But yes, I’m an avid horror fan – Be it through books or film or tv, I soak up any media. Less so since I’m growing older and softer — but as a genre it’s something I gravitate towards because it’s such a liberating genre in a way – an artist can take this imagination and illustrate it via writing or via a movie with effects or lighting or animation – and that creation and ownership of fear, of that feeling of dread, is exhilarating and such a purge of emotion. I mean the world stops dead. You exist in the moment with this piece of media, do focused by this fear.

And sometimes not – sometimes you’re watching a bad movie you’ve seen way too many times before. Sometimes it’s a different purge, it’s a killer and these teens are going to get it. They’re stalked in a build up that is unleashed in a violent climax. Which, by the way, was always kinda sexy to me in a way I didn’t want to talk about because I felt guilty and fucked up. It was very primal and in a manner of being predator / prey.

So why is my brain mixing horror with eroticism? I have no freaking idea. Maybe because dreams are a funhouse of thoughts waiting to collide in some kaleidoscope of colours that is dependant on what you absorb in your life? Which, in my case, is the psychology of sex and…werewolf movies? I haven’t seen any lately? But I do like a good tortured human / beast movie!

I could be here all day talking elements – Why was I driving an American car? Why a Greek woman? Why on my lady? Because – back off, stranger – she’s mine! And why in a warehouse harbouring a werewolf?

As a horror fan, in the waking world, I was always intrigued by how horror films stimulate in their own way – how pressure builds and relaxes, builds and relaxes. Especially in, say, a slasher film, where sex is so often associated with death. A cynic would say that’s all marketed to the teenage demographic – and that’s correctomundo – but so many of the people I’ve met and friends made along the way as I’ve handled this blog have been into horror – so there’s a definite sexual link there beyond selling tickets to horny teenagers. It’s been interesting to find, in my own personal journey, that people who enjoy slasher films particularly are primal, whether they are aware or not.

But! It’s 2:43am in the morning and my caffeine is wearing out so it’s totally possible that I am just overtired and over-thinking!

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.

Thank You For Your Company

For those of you out there that have heard my interview as part of the Darker Side Of Spice event, I just want to thank you for coming along and supporting some positivity and good will in the community.

I’m just a regular garden-variety guy working on a little BDSM blog in my own corner of the world, so opening my blog or my twitter or even tumblr and finding people visiting – most from Australia and New Zealand, Which is cool – I love the idea that there’s people so close to home out there reading – is a touching thing, especially when a lot of the time when I write, I’m always sure that this dark fantasy is going to be THE ONE that makes people re-evaluate their opinion of me.

And yet…through weird sea creatures and possessive shadow, through my strangest erotic nightmares, people are still here. Knowing that maybe my darker thoughts give solace to someone out there and makes them feel less alone is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Knowing that I can help iron out a thought in someone’s mind or relationship or personal growth – to be a part of that, is so touching in ways I can’t even begin to express.

So thank you – very, very much.

And don’t be a stranger, yeah? I’m a night owl, I’m always by a computer or a phone, scribbling down dreams and interactions and thoughts – you’re always welcome to drop by and say hello.

Oh and if there’s a topic I haven’t touched on, I am always looking to expand! Just run it by me and I’ll start thinking deeply!

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

Afterword

It’s Not Too Late To Sign Up To The ‘Darker Side Of Spice’ Event!

It’s a particularly chilly morning this Thursday…and I’m laying in bed snuggled under the doonas just listening to the stories of people in the lifestyle – authors, submissive’s, professional dominatrix – and I’ve got a big ol’ goofy grin on my face.

For someone like me, who is shy and more or less keeps to himself, hearing the stories from others, especially when they’re so different, is a beautiful and fascinating thing. I mean these interviews go for 40 odd minutes, the standard run time of an episode of television, but I almost feel like I could pick the interviewee’s brain for hours, as I’m sure the lovely host P. Nelson could too!

So if you never got around to signing up earlier and you’re a little awkward like me but love the psychology of D/s no matter how far it strays from your tastes, there’s still time to sign up! We’re in day four now but old interviews stay up for 72 hours and all of the interviews are absolutely free and arrive to your email of choice when they’re up! So if you’re keen, hit the link HERE and whether you’re snuggled on the couch, driving to and from work or relaxing in your favourite spot, have a cheeky listen and enjoy the rest of the event! It’s bound to make you smile! Amongst other things!

And be on the look out for me in a first time for the blog, my voice and my awkward self!