I’m part of the Darker Side of Spice Erotic Con Event – Coming This June 17th!

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Ladies and gentlemen, stop the press! I have some rather exciting news!

For the very first time ever I will be taking part of a BDSM Con Event DARKER SIDE OF SPICE hosted by the lovely and talented erotica author P. Nelson.

What exactly is this event? I’m glad you asked!

Kicking off June 17th and running through till June 28th, Darker Side of Spice is a virtual event that sees over 25 individuals – including best-selling authors, Dominants, submissive’s and BDSM coaches – interviewed by P. Nelson about the lifestyle, their inspirations and all the things you were curious about but never wanted to ask!

Apart from hearing behind-the-scenes stories on writing erotica and how these authors come up with ideas and characters, you’ll also have a chance to delve into such topics as –

· Romance in a BDSM Dynamic

· Facing your Fears about your sexuality

· Characteristics that will drive what kind of Dominant or submissive you will be. 

· What constitutes as Safe, Sane and Consensual. ·

· How to introduce toys to the mix. 

On top of that, you’ll get the chance to grab some goodies, including erotic books and the like! All you have to do is click THIS link and register for your free pass and to check out the other attending authors! You’ll also get to hear my awkward voice debut too!

Arghhh! I’m excited! Are you excited?!

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. 

Needs

As he stumbled to the kitchen from the bedroom, completely nude, the corner of his eyes wet from the mist of forgotten dreams, he noticed his cock was hard – and achingly so.

With each step forward to the kitchen sink where sanctuary awaited, his cock seemed to pulsate in a delicious twitch, crying out maddeningly to stop the pulse.

Yet the thought of the water from the kitchen sink, cool and clear and heavenly, was too hard to ignore.

Making his way across the hallway and onto the cool tiles of the kitchen, his hands thumbed for the faucet clumsily.

He found it after the third swipe, finding a spare – and rinsed coffee mug – from the dishrack beside him.

As the water ran sweetly into the cup, he felt the urge come again from his cock, which twitched and bobbed on the spot. His muscles clenched in response to subdue the sensation.

Then he clicked off the faucet tap and drank greedily. The coolness against his raw throat was heavenly, and yet too cold all at once. He had to stop, to breathe – to swallow again to coat his freshly revived throat with his tongue.

Then he felt it – something brushing against his shaft. He jumped at the couch, letting out a startled gasp.

‘You’re always so jumpy…’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘Hmmm…no…’

The velvety voice of his wife came out from the darkness, purring in his ear.

Her breasts pressed against his back below his shoulder blades as her body pressed against his.

In the darkness, she was consuming him, their flesh becoming one active entity.

Her hand seized his cock then – and she began to initiate a rhythm.

‘What…what are you doing?’

He cleared his throat, speaking felt weird after being suspended in sleep.

‘I…have a need…’

Her teeth slid down into his neck as her hair fell over his shoulder.

The bite made his cock twitch. As it resisted against her grip, she let out that beautiful giggle that made him fall in love with her all over again each time.

‘Again With the jumpiness…’

She had that tone about her, he realised. That tone when she comes possessed by something unlike her in any other circumstance. It’s a dark, smooth and deviant voice – commanding, mischievous.

She was right against him now, he felt her stomach tightly snug behind him.

Ahead of him, light bounced from one corner of their new kitchen to the next – a car passing by in the dead of the night, on its own odyssey.

‘You do know any passing car or neighbour can see us right?’ He said.

‘Let them.’ She replied simply, focused on the pulse that was magnifying as the seconds passed.

He was suddenly aware of his breathing, quickened and shaky. He could suddenly feel the soft burst of air across his neck, as she breathed in the darkness.

Suddenly she slapped him – and he realised his hands had a mind of their own, had been reaching back behind to touch what he could.

‘No.’ She said, low and husky. ‘Just you.’

‘But – ‘

‘Both hands on the counter, mister.’

He let out a breath, which twisted out of him into a moan. He knew better than to disobey her.

Her hands felt as wild as the water had felt coming down his throat. She slid the palm of her hand down the length of his shaft, sliding it back while reaching underneath to skim across his balls.

Beneath the rising pleasure in him, he felt that sensitivity jolt through his shaft – and she giggled to herself, no doubt proud.

A dizziness began to fold over him now – dizziness mixed with a feeling of warmth and fatigue.

Sensing something in him, her pace quickened and her rhythm got faster – and faster. As if bracing herself or protecting him, with her free hand she gripped his chest, palm open.

A sharp moan gurgled up his throat and out his lips and he came, shooting his load in quick, short bursts across her finger.

As he gathered his breath, head bowed, she spoke to him softly.

‘Face me…?’

It was strange – was she asking a question or demanding him to. He faced her regardless – and in the fuzziness of darkness, saw her fingers disappear into her mouth as she giggled, licking clean what was hers.

He wanted her, then and there – more than anything. He wanted to look into her eyes as he had his fun with her, as he let her come.

Instead, she grinned and turned from him, her hips swaying as she disappeared completely from view and into the darkness.

Ask A Dominant – April Q/A!

I haven’t done a Q/A on this blog since December, 2018. It’s been four months – summer has come and gone, autumn is here and how have we changed?

I always like to do one of these because they’re fun and stimulating and maybe they can reach out to someone out there, lurking and reading.

As always, if you have any questions about the dynamic or lifestyle or me or my writing, you are welcome to comment in the comments below – or email me personally at darkanddominant@hotmail.com

Here are some recent questions I’ve had come my way that I’d like to share.

What inspires your writing? An image you see, a fantasy that resides in the dark corners of your mind or something else? Do you ever write a story based on something your kitten wishes to explore?

The inspiration for my writing comes from so many different things! A dream, a line someone says to me in real life! A look kitten gives me, a nightmare I had that was vaguely sensual.

Usually inspiration comes from exploring a fantasy of mine, from tapping into my primal side and exploring the most vulnerable and raw feelings that bubble to the surface. Emotions I’m scared to confront, emotions born from a really weird fantasy that I need to capture to control.

Sometimes I like finding creating conflict in the mind of a character and seeing how I can utilise that conflict in an erotic way.

There have been a few poems and stories based on what kitten wanted to explore, indeed! A Kitten for Christmas is a recent story that I can think of off the top of my head. But you can find traces of us in stories about being primal and exploring pet play!

What’s it like for a dominant when your sub has to use the safe word? Are you disappointed? Insecure? Or is it just no big deal?

When I originally answered this question to a reader and dear friend of mine, I couldn’t think of a time in which I had to stop because kitten uttered our safe word. But that’s my memory for you – scatterbrained. I have since remembered that indeed had to stop.

And what’s it like? Well, first and foremost the safety and well-being of my lady comes first. There’s simply no question to that. If she’s not having fun, I’m not having fun.

To set the scene, we were pushing the limits of her pain threshold and we found it. I wasn’t disappointed or insecure but I was curious – and as a Dominant (and someone socially awkward at the best of times) I was faced with a bit of a challenge – I didn’t want to be a dingus and hurt her further so I took the time to comfort her

We discovered a new thing about her that day and it’s something that we know about when we play in the future!

—————-

There’s no judgement here on this blog – feel free to speak up with your wonderful voice!

The Prisoner

When it comes to writing, especially erotica, there’s always one concept that comes to me and I have no idea from where it originated.

Why did my mind piece together such a surreal, sensuous image? What does that mean for me? Is the image heralding the return of my dominant side? A side that has, I must admit, taken a back seat in the days following a particularly nasty bout of anxiety.

Or was it there all along? Influences and memories and turns on all stitched together under a pale grey sky within my mindscape, waiting to come out?

I ponder all of this as I ponder her – the nude woman lying on her back on the hotel bedroom, illuminated by the soft glow of the room’s television, the only source of light in the room.

I think of this woman – blonde hair folded underneath her, her breasts caught in the quickened rhythm of her breathing. Her nipples, stiff, pointing upwards towards the ceiling.

I can see the faint trace of her ribcage, the slick glean of sweat across her body, beading across her stomach.

I can see the soft fuzz across her slit and, if I peer hard enough at the image, I can see it glisten under the eye of the television.

And I can see the wires – thick, grey, sturdy – wrapped around her body, coiling around her chest and weaving down, snake-like, across her legs and under her ass.

She is bound, held tightly in place. I can only guess how the cables feel across her skin, how they pinch, how they are cool across her breasts.

I can see her arms held high above, locked in position, the cables winding up around her wrists, and I can see that she does not resist. That there is no struggle.

No, quite the opposite. Her body reverberates with an intensity I can feel worlds away. I can feel her pleasure, just as I can feel the pain bite at several points in her body where the cables cling tight.

I can hear her breath catch in her throat, hear her heart in my own ears. I can see her eyes, glued to the image on the television, static. A prisoner of the times.

This bound woman comes without touching one part of her body, is held by the cables as the orgasm hits every inch of her. An electrical current.

I’ve no idea where this image comes from but I feel her there with me every step of the way.

Four Year Anniversary

Today marks the four year anniversary of my blog – Tall, Dark and Dominant. Which is absolutely insane to think about because when I started this, I was looking up at the mountain wondering how in the heck I’m going to climb this – and now I’m moving through a new phase of adulthood, finding myself growing at ease with shifting dynamics and the blurring or vanilla life with the more naughtier.

I want to thank each and every person that visits my blog – from the casual commenter to the hidden lurker to the person that works up the courage to write in to me to open up a dialogue or say thanks. Your support and constructive criticism and your challenging of my perceptions and concepts is valued in ways I couldn’t properly express.

Some days I can’t stop writing. Sometimes, like now, there are lulls where nothing comes. Where life comes first and the ideas and concepts that spark something in me come slowly.

Nevertheless, for now I will leave you with a concept that came to me late at night yesterday or the day before —

A woman, wearing nothing but an oversized sweater, heads to the bedroom where she finds her husband standing in the shadows at the foot of their bed.

His right arm, exposed by the light of the hallway casting its way into the room in a stretching shape, holds a whip. This woman doesn’t know how he got one but she’s intrigued all the same – she slips off her sweater and gets on all fours.

Her husband whips her ass and back numerous times in silence before taking her from behind. The moment is unlike anything she’s experienced from him – it’s all very erotically charged.

Suddenly a voice calls out to her from her left – and the woman, bent over and aching with pain, looks to see her husband standing in the doorway.

‘What are you doing?’ He asks her.

The woman is frozen. Who was behind her this whole time? Who wore the face of her husband?

Good evening from Australia!

Let Us Pray

‘What are you doing?’ He asks her.

They’re in her bedroom, away from the world. Him, 26 and her, 17.

She’s closed the door behind her, unbuttoning her plain white work blouse button by button.

He can already glimpse the lace detail of the black bra beneath her.

‘Dear God…’ She says, unbuttoning another button.

‘Thank you for bringing Henry to me in my time of need.’

Another button comes undone. Two to go.

His eyes want to sink down and take in how her small breasts are kept hidden behind the cups of her bra, but there’s something in her eyes – something dangerous. Manic.

‘Thank you…for this moment together, O Lord”

One button to go.

‘And in all the moments that have come before.’

The last button is gone. Her eyes, greyish blue, are locked on to his as she peels away the blouse, revealing a lightly tanned stomach, freckles sprawling sporadically across the skin. The blouse floats down to the floor.

Her hands are reaching down to her jeans, unzipping the fly.

‘Alex…’

‘Please instil with me the p…the power, God..’

‘Power’ comes on loose lips, wiggling out of her shaky voice. Her voice is airy, dreamy. Possessed.

‘The power to be good. To do good. To be better.’

Alex is wriggling out of her jeans. They fall to her knees, revealing pale legs and skimpy black lace panties.

She kicks the jeans off to the floor.

‘And please watch over me, over us, and fill our hearts with love and magic. And passion.’

She unclasps her bra, letting it fall to the floor, revealing her bare breasts, her dark areola. Goosebumps trailing across her skin. The slightest hint of veins running beneath, pumping blood through her body, silky warm.

‘I’m thankful for what you’ve shown me, God, and who…you’ve ‘ – the words catch on her throat, her chest tightens as she breathes, excited and nervous. ‘Brought to me.’

She hooks her fingers around the waistband of her panties and slides them down, revealing the thin line of hair marking her slit.

‘Amen.’

Her eyes never break contact.

——————————————-

For some reason it came to me – the idea of a religious teenager praying to god while undressing for the person she lusts after. I found the psychological interplay – her eyes on him, in command, betraying the idea of religion or subverting it in a wholly different environment – to be very sexy. Hopefully you enjoy it too!