On My Religion, Sexuality and Love

If you’re a long time reader, chances are you’ve read me touch on my catholic upbringing as a child and into my teens and how that affected my sexuality. Talking or writing about it at length, though, is something I haven’t done here – and for no real reason, I just haven’t felt it was an interesting topic to anyone but me.

I want to address that. However I will ask you to bear with me, it might get messy.

My father and mother were devout Catholics and raised me as such. I did the whole nine yards – reconciliation, monthly confessions, communion, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday’s, Stations of the cross, Sunday Mass – the whole shebang.

We were a conservative Catholic household and lived a conservative Catholic life. Even the sheer sight of me shirtless around the house would cause outcry. Playful or not, I cannot say, but I just wanted to raise this point.

When I was 12, I started to catch on about sex. My dad, when confronted with the notion, told me flatly ‘Yeah, we did!’. As an adult, my mum would tell me it was my dad’s job to address it as she did to my sisters. As an adult, my dad would tell me he never did enough for me. I wonder if he remembers that conversation.

As a 12 year old though, I was weird sexually. I’m taking masturbation in the weirdest places, I’m talking being excited that I’d have the house myself so I can be naked, I’m talking the primal masturbating in the mud in a frenzy – weird.

Thing was, I was making sense of myself. I found the pulse within myself that reacted against my catholic teachings to be naked, to be primal, to fight back against the feelings of shame – which I very well have now writing this, even though I understand how implausible those feelings are.

This reactionary behaviour paved the way for me to explore myself sexually as a teenager, which led to writing erotica and eventually to the wide world of BDSM and kink.

Looking back as I write this, sex – for me – is a battle between two minds. There’s the part of me who is relaxed and in control and vibrant and flourishing and then —- there’s the insecure part of me, questioning – constantly questioning, telling me that what I want, what I’ve always wanted, won’t be accepted. Somehow I know this to be a product of what I was taught, teaching me that to be naked, to want degradation, humiliation, is all wrong. Disgusting.

These days I have good control over the other part of my brain, though it does exist during my most intimate moments. However, during my twenties, that wasn’t the case.

I can distinctly remember feeling the rush of being in the moment, sexually and as a dominant, and then coming down from that high terrifies, not knowing what that meant, guilty because of my actions – my need to command, to dress, to be sadistic.

I thought I was in the wrong for years, with every kinky discovery bringing with it a wave of shame and a terrifying feeling that, after so long of living my life, I would have to reboot EVERYTHING I knew. This feeling, this scary realisation, led me to suppress it, at this point strengthened by the fact that I was in a relationship with a woman I loved but had zero interest in kink, D/s or BDSM.

Hell, I don’t even know now, years later, if my depression and anxiety is merely hereditary or a manifestation of my upbringing as a conservative Catholic. I can only guess and say it’s hereditary plus the upbringing PLUS my social experiences as a teenager. I didn’t have a lot of friends. I was shy. I was quiet. I still am.

What helped me, what still does – is trying to remember that my own development is important, that my happiness is important and that people like you, my dear readers, or kitten will accept me and my kinks and that it doesn’t mean I’m insane or sick or mentally ill.

These days, I’m not a practicing religious person – but I am spiritual. I live by a set of rules – to be kind to people, to love openly and accept everyone. I pray for my loves and my life and my animals but I consider my relationship between myself and God something entirely different to what’s prescribed in the bible. If that makes me agnostic or something, so be it, but I’d like to think that love is all you need and that if God exists, He – or she – would want me to be happy to my fullest extent. Outside of that, I try to be as kinky as I want 24/7. True to myself, in other words.

So was religion / being religious the catalyst for my feelings during sex? My anxiety? My development as a man? I’m not sure. I cannot say. I’m only a writer, half naked, musing to himself on a cool Monday morning.

12 Days of Kinkmas: Day #10: ——— —

lonely-slave-girl-dark-cell-bondage

Nothing mattered but her.
Her soft moans, her delicious whimpers, her frantic breathless voice begging for him to fuck her sweet self, the words that came out of her mouth.
Their bodies were one, lathered in sweat, united in ecstasy, a symphony of sight and sound. The purest form of pleasure, pain and anything else in between.
He had never felt so high than he did now, slipping out of her drenched little cunt before tearing back into her again, not even bothering to ease gently.
The rhythm was an addiction, feeling his cock ease into her, pushing past her smooth lips, feeling him becoming absorbed in her. Lather, rinse and repeat.
No word, in any language, could describe just how it felt to fuck this woman – not make love to, not gently – fuck.
This was life. This was death. This was madness.
When his cock slipped from her, she grunted, frustrated playfully, whimpering for him to put it back in, hurry please. He did. He found her again. The rhythm came and he was not far behind. He

 Held onto her hips as they met each other, her back into him and he into her. Her cries were different now, genuine. Sad. Mixed with pleasure.
A terrible uneasiness slithered over his body, casting an icy chill over the sweat lathered across him.
Where was he, who is this bent over him? He went to pull away and something cool and solid pulled at him. Chains.
He was naked, mid-intercourse with a woman, a –
He looked at her; the blonde woman was now turning around from where she had knelt before him, glazed with sweat. Her eyes were furious, yet questioning.
His chest tightened, a scream was gestating in the pit of his stomach. He looked around and saw only darkness.
His senses were kicking in. There was hay at his feet, pinching at his knees. The floor was cement – cold, hard exposed cement.
He could hear movement around him, other gasps, other moans, and feminine, masculine, other sexes.
He opened his mouth to scream, it was rising in his throat.

“Don’t” The woman before him spoke in hushed tones. “They’ll hear and they’ll punish..”
“Where….”
Speaking felt strange. His throat was sore; Freddy Krueger was at work down there. Dehydrated maybe? He blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness.
“Are you? Who knows? Not me. Not them…”
“What the fuck is going on….” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours or days.
“You don’t know….” The woman said. Realisation was in her voice.
“’Course. That’s why you took me so willingly…you were still drugged…”
“Drugged?”
“What do you remember?”
He racked his brain. What did he remember? He was….someone….where was he? Home? At work? Shopping? How did he get here?
“It’ll come back to you.” The woman spoke. “My name’s Alex. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? I can’t tell. Anyway. You better get on it with it.”
“What?”
“You better finish…you know….You’ve got to come within me.”
“Why the fuck for?”
His body was beginning to tremble. Anxiety swept over him, bringing with it the wave of panic.
“Because that’s what they want you to do. To get us pregnant.”
“I can’t!”
“You must, else you’ll end up like the rest – dead. And someone else will replace you. There’s always someone else.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen people refuse, I’ve seen them leave this room and never come back. Look around you, the others…they’re ignoring us. Why do you think that is?”
“I….”
“Look, I don’t want to die. You’ve got to come. Otherwise, we’ll both be punished..”
Footsteps. Fading in from somewhere. Shuffling on the floor. Getting closer.
“You’ve got to do it” The woman hissed.
“This is absurd –“

Door hinges squeaked, light flooded the room.
He blinked at the light, shielding his face, as footsteps broke the deathly silence – and then –

Nothing at all.
The man blinked until his eyes adjusted, he looked down the barren room, spotting two other couples – no, three – all nude, all huddled together against the grey concrete walls, all looking back in the direction of the light.
“I’ve been told you didn’t want to proceed.”
A male voice from the light.
Tightness gripped the man’s chest. He kept his head low – how did they know?
He cast a look at the woman named Alex, her eyes wide and terrified.
“I can’t. You can’t ask me to rape this girl. She’s what…? Barely 17?”
The man at the far end of the room huddled against the wall. He looked like a dad – thin grey moustache, shaved head that could’ve been bald. The woman in question did indeed look barely 17, it was in her face. Her body, though, was different, her breasts were large and her pubic hair was trimmed well.
The figure strode past the man, his cologne choking the air. He was dressed all in black, a hood concealing his hair, a mask concealing his face. His voice deep. Changed. Altered by something. His boots seemed to have a presence all on their own as he walked, clomping down on the floor.
“You are wasting our time then.”
“Look, please – you’ve got to let me, I mean her, go.  I will do what you ask but this is no place for a girl.”
The masked man sighed. “Fair.”
The Dad sighed in a relief the man felt in his chest. “Thank you, that’s all I ask. We won’t tell anyone, I won’t –“
Sound exploded through the room.
A woman screamed.
Muffled voices and – ringing, emerging above it all. Ringing so loud it throbbed in the pit of the man’s ear.
“Get him out of here, dump him with the rest. Consider him a lost cause.”
Sobbing came low quietly as two other figures dragged the corpse of the dad out of view and into the saturated light.
To the figure left behind him, the masked man said – “Find another for the girl. Quickly.”
The figure left, leaving the masked man, seemingly in charge, alone in the room.
Silence.
“You.”
The chill swept over his body. He felt like he needed to vomit.
“You’re new. Aren’t you?”
The masked man didn’t wait for a response.
“Let that waste of a life be an example to you. We are all part of…one great cause.”
Even digitised and altered, the voice seemed to relish saying we are all part of one great cause, as if it aroused him.
The altered man cocked his head at Alex, who sat with her back against the wall, looking down at the floor.
The altered man then turned and left – the light retreating from the room until they were covered in the darkness once more.

The man listened for the footsteps…waiting to hear them fade….and then turned to Alex.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
A voice hissed at him from the darkness. “There is no escape, don’t you get that now?”
“Ssshut up” Another voice hissed.
To the man’s right, there was movement, low moaning. A man groaned in the throes of his climax. He peered back to Alex, feeling her eyes on him.
“Hey” She said softly. “It’s okay. You’re….you’re nice, you know? I can sense that. It’ll be okay…”
Her body scuffed the concrete, her arm reaching out gingerly in the darkness to find his.
“Make it quick. Hope for the best.”
Light flooded the room. Door hinges screamed. Two masked figures stepped inside as the man blinked the light into his eyes and accepted its warmth.
He looked to see one figure stride over to his right, where the man was still coming down from his climax.
The figured shoved this man aside into the wall – paused – then knelt down and studied the whimpering lady.
The woman, freckles across her body, fair red hair, sat against the concrete wall, her head buried in her arms.
“This one’s got spunk dripping outta ‘er.” The figure spoke, voice altered.
“Good.” The other said from the doorway. “Means he’s working well aye.”
The first figure laughed, which came out as a distorted garble. “Let’s go.”
He turned to leave, following after the one in the doorway.
The room fell back into darkness.
To the man’s right, the woman was breathing shakily. The man went to speak, when he felt Alex’s hand on his wrist again. “Leave it.”
A beat.
The man looked to the right then back to where Alex was before him, bent aon all fours in front of him, her cunt glistening in the darkness.
That was when he had an idea.
“I’m done! Hello? Hey, I’m done over here. Finished!”
Footsteps.
“Definitely done. All of it.”

The light flooded in the room. A sole figure stepped through and looked across the room at the men and women inside.
“Who speaks?” Came the garbled voice.
The man raised his trembling hand. He was working on pure adrenaline.
“I do. I’ve, uh…I’ve done it. What now.”
The figure approached, toting his rifle.
“Now you wait. And do it again.”
“Really? Is that how impregnation works? I’m…”
The figure stepped closer.
“I’m not sure…you know?”
Just a little bit further.
“Just do it again.”
The figure was over him now, gun in his face.
“Okay.”

A beat. The figure looked down at him, his breathing coming out in short altered bursts. He turned to leave.
The man grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him down. He hit the concrete with a hard THUNK and let out a garbled groan. The men and women panicked but the man was dragging the figure towards him by the leg.
When the figure raised the rifle, Alex yanked it free, clumsily ripping it from the hands of this man.
The figure was now reaching for the walkie-talkie attached to his belt, the walkie-talkie that the man hadn’t noticed yet. The man swirled the chain linking his hands together around the neck of the figure and pulled.
The figure, heavily built, leaned back into the man, kicking his legs out. Somewhere a woman was sobbing quietly.
The man didn’t know what he was doing, he hadn’t killed anyone before, he didn’t think, he had never strangled anyone, so he gripped the chain around the neck tightly, pulling, pulling with all of his might.
Alex freed the walkie-talkie from his belt and tossed it aside.
The figure was now reaching back to the man, his hands swatting at anything to get a grip of, to pinch, to pull, to get some ground.
The two men were grunting now, straining.
How hard did he have to pull the chain against his neck? How hard did he have to choke him before –
Alex raised the rifle. The butt of it came down on his head. Once. Twice. Three times.
Alex was grunting. Crying. On the verge of screaming.
The figure had fallen limp, sprawled out on the floor. Dead weight.
This time it was the man who put his hand gently to Alex, telling her it was okay, it would be all right, even if he weren’t sure, not entirely.
She quivered, sniffled, and shakily said, “Okay.”

A beat.

Quietly and quickly, Alex and the man searched him down for a key, finding nothing but cigarettes in only his left pocket.
“Fuck.” Alex spat.
The man searched across the floor, squinting in the darkness where the light from the doorway couldn’t reach. Nothing.
Alex was already on it.
“Put your arms on the floor.”
“What?”
“Just do it. And be still about it.”
The man did so, not yet realising he was holding his breath.
“Whatever you’re doing, do it fast.”
He could hear footsteps in the distance.
TWHACK.
His hand flew loose, the chains dangling from his wrists.
“What the fu-?”
TWHACK.
His right arm flew free of the wall chains.
“You shot me?”
“Quick. Do me.”
Alex stuffed the rifle to his chest.
“I don’t know how to shoot.”
“Hold your breath. Watch your eye. Realise your aim. Aim with your heart.”
“What?”
“Do it.” Alex hissed quietly.
The man aimed, shakily; now realising he was holding his breathe. He exhaled, his hands sweaty, trickling down his wrists.
Thwack. Thwack.
Alex grabbed the rifle, rose to her feet. The man watched in awe as she went from man to woman, freeing them of their chains with the silenced rifle. One by one the men and women rose to their feet, shakily, gingerly.

When all of them were freed, Alex seemed to take command.
“Who were you?” The man asked breathlessly.
“I….don’t know.” Alex replied matter-of-factly.
She handed the rifle to the man, who didn’t know how to hold it.
When he took it, she peered down the hallway, her eyes scanning, and her pupils large.
“Looks to be empty. But….
She turned to the small group of people. “We’ve got to go. Stay low and follow me…”
They moved low as one – one after the other, through a dilapidated hallway, the wallpaper peeling, water damage in the corners. Everything smelt of mould.
Up ahead – double doors to the left. Alex tried the rusty doorknob, the door squeaked as loud as the door to their prison.
Beyond the double doors was a stairwell only leading up. They were on the bottom floor.
“Okay, let’s go.”
The group travelled up three flights of stairs, following the faded painting on the walls till they reached words saying GROUND LEVEL.

Bursting through the double doors, Alex came face to face with infinite darkness.
Beyond that, the man peered, eyes once again settling into the dark – “Snow?”
The landscape before them, ‘neath a black sky, was a floor of snow leading out towards a tree line and into the night.
“Okay. What we need to do is –“
A flash blinded the man’s eyes. A spotlight? A searchlight?
An alarm, deafening their senses, blaring shrilly into the night, warbling low, warbling high, screeching, bloodcurdling.

“We’ve got to…keep….our”
The alarm silenced Alex’s voice.
Men and women began to panic and scream.
The man looked to his right to see a woman stumbling on her feet as if losing her balance, she turned around to face him, a bullet hole where her left eye should be.
The man felt panic seize his chest as the woman fell face forward into the snow, melting the surrounding blanket of ice with her blood.
He didn’t hear the gunshot, nor did he hear the next one that took the man next to him off his feet. Alex was dragging him away; their backs low to the brick wall behind them.
The man resisted, seeing lights flash through the tree line before them, seeing the bricks spray dust clouds ahead of him, seeing bodies in the snow, piled on top of one another.
“What the fuck?”
“We’ve got to…round this….” Alex was screaming over the alarm.

Up ahead was the corner of the building. They rounded it in a heartbeat, the man half expecting to be blown away by gunfire.
The cold was everywhere now, all over his body, gripping his chest, seizing his bare cock.
“….car…..”
“A car?”
He couldn’t hear Alex.
“It’s…we’ve got…”
She was dragging him along, like a ragdoll, his back scraping against the brick wall behind.
They made it into open space – the infinite darkness ahead of them and all around them. Beneath their feet, numb and falling asleep evermore, the man saw white lines marking the ground. He took a breath and peered before him – a car park.
A light switched on behind him, engulfing him in its presence, and he looked behind to see –
A sign – glass cracked, light flickering in and out of existence, reading – N CANCY.
The doors of the hotel, boarded up and crossed with a black X. It’s windows equally barred by rotted wooden planks, as is fighting off an impending attack. Cracks were splintering across its structure, forking out in every which way. Whoever stayed here, owned this place, had not been here in quite some time.
The whole place, lit by the searchlight and covered by the surrounded darkness, looked like something out of a hellish dream.

“Hey, let’s go!”
Miraculously, they made it to the car. Miraculously Alex found the keys, smacking an overhead visor and knocking the keys loose. Miraculously, she got it started under duress.
The man looked behind him, taking one last look at the remnants of the area before turning back to look at Alex, her face covered in grime.
They drove into the night, the alarm beckoning them to come back.

 

 

 

N I G H T M A R E     I N N

12 Days of Kinkmas – Day #6: ‘Through The Window’

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Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her was bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
It was His bedroom, Michelle knew, a teenager no older than eighteen. Every summer he and his family – his mum, a short grey haired woman with kind eyes, and his younger sister, mousy brown hair and a face younger than she appeared – would appear. A home away from home, the mother described once to Michelle, the two out the back seeing to their respective gardens.

Michelle never spoke to the daughter, their timelines never seemed to sync, but the son she saw at times through the open window. Sometimes she could see him curled up in his bed against the wall while she brushed her teeth in the morning. Other times, when she’d open the bathroom to let the steam out while she bathed her son Alejandro, she’d spot the son sitting on the aged wooden floor, watching from the television that must’ve been facing him from beneath the bedroom window. It was comforting in a way, listening to her child play while the background noise of voices drifted in through the window. She would sit and try to guess what he was watching, who was starring and what the plot was, while she washed her son’s hair. In a way it felt comforting, having this male presence, while Sebastián kept busy hours at the office.

Other times the son would still be watching television when Michelle came back to the bathroom for her own bath. She would close the bathroom window, of course, heart in throat, petrified of being seen, of her body being glimpsed by someone other than herself after motherhood has had its way with reshaping her figure, but the that orange glow was ever-present in the space. Sometimes, Michelle would even use the glow as her own candle in the darkness, enjoying having one foot in the dark and another in the glow.

Now Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the open bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
Michelle stood in front of the bathroom window – screen free and open, to get some of that sweet, sweet air through – washing her face, preparing to bathe. The children were in bed relatively early and she had time to soak in the tub before time got away from her.
As she turned off the faucet and dried her hands, she heard the bedroom door through the window open. He stepped in, dressed in black jeans and faint blue collared shirt, Michelle noted, unable to turn from instinct that was her curiosity.
As he closed the door behind him, the faint blue collared shirt was off and tossed in a corner in the room, revealing his pale torso and dark patches of body hair trailing down his stomach.
Senses kicking in, Michelle reached forward, fumbling for rubber handle on the window. By this point, the son was down to his boxers, grey with black stripes. Michelle’s hands slipped, knocking the handle and causing it to clack loudly.

Deathly silence followed.

He looked up to where the sound came from, his grey eyes alerted, and found Michelle standing still, no where to shrink away to and die of embarrassment.
His eyes met hers in silence.
They regarded each other a moment, both frozen, unsure whether to laugh it off or nod and apologise and close the window and be on the way and then feel cheeks burn with shame and fear and guilt, riding the residual wave of anxiety.
Michelle couldn’t explain what happened next. For days afterwards, she would ruminate, turning every moment over in her head, examining aspects she thought she knew all along, basically re-evaluating her own mind.
She couldn’t explain why she lifted her hands to the tied velvet knot around her waist, nor could she explain why she undid it, letting her loose nightgown fall to the floor. Was it an act of anxiety, seeking validation, attraction to this son or was the problem more insidious, a rotting root in her life, in her marriage that she never picked up on until after the fact?
Michelle from the future could never find the answer to these questions, instead boiling the act down to a lapse of judgement, a moment miscalculated.
Michelle of the present stood in front of the open window nude, conscious of her stretch marks around her waist, of her perceived misshaped breasts, of the fact her pubic hair was untouched and untamed – and yet, Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood defiant to her thoughts, stood exposed to this son, for reasons she would never quite fully understand.
There was a pressure forming in her chest as she stood in front of the window. It knotted its way around her organs, twisting and turning and burning. Any minute, Michelle thought, I could breathe and my ribcage could snap in half.
Her breasts, the only things she could find that she liked second to her eyes, only added to that pressure from where they rested.
Through the window, the teenager stood watching, his chest as still as the bed next to him.
In a heartbeat, he removed his shirt. Michelle cast her eyes to the bathroom, her breathing kicking into gear, her hands starting to tremble, something whispering into her ear to look up. She did.

He was unzipping his jeans and tossing them aside.
It had been quite some time since Michelle had seen another person’s penis.
It was semi-hard, still reaching its full length.
From where Michelle stood, she could see a faint fuzz of pubic hair.
Trimmed, she thought, unable to move her eyes from looking through the window at it.
As Michelle regarded the head – smooth, large, uncircumcised (she knew, as Sebastián’s was) – she found her mouth strangely salivating. She could feel a little bit of saliva pooling in her mouth and with that realisation, her cheeks burned as if blasted from the sun.
Yet despite the heat radiating outward from her cheeks, something was drawing Michelle along to touch herself. A maddening itch pulsating out across her body, screaming for help. An ache so distracting that Michelle stopped her travelling hands to pinch her stomach, where her stretch marks left reminders of an age long past, just to feel something.
A pinch of bite-sized pain didn’t help the ache; it only brought it to the forefront of her mind.
Before her, He had gripped his cock, finding rhythm.
Michelle found the pinpoint of her ache, her clit, and began to trace her fingers along gently. How long it had been since she masturbated, since she came, she had not known. Days? Weeks? It was without Sebastián though, that much she knew.

Her fingers slid down her slit while her thumb-applied pressure on her clit, just the way she liked it.
She had a toy, she thought in that moment, hidden in the second drawer beside the bed in the bedroom, but she couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to. Her body was frozen; her eyes glued to how He was massaging his cock, bringing his hands over the shaft upwards then back down.
His eyes were open, watchingher intently, scanning downwards over her exposed body to her hands.
One hand lifted instinctively to her right breast, rolling her nipple between her thumb and index finger. This happened in almost of an unconscious state, as Michelle watched the hypnotic movements of the teenager’s hands across his cock.

Her mind caught up to her act when her nipple was stretched to her limits, her breast taking shape with the pull from her hand, stretching outwards the window.
Whatever possessed her to reach across to the bath beside her and pull up the hairpins she left for her own bath time, she did not know. But before she could find a reason, any reason, they were attached to both of her nipples, digging in tightly, like a fingernail pressing downwards into flesh.
This must’ve excited the teenager, for his rhythm quickened. His cock, now fully hard and held tightly, throbbed in his palm.

How long they watched each other, him teasing himself, massaging, pulling, stretching, her teasing, circling, pulling at her lips, Michelle did not know, nor did she care to know. She needed to come desperately, her body covered in a thick layer of sweat, the room boiling even in the soft glow.
The teenager tensed, his body coming to a screeching halt. Michelle could hear his stifled moans as his cock, jerking on its own upright, vein down the shaft throbbing, ejaculated.
At that precise moment, Michelle couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t tease any longer, she slid two fingers inside herself. Her body seized into a spasm, her orgasm crashing over her warm and dizzying and ferocious.
An image came to her in the throes of pleasure, crawling up to him on her knees to suck the come coated cock of his just to taste him, but the thought was soon washed away with another feeling. Guilt.

Shakily, she closed the bathroom window and pulled the blinds down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Can You Tell If You’re Dominant Or Submissive?

Ladies and gents, I’m kinda stumped.

Early in the week, I was talking to a lady about how to implement kink into her marriage with her husband, when she ran a question by me – How do you know if you’re Dominant?

I answered that question best I could in the moment, running my own experiences with identifying the feeling by her, hoping it would connect somehow. But now, days later, I’m still thinking it over. I don’t really know HOW. It all seems so organic looking back.

I have also recently had someone ask me If they’re still fully submissive if they enjoy being bratty – there’s a lot of misunderstanding about the persona and how it applies to the individual.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot of confused and alone people out there with a laundry list of questions and no one to ask. I’m more than happy to answer anything anyone has to ask, be you male, female, teenager, adult, new to the lifestyle or in the middle of a transformation or even someone with an inkling of kinkling.

Anyway, I thought I would try to the answer the question at length, hoping newcomers to BDSM might relate and it can help them in their own journey.

In the beginning, I had these feelings that I had understanding of. I didn’t know I could file my name calling under ‘Degradation and Humiliation’ nor did I understand why I was so interested in control – in exercising authority over my girlfriend. In these stages, there was no real sense of D/s and aftercare because I was immature and these feelings were immature and coarse and unrefined.

Before I continue, let me just write that there’s no absolute way for one person. Everyone is different and works differently.

I should say that my own development has come with a certain degree of blind luck. I met certain people at the right time in my life, people like me, through Fetlife or the semi-sketchy anonymous confessional app Whisper. I was a lucky bastard. I had the blessing of shaping who I was through encounters along my twenties.

Fetlife was a big player in my path, I would say. By signing up and looking around, I could see I wasn’t alone. I could even put a name to my kinks and thus have some semblance of understanding.

Google helped too, in a way, acting as a gateway to all sorts of media – books, images, blogs, people, Kink. Suddenly I knew of words like ‘Dominance’ and ‘submission’ and ‘dynamic’. Combine this with Fetlife and I had opportunities to feel the gravitational force to someone who was submissive. I’m talking, heart racing, cock hardening, breath quickening gravitational forces that helped me realise something was within me.

I know what you’re wondering. ‘Okay, but how does someone know if they’re dominant? Or even submissive?’

The best advice I can give is that it starts with an idea. Have a google of key concepts that come to mind when you think of BDSM – blindfolding, handcuffs, dirty talk. Start small. See if something strikes up your fancy.

If you want to reach deeper, have a look at concepts within a D/s relationship, such as setting tasks and rules and maintaining order. See if any of these concepts appeal to you on a base level. Try not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information – there can be a lot to learn but you can easily break it up into easily digestible parts.

Start small. Start light. A bit of spanking, a bit of issuing commands – talk to your partner about what they would like to try and see if it strikes a chord with you on any level.

The last advice I can give is to be open to yourself and to your partner. That goes for likes and dislikes and even if you’re uninterested. But always be open to trying at least. You never know what you’ll find on the road less travelled.

To Stand Fully Nude In The Wild

The feeling of peeling off your clothes – your shirt, your pants, your layers – and standing still naked.

The feeling of stepping out into the evening – to feel the gentle wind skim across your chest, to feel the rain strike your skin, splashing, marking your body. To feel it lash out across the length of my cock, igniting the senses.

To feel the earth between your toes, the grass at your feet, the pulse of the world around you. To feel connected with something greater.

The feeling of the need to scream, to let out every moment – the anguish, the rage, the hurt, the sad, the joy, the want, the need.

Maybe that’s why I have grown to become a primal being. To process the things I can’t articulate despite the best of my abilities, to feel some semblance of normality and that I’m not utterly alone as I can feel. To find some meaning to my anxious mind, to understand it.

Me, Nudity & Mental Health

The other day I saw a scene in a tv show in which a child, maybe 13 at most, sitting in the bathroom talking animatedly to his mother while she bathed and it got me thinking.

I never had that open relationship with nudity in my family. Even being shirtless in the present makes my family seem to cringe – and it’s weird to me.

Did this lead to an unhealthy view point on nudity? I don’t recall any old world biblical lessons on keeping my clothes on, but I don’t remember a whole lot of discussion about freedom on the subject either.

I felt being nude was wrong, even in the privacy of my bedroom. I felt swimming naked was wrong, running in the woods naked was wrong – but I did it anyway, was drawn to it – not because of the wrongness I feel but because I merely wanted to.

I feel a bit blah about my body now, but that’s age catching up to me. That’s my lifestyle. I still wander my home naked and I encourage my lady to as well.

What would my life or mindset be like if I was exposed to nudity, or a more liberated lifestyle by my parents?

I’d like to think that if I had children – and don’t sentences like these go down well with actual parents! – I’d be less restrictive with my children to a certain extent and age.

A recurring aspect in this community I have found is a link between low self esteem and discomfort being nude at all. Is this a case of upbringing or the things I experience as I’ve gotten older – age catching up to us?

As a Mentor, I’ve helped some grow a bit more confident in their naked bodies and for that I am glad. Focusing on the positive is a wonderful thing and can bring up about a delightful lightness.

I’ll never know the answers to any of the questions I’ve asked in this ramble. I suppose that’s another one of life’s unsolved mysteries. And that’s okay, each day I’m naked as a way to live freely and lightly and I’ll forever remind anyone struggling with their own worth to do the same.

Longing: A Freeform Something

She felt a longing.

She felt a longing she couldn’t describe.

Could anyone understand her?

Could anyone standing It?

Whenever she’d open her mouth,

To speak about what it meant

To her

To be free

To be wild

To feel the grass weaving on the inside of her thigh and realise it would itch her later and to not care, no not at all.

How do you communicate that to someone?

How do you speak?

How do you write?

What words do you use?

A house isn’t a home until you make it a home but what if a home isn’t her home?

What if the forest is her home?

What if the long blades of grass nestled her at back, and the long blades reaching out to glide across every inch of her body, what if that was her home?

There, surrounded by the grass, cared for by the Earth.

How do you even tell someone that?

How can you show someone that?

Is she the only one out there to be caressed by the Earth, to feel the grass across her bare body?

How can she talk of nudity, wide eyed manic pixie girl that she seems, without catching a label or too?

Would anyone ever understand that stab of frustration, pulsating, slithering through her body, at the sheer thought of wearing clothes?

Do people think, when they shop, of how they’d like to tear off every piece of clothing because it burns?

Do they look at the faceless crowd and see something in there, maybe wonder, if there is another like them?

She thought of all this and more,

Lying in the field,

nude body protected by grass,

An organic force field just for her

And felt that longing.