12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #5: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

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My hand is clasped around the chain that clings to her leash, our leash. The one we picked out together.

She stood before me, dressed down in all of the ways; pink splotches covered her nipples where I had smacked her gently moments ago. Her face wears a frown.

She had on her heel boots, the one she wore to work this morning. This much I let her do.

 

Maybe she had a rough day at work, we all have rough days at work, but I did warn her. Gently.

I told her that her sass has no place at the dinner table.

For whatever reason, she chose to ignore that reason.

This act wasn’t a mistake, an error in judgment, no she knew the rules – we went over them by candlelight the night I claimed her in the great storm of 2016. Every detail, every loophole, every reason was covered. If I made a mistake, she corrected me. If she made a mistake, I corrected her. And tonight, well tonight she was at fault.

 

I must admit, when I told her her punishment and a hint of fear flickered in her eyes, there was a little tickle deep down in my cock. My love, ever smart and anticipating, caught unaware.

‘Baby, it’s cold outside’ she said, slipping into her baby girl mode instantly.

‘You should’ve thought of that, my sweetling’ I replied.

 

Her frown as she undressed, lifting her floral dress overhead and tossing it to the floor to reveal today’s underwear – a black strapless bra and rainbow panties, laced with black lace on the outskirts of the fabric – made me grin. I could feel that side coming out of me then. The primal side. The sadistic side. The Master was meeting the Daddy half way and merging.

 

‘Leave the boots’ I said. ‘We can’t have your feet frozen’

She looked at me venomously but I did not relent. A punishment is a punishment, which is the nature of the beast.

 

In silence I fitted her collar around her, the one she wears at home once she slips into her around-the-house clothes, and in silence I led her outside.

 

My heart began to flutter. Would there be people walking their dogs tonight? It was 7-30pm; the sun was yet to set. It was certainly likely.

 

I moved ahead of her, keeping my hand back, forcing her to walk behind me. That was how you kept Dominance with pups’ right? And tonight, she was my little puppy.

 

We turned the corner and began to walk down Lavender Street. Suburbia was quiet. No domestic arguments, no dogs barking or cats fighting. It’s as if the neighborhood knew the punishment as well. Perhaps that was true. If it weren’t by now, it certainly would be soon.

 

I looked back at my little puppy. Her little pixie hair was an auburn tangle, her green eyes fierce and fixed on me. I kept my gaze until she broke it, looking down at her feet. Not something we practiced, but I didn’t raise it at that point in time. I would carry out the punishment before I showed any warmth.

 

With her eyes down, I looked down at her body. They were covered with Goosebumps, prickles all over her arms and breasts. Her small breasts in the moonlight took on an ethereal form. She is my angel, she always will be. I hope she remembers that.

In that moment, I wanted to lower my mouth onto her hard pink nipples. Perhaps my saliva would make her cold but hopefully the warmth that comes from such an action might counteract such coolness.

 

Nevertheless, I strayed my mouth. This was a punishment after all – and I will fulfill it. Around the block, was the full punishment. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

The weather tonight was a cool 16 degrees Celsius. There was a bite to the air and a gentle breeze that traveled up my spine every so often. The primal being within me chuckled at the idea of it affecting my little puppy. I felt strange for the feeling, a pang of guilt hit me, but I shook the thought before it could spread like an illness through my mind.

 

The sweet and heavenly image of her bare ass, pale and covered in goosebumps, brought me back from the darkness – and I found myself smiling.

 

I looked back at her, my little puppy, which cast her eyes down at the ground as she walked along behind me, the chain rattling as we moved.

 

We turned the corner – another right. Just another right at the end of this street and we’ll be back on the street we live in. I’ll turn on the heater; I’ll let her pick a movie.

 

Behind her, my little puppy kept her arms by her legs. Her mound was neatly trimmed. I wonder if I should ask her to style a new design for me. What would she say? How would she feel? Hm.

 

She felt my gaze and looked up at me, and in that moment something seized my chest. What I said about her being an angel, something ethereal, was genuine. But in the light of the dim streetlight, she looked mythical. It gave me chills and I wanted to kiss her there and then. I could’ve very easily taken her, lying her down on what could be the wet grass and slide into her just to hear her deep grunts. Something about that was so….there is no decent word.

 

There came a cough from ahead of us – and my little puppy whined.

With a gentle tug of the chain, she began moving again.

When a woman and man came into view, walking their lab, the woman let out a noise signifying distaste. The yellow lab bounded over to us, eager to sniff my little puppy’s body. For a second, I was eager to let it. But the couple, their faces twisting into snarls in the night, wheeled the lab back and quickened the pace. My little pup and I kept moving.

 

Shortly, we arrived back m out the front of our house, my little pup close behind me, her frozen hands on her body as I turned the key in the door and stepped inside.

 

I ran her a bath, hot but not scalding, hoping it would bring her back into our realm, back into our house.

 

As she slid down into the bath, sighing as steam rose off her mythical body, she whispered low and wavering. I didn’t catch what she said and I didn’t ask her to repeat it, I let her bask in the warmth.

 

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The Work Of Gods


‘The Mother and Father made us in their image. We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of Gods.”

– A Dance With Dragons, Tyrion IV

Apart from being rich in imagination and vast in entertainment and scope, fantasy – or should we say George R. R. Martin – has some wealth of information you can seek out.

Not that you probably need reminding in this here blog – I like to promote self-love in all its manifestations like it was religious. Boil it down to a dogged mind and a persistence in disciplining the mind – and hopefully that of the mind of you, Dear reader. 

Regardless, Martin said it better than me.

‘We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of Gods’. It’s a powerful sentence, isn’t it?

The work of Gods. 

The scene from the novel describes a Septa – clergy women in the world of the novel who are ‘sworn to celibacy, sometimes serving noble houses as governesses and tutors to the daughters of lords, teaching them in matters of etiquette and history and activities such as sewing…’ (Taken from the Game of Thrones wiki page) – as she uncharacteristically undressed in front of someone for her morning bath and ritual. It’s not a gratuitous scene, it’s not sensationalised, she’s merely bathing. In fact, the scene says more about her as a character and what that will mean in later chapters than anything. 

But back on track…

Sure, we can look down at our bodies and think to ourselves ‘Ha! Cruel Gods, maybe’. But the Gods (or THE God, depending on the individual) surely can only bring us so far. The rest of the way, we have to find ourselves.

For me, the sentence opened my mind. It was a revelation. We are the work of Gods. I like that. The next time I look at the palms of my hand in a quiet evening – or the next time I consider myself lucky to gaze upon my kitten’s freckles in sacred spots no other man will ever witness (For I’ll tear out his throat and shower in his blood), I’ll think on the sentence. The work of Gods. 

We need to think less negative and think more positive. Re-wire our brains to see what’s a value, rather than an exaggerated defect. Love yourself the next time you’re disrobing in front of a mirror. Love yourself the next time you spot a stretch mark, or a freckle. Love yourself even in times of thinking your cock is too small, too big, breasts too lopsided or triangular (unfortunately, in my times of sisters and ex-girlfriends, these words I have heard uttered).

Don’t like your body? Bothered by your pubic hair? (Don’t snicker, it’s a thing) Find a way to improve yourself – so that in your eyes you are Happy and centred. 

For everything else, it’s always a work in progress! 

I Used To Want To Be A Nude Photographer


I used to want to get into nude photography. 
I wasn’t just interested in capturing the bare form of a man or woman though, that didn’t interest me as an artist. 

I wanted to make the piece as much about the setting as it was about her form. I wanted the piece to be as much about her trust to me, and my trust to her as it was about the setting.

I’ve always felt like a director, have always loved films and TV. The technical aspect of it has always enriched my mind and stimulated me mentally.

To that end, I could see myself capturing something other people think is mundane – a woman nude vacuuming. About to step in the shower. Hanging the washing.

I love nature, so I’d have to do a theme and set in nature as well. Maybe back home, where the grass is sun kissed and the forest is overgrown. 
Since I’m a fan of Halloween, a Halloween set would be fun. It could either be campy, like an old William Castle flick, or it could be atmospheric and offbeat.

I do have to stress that it wouldn’t be something as forward and conventional as a Hustler mag. I’d want to build around a concept – but more then that, I’d want something that means something to the model, rather then her purely being an instrument in the process.

As much as she might be my conduit for the art, I would want it to be a collaborative effort. A symbiotic relationship. Something she could be proud of just as much as I would be. 

Whatever we do, the possibilities are endless, really, as I’m always inspired to write or capture something in someway.

The Importance of Being Naked


As you all know, though my blog is BDSM-centric, I also like to talk about the strands of connections surrounding such a BDSM-centric life – and one of these strands is nudity. Or rather being nude.

In searching for a picture for a story, another muse, I came across this article – titled Why My Female Friends Send Me Nudes by one Radhika Sanghani.

Now, I can’t possibly comment on the strand – the tangent strand that is ladies sending each other nudes. I’m not wired that way. But, if you care for it, you’ll find the article goes on to talk about body image and how the nude selfie has become a sort of form of empowerment for women – younger, older – everywhere. 

‘I think for a woman to grow up in our society and get to a place of body acceptance is a success, and I want to share that with my friends’

Writes a friend of the author. And as someone navigates the sometimes choppy waves of the lifestyle, I see this issue of body acceptance pop up quite often. After all, media and society demand we are penthouse-fit love models. And some people are either naturally alternative (meaning goth, emo, pierced or tattooed – or all four!) and some people are just naturally curvy — and this creates a problem.

The article had me thinking, I must admit. I don’t hear a lot about women sharing nudes with each other, not personally, but I see it on WordPress – and there’s Fetlife as well.

Sometimes it’s someone saying ‘this is my first time’, which makes me smile because I know they’ve faced their fears and won. And that is a huge accomplishment in my books.

And then other times, I will get an email from someone expressing their discontent in their bodies and it makes me sad because of the hateful thoughts that come out from within their minds.

Usually I will give them a few exercises they can try to feel more at ease in their skin – things like spending time nude around the house doing vanilla-type things. Cleaning the house, watching a movie. Reading. Things you otherwise might do with clothes on.

I do this because the very act of disrobing is confronting enough. I mean, you can feel it. You’re aware of it. And in time, maybe you can rewrite your brain to accept it and to not be aware. 

Sometimes, the people I give this exercise to find it useful. Sometimes they practice it on their own accord. Sometimes it takes a little more effort from their mind.

The point is – there’s an importance in being nude. It’s our very existence, yeah? The core of all that we are – the avatar we wear through this life.

It’s what our parents tell us is forbidden. It’s what society tells us needs to be better. It’s tied to our way of thinking more than we probably realise – with every little thing – tv and books and  magazines – telling us what is in.

So. If you’re an adult, if you’re a teenager. If you’re living with relatives, mum and dad, roommates. Man. Woman. Boy. Girl. If you’re having a hard time accepting your body – remember: you have the power to change that.

1. If you’re living at home or by yourself, it doesn’t matter – you can find the time to be nude when people are out, when it’s night. Grab yourself a blank exercise book and a pen, journal in the nude. When you look back, you might see the negative way of thinking. You can change how you think!

2. Meditate in the nude. Lay back, close your eyes and feel the world around you. It may sound cheesy – but being use to how you feel can help that inbuilt panicky nature of being absolutely naked.

3. Lastly, take a selfie of your body. Easier said then done, right? Oh I know. When I joined Fet, I tried so many times to take something of myself. I got there in the end, I felt comfortable but I tell you: It’s a long road. 

But in saying that, it gets easier. It may even be arousing.
We owe it to ourselves to love ourselves in this lifetime. It’s all that we have. 

Don’t let the world around you define you. Define yourself. Redefine how you feel. There’s always time.

For anything else, you know where to reach me personally.

 

Manifestation

Do you understand the power of the human mind?Do you understand the strength of that power?

We hallucinate. Our minds play tricks on us. 
When we’re tired, sometimes we conjure up manifestations that aren’t there. Conversations that never happen.
When we wake from our dream, sticky with sweat in the comforting light of day, we are safe from our minds. But at night? At night, you should take heed. Imagination is a magical, unwieldy power. 

So. You can look in my direction, safe with the knowledge you are secure from your lawn opposite the street. You can put your feet up on the couch or lay them across your partner while your babe sleeps. 
You can convince yourself you’re happy with your life, day in day out. Feed yourself, take care of yourself, feed the babe, take care of the babe.

But.

In the dead of the night. When it’s quiet. When not even the crickets will sing for you, find your anchor. Find your safe spot, your warm comfort. Find what light within you that you can.
Because if you think. If you think of me.
I will materialise before you.
Out of the dark, out of the shadows cast by the moonlight that filters in through your window, my form will appear.
And before you can turn on the light, the safe comfort, I will grab you by the ankle and drag you back within my reach. Back into the darkness. 

The more you indulge this thought path, the stronger I grow. 
The stronger I grow, the more I become self-aware. 
When that occurs, where does your original thought, your fantasy, end and my thoughts begin.  

A runaway mind would lead you to having your clothes torn completely off. 
Could you guess that your singlet top and shorties could be peeled off, curled off, torn off, across the room so easily?
Had you wondered how you might scream to your snoring partner who fell asleep on the couch downstairs? Did you wonder how you could even get out a scream? We both know you can’t raise your voice. You were never good at it. 

When you’re on your stomach, completely nude, your hair down and out across your back and past your shoulders, will this be my fantasy? Or yours?
Would my gaze, resting upon your pale bare ass, be your desire? Or mine?
Would your wet cunt, filling the bedroom with its delightful aroma, be offered to me for tribute? 

And when I pull you up to your knees and back into me….when I take your ass….is this a delicious act reserved for me, for us, in this moment? Or a product of a scrapped fantasy, something your boyfriend shows no interest in?

If you think, just for one second, you open the doorway between worlds. 

If you open the doorway between worlds, you run the risk of inviting me into your bedroom.

That power is yours. 

The Mind is Always Evolving


I don’t think there will ever be a time where I’ll stop growing and evolving. Where I will reach the limit of my growth and can say ‘well, I’m definitely into all of these things and kinks, there’s nothing else’.
Though that’s sometimes frustrating, especially when someone asks ‘well, what do you identify as?’ And I have to stumble on my words to say I’m a mix of things, it’s also a thing of beauty. Because there will always be something brand new to discover. 
For example, there’s a huge part of me that identifies with the 19th century gentleman and this unspoken undercurrent of Dominance and submission. Jane Eyre, apart from being a terrific read in general, was deeply erotic for me. 
And I identify with this gentleman because a big part that I’m drawn to is regulation. Polite wording like ‘Pardon me’ instead of ‘huh?’, standing up straight – etiquette like that – it speaks to me.
And there’s so many different nuances to something like that. Chin up, beck straight, hands to the side, hands behind your back, ask for permission to go out with your girlfriends, all these different things that branch off to different concepts and regulations and ways in which the relationship can evolve or adapt.
But then aside from this strict gentleman, or the 1950’s household hybrid of that gentleman, there are the other aspects of my personality that I’ve discovered along the way, the Daddy and the Master.
The Daddy aspect has always been with me, I think, since my early twenties. And as I got older and more at ease with myself, it has been more prominent and refined. I’m sure if I co wrote a blog with my lady, she could vouch for times it comes out – say, if she’s snacking before dinner and I tell her not to, she can hear it in my voice. Or if she’s ill but staying up late. Of if I want to read to her or be by her side when she colours. 
Recently, I’ve felt a different side bubble to the surface that bears similar traits to a Master. This crosses over with the 19th century gentleman, as the concept of setting rules and regulations in a M/s environment with many different concepts also at play intrigues me. But it’s also not quite the dynamic that fits my current relationship, as my kitten and I sit somewhere between the M/s and Daddy / LG concepts. 
It’s weird to explain because the mind shifts at any given moment and borrows traits from established roles. So it’s a mix.
And as such, I think I will always be finding out new things about my mind. Maybe I’ll change. Maybe this relationship will change. The How’s and the Why’s can be pondered all night, and this thought is lengthy enough. 
Bottom line is that I’m always growing and learning and finding new ways to live and play and explore and that’s beautiful. 
How about you, stranger? Are you a mix?

Overactive Imagination


What does it say about my mind, if I ponder a strangers life?

In a second, my mind flashes – and I wonder about their shape, their tastes, their soul, the dark corners of their mind? 

Is it a matter of perversion? Am I THAT guy? The sleaze? Or am I just of a sexual nature, of a curious nature, pondering.
A woman behind the counter smiles, and I think about what that smile might look like years ago. And does she smile, not for me, but for herself when she is alone? 

A dad sternly tells his child to sit still, his wife and he exchange glances. What is their life like away from their kids, behind closed doors?
It isn’t a matter of being a pervert, I don’t think. I just think it’s a heightened sense of thinking. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. I’ve always thought too much and too deeply. 
People’s lives fascinate me. It’s something I love about this blog – hearing from people, getting to know them. Checking my email is exciting for me, though of late, it’s been empty, routinely cleaned. Chat to me? I’m sure I have a marble of knowledge to pass on. Maybe. 
I always feel guilty about thinking too deeply. Like it’s wrong to dig deep, to think about the raw nature of a person. To open that door. 

I’m not gawking at women left right and centre, it’s more that I watch everybody. Women, men, children, families, the middle aged woman behind the counter with the sad smile. Maybe it’s the writer in me?
I was looking at Facebook earlier. A post of a science fiction movie came my way, the image featured a woman, nude, knees bent hiding her breasts and vagina, and my mind skipped to the intensely erotic: 
What if she was held in a pod full of water, breathing through a tube connected from the device to her mouth.
What if there were machines, pulling at her legs, testing her desire, exploiting it. Like she was a pet to an unseen scientist. 

Does my mind always go to the sexual? Sometimes. My wandering mind tends to cross over into my high sex drive. But I guess what it comes down to is that I think too deeply.
And what I wanted to write, as the night heads into the witching hour, was that it’s okay to think deeply, about the people around you, about their minds, dreams, fears, relationships, desires and more. 
I wouldn’t advise going too far down the rabbit hole – unless you’ve got a guide to help you come back to Earth. But is it something you should hide from? Try to repress? 
No. Absolutely not.