All I Want

There’s passion to be found, not in action but expression.

My hands claw her side, tear her leggings, expose her flesh, leaves marks in her flesh – thin red streaks across her hips.

I don’t care about Force. I don’t care it’s the coffee table, I don’t care about anything.

All I want, for eternity, is to press my cock against the curves of her ass and come to a rhythm built only for us.

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Delight and Decay

She doesn’t just slink out of her work uniform and become a piece of meat.

There is so much there to her – on the surface. Underneath.

Underneath, she is everything. Bare and exposed and yet calm, confident. Collected. Cool. Strong.

More than a temple, more than an image of the Gods, in all her power and presence, she is someone. An individual. A vessel harbouring the mind. Intelligence developed throughout the years, possessing wisdom, compassion, light and darkness. Wit and wrath, love and intoxication. Delight. Decay.

She is all of this, and much more. And she may never know.

Penny

Nineteen year old Penny stands quietly in her bedroom adorned with posters of The Doors, wearing a thin grey singlet top and nothing else.

Her dark blonde hair is untied, reaching back down to the tips of her shoulder blade.

The room is low lit – her small white lamp sits on an old chest of drawers covered with gothic romances and old fairytales.

There is no sound in this room – she’s stopped her run of Love Her Madly, per the request of her mother, who is heading to bed. On top of that, she should really be studying for her psychology exam tomorrow anyway.

The temperature in the room is just right, a blend of warm with the slightest hint of a breeze.

The breeze, of course, tickles the back of her legs and skims across her inner thigh. She can feel the breeze where she has shaven herself.

From the study table to her left, a brown, ancient thing that has been in the family for decades, she grabs her metal ruler. The sharp edges scrape across the inside of her hands.

As she steps to her double bed that fits snuggly in the corner, she absent-minded slaps the metal ruler against her lightly tanned ass to the rhythm of Love Her Madly.

In a heartbeat, everything she had been thinking about – tomorrow, exams, Jim Morrison – disappears. All that remains is the feeling of the metal ruler against her ass. That cold slight sting.

Penny is standing in the middle of the room, her shadow quivering, as of coming to life on its own. Like electricity, the idea hits her and sizzles it’s way down her body in one pulsating sweep.

Smack. It happens sudden.

The cold hits — then gives way to pain.

Smack. More stinging. This time the ruler scraped at her skin.

The thick sound of the ruler on her right cheek fires off amidst the silence.

THWAP! SMACK!

Another, and another.

Chills race down from the beads of sweat on her forehead to her nipples hardening underneath her singlet.

She can feel her pussy tingle with each smack. And with each smack, the sting begins to throb.

When she’s done with her backside, she’ll work on her front.

SMACK!

Penny shifts gears, the ruler comes down in a series of strikes, one after the other, the rhythm akin to an old Slayer tune – thrash on her skin. Smacksmacksmacksmacksmack.

It begins to overwhelm her, transporting her mind to a haven she’s only seen in the patterns when she closes her eyes.

There’s nothing out there but her amongst the void – her striking her ass.

Each strike is a pulse only she can hear, a reminder to chant low and meditate. She’s losing ground, her feet slipping.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

She can smell her own scent.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

Penny stifles her cries,

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘What the bleeding ‘ell are you doing, Penelope?’ Her mother asks groggily through the door.

Penny almost trips but rights herself, finding solid ground. She roses the metal ruler on her bed.

‘Just..uh…nothing’

‘Right. Well. Stop doing nothing.’

Penny listens but her mother says no more. One second more and footsteps begin to fade. Penny gets back to studying.

To Those Suffering: You Are Not Alone. You Are Not A Freak.

Browsing my Tumblr, I came across a link in my feed that featured the intriguing concept of a suicide hotline but in text, for those with anxiety when it comes to using the phone and talking.

And I was inspired to write.

When I was a teenager, I was dealing with anxiety before I even fully understood what it meant to have an anxiety disorder.

I would obsess on details, go around in circles on every minute detail, convinced I had missed the point, when in actual fact I was driving myself to madness.

My sexuality is something I’d obsessed about. I had all these feelings I couldn’t understand – I enjoyed being naked, which, coming from a household where being shirtless as a man was something my family would scoff at, meant I’d harboured ill thoughts about myself.

I had a significantly high sex drive, often indulging in the sensualities of pleasure. And on top of all that, I had started to be drawn towards the darker things, the animalistic things, and I had no idea why.

Every time I got the courage to try and talk to someone about it, either a girlfriend or via some age old chatroom, my nerves fell apart.

And who could I talk to? I had friends but then we were of an age where kink was the underlying butt of a joke – Sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains excite me.

I self-harmed. I don’t know why. To make sense of it all, to feel something. I still have the scars. I still can hear the sound of my skin popping beneath the blade I used – and I’m ashamed. I cringe now. That was me? That lost, foolish guy?

This wasn’t the right way, it wasn’t who I am, but I didn’t know what way was right.

People of all ages read my blog. I’m grateful for that, I welcome that. I never thought I’d amount to much on a blog, let alone have people write in. Yet they do.

I know teenagers read my blog. I occasionally get an email from some.

I don’t judge their experiences. Or their age. We were like them once and I’ll do all I can if it means I help just one person.

But to adults and teenagers alike, let me say this: You are not alone, you are not a freak. The anxious thoughts you grapple with will pass in time, this I can promise you.

I know it will feel like nothing can ever get better, I know it’ll feel like today your life will never be the same again – but it will.

It might not be today. It might be here tomorrow. But it will fade and you will feel yourself again.

We are not mad for being sensual beings, we are not freaks. We are a select few who choose to explore the other parts of our minds that some are too scared to unlock and explore, our of fear they’ll find something they cannot accept.

If you’re worried about anyone judging you – think on this: Those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. If you lose anyone if or when you reveal this other side to you, it’s on them and definitely not on you. Do you understand?

Lastly, I know I’m some guy on the Internet, on a BDSM blog about Valkyries and kink and warped Disney stories – but if ever that anxiety becomes soul crushing, if you’re friends and family seem to bear a weight down upon you, if you find yourself feeling like the world is going to end tonight, please – write to someone. Yourself, closest friend or family member, me.

As a stranger, I’m happy to help you carry the load. You’re not alone. You’re not a freak.

Causality, Sexuality and Fate

If you’ve clicked on this article looking for any definite answers, you’ve arrived at the wrong place. But what led you here, right now, to this very blog? What was it about this headline that caught your eye? What led you to open this?

A simple answer would be to say that our individual development and backgrounds lead us to develop into the person we are in this very moment. But is there something more to all of this? Is there something underlying each point of our lives, arriving precisely when we need it to?

Before I move on to exhibits as examples into my mindset tonight, I should preface this by saying I’m a religious man. I was raised catholic in a conservative household – I did my communion, I attend Palm Sunday – I did the whole she-bang.

In my adult life, its complicated – I don’t attend mass, but I believe in something bigger than me. I eat meat when I’m not supposed to and I blaspheme more than I should.

I link the rituals and worshiping of some D/s practices to a religious experience, though don’t take that as meaning I believe I am a God. I’m just a guy writing a draft on his phone at 2-30am.

But I digress.

Exhibit A: Berserk, Vol. 18

In this sequence from the manga Berserk, a woman follows her fellow prostitute, in the dead of the night, to a pagan orgy. She then proceeds to punish her. The more dominant one then apologises, embracing the younger one.

It’s a twisted act and comes straight after a mind-melting sequence that’s all sorts of body horror, but therein lies the interesting aspect.

Why does it arouse me?

Okay, sure, it’s one woman spanking another. That’s the simplest explanation but it’s also the most unsatisfying one.

See, it takes a certain mind to go from horror to arousal. Those are two completely different tones. And in this sequence, even the spanking comes with a deep characterisation and a vague sense of WTF.

So what led me to Berserk, this ultra violent manga? That was it a dark fantasy and horror.

Okay, but what led me to horror? And why is it I too can shift gears from dark and disturbing to sexual arousal.

Every good horror knows how to utilise tension. There’s the build up and release and a time to catch your breath. Is this piece executing that concept or is it merely setting up a character interaction later on? I don’t know. Is it the build up of horror lead me to want a release? Or is it merely the characters in that specific setting?

Was there some kind of otherworldly force leading me to Berserk from the very beginning, events that led me to horror to fantasy to dark sexual adventures?

And why is it my individual development lead to an interest in horror? What was it that led to an interest in darker things? And did my darker things lead to my interest in kink and BDSM? I could even take this one step further —ay hello again!

And all of THAT led to this very moment, to me writing this, to me reading Berserk. To the sexual gratification.

Exhibit B: Horror Movies

Halloween and Friday the 13th popularised, if not established, this sex-and-Death aspect in slasher films.

I mean, you know about the sex-equals-Death rule. We won’t touch that. What’s the correlation between sex / nudity and creative murder sequences? And why is it sensual? I’m not talking about the murder OR the death sequences themselves. I’m talking about the lead up to it? Is it just danger? Does it fulfil some deeply primal feeling of lust? Why is one always around the other? Has it become tradition for sex to find death or is there something else?

In some cases, the movie can lead the viewer to form their own fantasy about being stalked. In this case, it is interesting to note that this can take the form of the primal / prey identification in our sexual lives.

A cynic would say – these are just slasher films featuring teens set to appeal to a teen demographic – but the idea is there. And furthermore, how many people find it arousing or are drawn to this idea that it’s appealing? Let’s watch a slasher film – there’ll be tits and death! The men have the nakedness, the women have…errr…a cute guy?

Okay. So it’s appealing to the teen male demographic? That can’t be. I am a part of horror communities where the ladies enjoy it just as much as men – my kitten included.

So where’s the link?

And furthermore, has all our lives been building to this one moment – you reading my blog, me writing this blog, you and I watching horror movies, maybe even finding the same image sensual. Why? And how many people within BDSM are horror fans? I know enjoying kink doesn’t automatically make you a horror fiend. But I do wonder if one leads to the other? And why it came to either of those leads?

For the Teens…

Occasionally a teen will write me and mention they’re scared of their own mind. Well, ladies or gentlemen – if you’re of the teenage variety and have made it this far, let me tell you – we can be attracted to darker fantastical impulses and that can be completely fine. It doesn’t mean we are going crazy, it’s not a sin or something to shy from.

As long as you practice safety first and foremost with these fantasies, you should be fine.

And if you ever think you’re in the bad, know I’m the guy aroused by fantastical pagan orgies. You’ll be fine!

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #2: Silent Night

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Rachel watched herself in the mirror as she shakily undid her plain black bra, watching it as it fell at her feet and revealed her breasts, red splotches covering her areola and nipples.

“Jesus” She let out in a hoarse whisper, and felt a stab of guilt as she did so, given the circumstances.

Despite all this, her cunt was still alive and on fire, pulsating to its own rhythm, something Rachel wasn’t in tune to. It scared her. She wanted no part in it.

Yet as she peeled off her panties, emerald satin with fine black lace detailing around the edges, she could smell the strong aroma of her cunt.

It was so strong it almost made her gag, not for distaste but because her own scent was intense. She could count on one hand the times she had witnessed that, and she didn’t care to count them out right now.

Rachel needed to shower, scalding hot or freezing cold, both were acceptable. Anything to shake the uneasy feeling that what she had done was wrong, terribly wrong.

But all she could think of was laying back on the bed behind her and finishing what she had started. She could watch herself, which was something she had wanted to do but felt weird about it. Narcissistic. She would only point out the flaws in her body anyway, right?

Well, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to watch her fingers glide over her wet slit and slide –

 

It was the middle of summer and yet when Rachel stepped out of the car alongside her family, steam escaped her lips as she let out a sigh.

When she agreed to make the nine-hour drive from Melbourne to Sydney, she thought she would just be spending time with her family.

Yet somewhere between the first and ninth hour of the drive, the thought did occur to her: Mum is going to make me go to Christmas Mass.

It was, after all, her mother’s tradition. Family, even. Rachel’s mother and father were raised Catholic and so raised their three children, Rachel, Louise and May, in their image.

The thing about growing up Catholic though, you merge with the thoughts of the world. You develop a mind of your own. You start to wonder about how and why and why not and before long, you’re agnostic.

Rachel never wanted to go to Mass. She wanted to just soak in the hot tub and read and not even think about Jesus Christ or our sins.

But when she ran the idea by her mum, and when her mum said, with a roll of the eye – something none too subtle and obviously meant to be taken to heart by Rachel – that she was an adult and can do her own thing, Rachel know then that she was trapped. Her mum – excellent at the guilt trip.

 

So Rachel donned the least offensive thing in her wardrobe, something that wasn’t a dress with zombies on it or skeletons or her beloved Pacman dress. She donned a simple black dress, elegant and tasteful. It ran to her knees, didn’t show any leg or breasts or anything the churchgoers or Jesus might find offensive. She even wore tasteful panties without really knowing why she bothered to wear tasteful panties in the first place.

Does God find Poison Ivy and Batgirl panties bad taste? What about Tinkerbell? She does look like a harlot..

Whatever God’s tastes were, Rachel and her family walked into the church in complete silence.

 

It would be odd to say that the church is an ancient thing, considering most are, but it is – it has sat on the corner of the Western Suburbs of Sydney since 1989, when she was a small child. She had her communion here, she was baptised here, and the same old priest that took her confession after she was caught masturbating in the toilets by Miss Fletcher in grade six was still tending to the local flock at the ripe age of 400.

 

Save for a few rows at the front of the hall, the church was unusually empty this Christmas Eve. The times that Rachel had been, the church stalls were packed to the brim and people who came too late to grab a seat stood in lines with their backs against the walls.

 

Rachel found herself supressing a smirk. Everyone had the same idea it seems, thought she, as she followed her Mum into the Church stall.

Thin padded cushions lined the Church stall seats, though it should be said that that didn’t really help at all. Rachel could feel the wood beneath her, rubbing her boylegs into the curves of her ass.

“Jesus” Rachel whispered as she swung her knees to the right to reposition herself.

It was only when she had grown comfortable again that she noticed her mum, sitting across from May, glaring across the stall at her. She heard me blaspheme, Rachel said, I know she did.

 

Her mother didn’t pass on a message back to Rachel; however, she merely glanced coldly at her.

What more does she want, thought Rachel, I am here instead of listening to the crickets and relaxing.

Then the Mass began and Grandfather Priest waddled to the centre of the altar looking like Death itself. He already had the skeletal outline, thin wisps of facial hair on his chin and looked fragile. All he needed was a scythe.

His voice sounded more fragile than he looked, like somebody at the end of his rope, as he struggled to get out the greeting.

Rachel felt cruel to snicker, but the snicker came all the same to her.

That was when her mother leant across May to tap her on her shoulder.

“Honestly, Rachel, you’re 19. Act like it.”

Rachel thought she was.

 

The last Christmas Eve Mass Rachel attended, she was 17. Still in secondary college – or High School. Back then, living under her parent’s roof, she had to. But now, living out of home, finding her own way in life, even if that was working at the local cinema, she didn’t have to sit through the mind-numbing event. She didn’t have to feel bad yawning during prayer.

Something tickled her ankle and Rachel flinched, to the surprise of her family squished around her.

Rachel caught the eye of her mother – cold as ice – and ignored trying to figure out just what those eyes were saying. Something had brushed past her leg.

I did, came a voice. Smooth. Gentle.

Rachel could hear it but not see it. She turned around to see if her family had seen – but their eyes were forward listening to Father Death.

Down here.

Rachel looked down and saw two golden eyes the size of pebbles and barely visible in the darkness of the space underneath.

Don’t scream.

The serpent coiled into the light, wrapping itself around Rachel’s leg and squeezing gently.

Rachel, it hissed. O Rachel, your mind is running, sweet child.

Rachel looked to her family, who didn’t notice her. Even her mother was looking forwards, eyes serene.

 

The pale green snake reached her knee, its golden eyes watching her closely.

Rachel felt hypnotised by its gaze, as if she was falling into a dream.

That was it, she thought, I am asleep. I had fallen asleep during prayer.

Doubtful.

The snake’s voice was in her head, its voice oddly calming.

It slithered under her dress. She could feel its oily skin against her bare thigh.

In all the worlds, in all of rhyme, spin and seek and fear the chime.

Rachel could feel the snake slither across her cunt, could feel the tickle of its body against her skin.

In all of the worlds, each one is the same, you see. And you, O Rachel, are the same in all of the worlds.

Rachel tried to speak but all that came out was a whimper through trembling lips.

She felt violated as the snake began to slither up her stomach, next stop – breasts.

Rachel went to stand up, but the snake hissed beneath her dress. She could see it move in a wave, zigzagging across her chest, which tightened with every chest.

Do not move.

Rachel wanted to ask why her, but the words never came. If she moved quickly enough, she could grip the snake from her body and squeeze it till it popped, but would it bite her first? And why could no one see this happening?

Her family rose and repeated the prayer that Father Death had spilled from his elderly lips. No one seemed to mind that Rachel did not move, not even her mother, whose face no longer registered cold.

Rachel felt the snake move across the curves of her breasts and let out a whimper, it sounded deep and unlike her. The sound frightened her more so.

When the snake coiled itself out the top of her dress and around Rachel’s neck, Rachel was shaking like a leaf. The sudden urge to urinate hit her then, and she struggled to keep it back.

 

She could feel the snake move behind her neck, brushing her auburn hair as it slinked its way across her left shoulder to in front of her face, where it watched her with those haunting golden eyes.

For fifteen agonizing seconds, the snake gazed at Rachel and Rachel gazed at the snake, all of a sudden feeling that summer heat on her neck and cheeks.

The pale snake then slithered back around her neck and feeling its absence, Rachel turned to see it slither into the next Church stall and away from view.

Rachel went to let out a cry, to let out a sob. All that came out was air.

 

A gust of wind struck her fiercely, knocking her head back against the Church stall seats hard, sending pain running through her entire her body.

Though the pain soon subsided, leaving through the tips of her toes, a gentle breeze remained, running against her back.

Rachel looked down and saw her own nude body. Horror washed over her, warm and unrelenting. Panic gripped her throat as she tried to scream.

Not one soul in the church looked at her, all eyes were forward.

The breeze was all around her now, on the tips of her nipples, at her bare shaven cunt. It slithered, just like the pale snake, across her arms and down her legs.

Rachel looked forward to see that Father Death’s gaze was directly upon her.

Rachel realised he had just finished his sentence, as faces began to turn to look at her in all directions.

Even her family looked back at her, eyes warm and accepting.

Rachel looked from her family to Father Death, her words catching in her throat. She choked on their sounds.

Father Death extended one skeletal and withered hand in the air and that’s when the churchgoers rose again.

An altar girl appeared from a doorway on the altar. She was a thin, Hispanic woman. Lines of red paint were smeared vertically across her breasts, as if painted hurriedly.

 

That’s when Rachel realised Father Death was pointing towards her. No, at her.

The altar girl turned to look and found Rachel. Even from here, Rachel could see she did not smile; she merely stepped out across the way towards her.

“Well, go on” Said Rachel’s mother, but Rachel just stood there frozen in silent horror, unable to process what was happening.

The altar woman made her way to Rachel, stopping on the outside of the church seats. She kneeled, her breasts swaying before Rachel’s face as she leant down.

Rachel found her sharp brown eyes and slender face beautiful.

When Rachel’s mother gently shoved her, the Hispanic woman rose to catch Rachel in her arms so she did not fall. Rachel found her face nestled in the woman’s small breasts, smelling the strong smell of paint.

 

In complete silence, as the church hymn Silent Night was sung by the churchgoers, Rachel was led to the front of altar. Goosebumps formed across her arms and her hard frozen nipples ached.

Behind her, the churchgoers began to form in a single line, their head bowed quietly as they sang to themselves.

Rachel wanted to scream at them, for someone to help. But nothing came out except tears from her eyes.

When she reached Father Death, she recoiled from him. Up close he reeked of wine and sweat, even with his head bowed down as he himself sang.

The Hispanic altar girl turned to face Rachel now, and Rachel saw that in one hand she had a small bucket and in the other hand a paintbrush. She moved towards her.

“No,” Father Death said gently. “After.”

The Hispanic woman bowed and placed the items back on the altar. Rachel watched all this with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Eyes forward, Child. You have been touched”

Before Rachel could speak or ask why, the Hispanic woman, who now stood besides her, singing quietly to herself, turned her head forward.

 

The line of churchgoers had become two. The line to Rachel’s left lead to the Hispanic woman, whose pale arms rested behind her buttocks.

Rachel watched as the first person in the line to the Hispanic woman, a woman that looked to be in her thirties, knelt before her.

“The body of Christ” said the Hispanic woman.

“Amen” replied the woman, her eyes large and eager.

When the woman inched forward and lowered herself on the Hispanic woman’s cunt, suckling gently, Rachel’s arms and legs fell limp. The anxiety that was bubbling in her stomach drove its way up her throat.

She finally found the strength within herself to scream before something struck her from behind and then she only knew darkness.

 

Rachel woke to a start, gasping, catching glances from her family around her.

When the priest said ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord’, Rachel was the first to rise from where she stood and the first to leave the church.

 

Rachel sat on the edge of her bed, her hair strewn across her face, hands between her legs, fingers dripping with her excitement. She held in her gasps as she furiously drove herself to orgasm.

Behind her, coiling along her bed, the pale snake hissed and spoke aloud you are lost within a dream, child.