Do What Makes You Feel Alive / Late Night Ramblin’

As I sit here, half naked in front of a fan to avoid the scorching Australian summer, half trying to tiredly map out Valhalla chapters, a thought comes to my mind.

I’ve been on my Tumblr, scrolling through my feed, ghosts of stories coming to me from the remnants of safe-for-work semi-sexual pictures and I think to myself – we need to do what makes us happy. We have to be in it, whatever IT is, for ourselves.

I mean, when I was starting out as a Dominant and I was on Fetlife looking for answers, everyone had their own code, built up from whatever they felt right – and that’s fine. Everyone has their own customised role from the pre-established basic rules of BDSM and it’s many dynamics. But I struggled to find what was right for me.

The thing is, you need to – we need to – follow our own hearts and minds and desires and see where that leads, especially when it comes to our interests in BDSM. Sure we might fall. Sure we might hurt ourselves or even someone we love, but if such an event occurs, there is an opportunity to learn from that. And with learning comes growth.

I almost didn’t start this blog you know? I thought for sure that there were other, more experienced people – experienced Dominants, male or female – though I confess, I did initially think ‘experienced dominant males’. I mean, I thought: Oh I’m some joe blow from down under, I’m 26, what do I know? What can I add to the table?’ – I still think this.

I still think – what have I got to offer, even now? After all these years? I don’t know. But I’m not the point – the point is – you can’t think like that. You can’t afford to.

Who cares who is more experienced? We all grow, we all adapt and learn in different ways. At different times. We all bloom as flowers in different seasons – and we all make our own way.

More importantly, our differences are validated and can be thought of as unique. And difference can be beautiful to behold. I know that from learning the slow, slow SLOW way.

So, lurkers and readers I don’t hear from, don’t be too hard on yourself. Don’t compare. Don’t dwell. Try not to ruminate on how others run their lives – you’ll only find that leads to torment. Focus on what makes you laugh, what makes you giddy. What makes you alive.

Goodnight world. Sleep tight.

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 #12 – The Dreamer

They were real to him. Every one of them.

When he slept they knelt by his ear, whispering their wicked delights, lamenting their haunted lives.

They crowded the room, waiting for their time, their chance to speak, to be heard.

When he woke, they appeared before him, always in his bedroom, in his living room, dressed from another life, waiting just for him. Waiting to continue.

When he wrote, they appeared in his dreams, guiding him as their lives fell from their lips in smooth velvet voices.

Their lives, their memories, their existence were as real, as living and breathing and flesh and blood and messy and alive as his existence was.

When he was done, they’d smile and leave the room, out of sight and out of mind, gone but immortalised, leaving room for the next of them to visit.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

30 Days of Kink – Day #30: Free Time to Ponder

Write or create a list of whatever BDSM/kink related thing you want to.

This is it! The last day! And it lands after the beginning of my Christmas themed stories, sorry for that! The last ten days were hard to get out / keep track of!

Anyway, Day 30 is all about free time so what I wanted to do was have this time for anyone to ask any questions, be they about their lifestyle, my lifestyle or just to talk about any stories I’ve written recently. Please don’t be shy, the only silly question is the one not asked.

The other part of Day 30 I wanted to throw out there were things I’d like to try but haven’t yet, for whatever reason.

Now that my lady and I have a place to call our own, I’d like to fully implement pet play into the space. We’ve wanted to play with cages for a while now, we just haven’t had the space until now. So that’s something to work towards.

While I’m on pet play, I would like a honest-to/goodness run. Lungs working overtime, sweat coating my entire body, my heart racing in my ears, pumping that blood, my cock hard from a mix of feelings.

We live in the suburbs so there’s not a whole lot of option to run nude lest I want to end up on the police’s most wanted, heh!

Maybe one day I’ll write a Stepford-Housewives type of story where someone like me discovers this primal underbelly of his neighbourhood and finds a pack in the people around him. Maybe we’re all possessed by the spirit of the country, that could be gold. Maybe my main character will fight the alpha and it’ll end in murder, blood in his mouth, jugular torn out, cock hard. Feral. A mix of savagery and eroticism and just thriller. Annnnyway.

Then there’s the idea of collaborating in erotic art with someone. I like the idea of writing a story with someone of the opposite sex / dynamic, you know? I’ve worked on ideas with kitten in the past – we meld concepts and I do the writing – but I’m always looking for different voices too.

Just Write

So. I just got an email from a reader of my blog and it struck me as sad and it’s for these reasons that I want to write this piece.

If you’re going to write in to me, if you want to write in to me, there’s a couple things I, personally, want you to know and understand.

I’m not as busy as you think. I’m not running around like a headless chook, know that while I may work, I also definitely check my email daily and respond in full as soon as I can.

I don’t respond to emails to be polite to you, to what a reader described as ‘a self proclaimed fangirl’ – I respond because I want to. You must understand, I started this blog not just to share my fantasies and satisfy a part of me, I did it in case it could inspire someone as awkward as I was when I started off.

So I love hearing from people – young, old, male, female, Australian, American, Norwegian – the more the merrier. Language barriers be damned! I love conversing with people and I love talking BDSM and it’s lifestyles.

Whether you’re a fan or seeking answers or even if you a bone to pick with me about something I wrote. Grill me. I welcome all of it, criticism, friendly chatter, the like.

You’re not bothering me. At all. In all my years of blogging, in responding to the kind people that write in, I can honestly say not one email has bugged me, not one. Even if one person has a laundry list of questions, I’ll sit down and work it out with them until they’re more spent then I am. Seriously. So never ever think that YOU are the person that will be too much for me, because that just won’t be the case. Try me, I dare you!

Do you want to write but don’t know what to say? Do you feel stupid because I can talk so openly and you find it rough to? I’ve had years to process how I feel, to work to rise above my own shyness. I was the same as you in the beginning. We all start somewhere and blossom on our own time.

I will say this though – just write. Don’t worry about grammar or context or anything, just write. I honestly care not for long novel-length texts, I read every word and respond. I’ll even write a long novel-length email of my own.

Start at the beginning. Write how you feel. Find a place to start at, to get the ball rolling, and then just let it go – just write and let it loose. If it feels good, write it. If it doesn’t, write it anyway and send it.

Too many times have I read that someone wanted to write in sooner or deleted several iterations of the email they just sent – and it breaks my heart.

I know I can’t TELL people what to do. I know I can’t get people to talk as frankly as I do, but I’m writing this because I want you to know, anything you have to say, in any way, is perfectly A-OK by me and that you should not feel shame or delete what you write, because I mostly certainly want to read it. Don’t even press that delete button or I’ll slap a crop against your knuckles!

Be yourself. That’s all I ask of you. Everything else, please don’t worry. I’m not as scary as your mind makes me out to be!

TD&D

30 Days of Kink – Day #27: I’m a Day Dreamer!

Do your non-kink interests ever find their way into your kinky activities? If so, how?

I’ve been do slack putting these up the past few days – my deepest apologies to the person following this daily.

To answer the question, my non-kink interests always find their way to kinky activities. Where you there when I wrote about Ariel submitting to Ursula as a Slave in exchange for human legs? I’m a huge Disney fan! I set a path to Disneyland and World when I visited the states.

Did you ever read HERA? It was a story for a competition I created last year or the year before. In it, a group of spacefarers investigate a dormant spaceship floating quietly in space, only for them to fall victim to a erratic AI becoming conscious and developing the mindset of a mistress.

It incorporated another favourite genre of mine – science fiction – and has ties to Greek mythology as well, both things I am an avid fan of.

When it comes to writing erotica, I like moving against the grain. I find to do so makes for a challenge to me as someone creating the world in ways it will pay off at the end of the tale – but I also like to challenge the reader. It’s always nice to get an email saying ‘I’m not normally a science fiction fan, or like anime, or I don’t like rape fantasies – but this really took my breath away” – to me that’s a job successfully done.

I can’t help it either, you know? Being inspired by the world around me, or incorporating other things I like into genre. For me, it just comes naturally that I want to experiment with ideas – and there’s freedom to here because I trust readers will definitely tell me what works and what doesn’t. It’s a good place to experiment.

The long-running VALHALLA is another example. I love Norse mythology and fantasy and put both into the story around the more kinky aspects like the M/s dynamic. I actually borrow a lot from old Norse texts, lifting Valkyrie names from the Prose Edda and putting them into the story. Kára is one Valkyrie from the Prose Edda, envisioned here as a fiery soul, like a feisty middle child with problems of her own.

I know what you’re thinking though – yes, yes – enough about what you like to write about, what about your sex life? Well does psychology count as a non kink activity? I mean it IS kinky too to a degree but it doesn’t quite fit into the spectrum.

I’m interested in how minds operate and why. I’m interested in encouraging minds to break free of whatever aspect that is blocking them from that liberation. I’m interested in chipping away at armour in someone piece by piece to see what’s underneath and how we can play with that together.

There’s something really REALLY sexy about finding an aspect in someone that they never knew existed. Maybe it’s an interest, maybe it’s heightened pleasure. To break them when they say they can’t be broken.

Then it’s something as simple as walking out the door right? I walk out the door, ready to grab a coffee for the day (praise and glory be to the coffee) and all of a sudden I’m thinking how I can push kitten against this wall and making her whimper.

I’m constantly thinking about the world and the people around me and turning them into stories I can write about.

I’m a day dreamer.