Spring Brings Out My Primal

I can hear it – the rain rattling across the roof, a rhythm just for me.

I can feel it – stirring from its long rest, shaking off the fog of sleep.

I am aware of my heart sounding off in my ears, the warm blood in my veins.

My toes uncurl against fresh sheets, eager to move, to race.

Nothing has no rhyme or reason. What is the meaning behind the season?

It wrestles me to take hold. I feel its needs take control.

And I am but a puppet, a monster cast in black and white. Expressionistic. Fatalistic.

Bones and muscle lock in place.

Gnarled fingertips claw beneath my skin. I feel it frustrated deep within.

Without it I’m a shell, a jagged edge incomplete. I need it here with me, in on chatter, eavesdropping with devilish delight.

Come and set me free.

On Discovering I was Primal

I didn’t meet a person within the BDSM community that identified as being a primal until I was 26.

I didn’t even know the full extent of being a primal – I didn’t know about pet play, being a predator, being a prey or traits OF a primal person, even when I had a few of those traits.

I knew I was dominant. I knew I liked being naked outdoors, knew that it exhilarated me. I knew that the outdoors, as much of a house creature I can be, thrilled me. Oh to think of running, the wind in my hair, my heart beating, my legs kicking into gear. It was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

When I was 26, long after my marriage failed, I decided to sign up to Fetlife and not shut it down out of fear this time. And through happenstance, I met a lovely Canadian lady who I got along really well with – I mean, similar sense of humour, the type of rapid fire wit that flows. It was lovely, and I didn’t quite understand at the time why it was so lovely. Until she, on a whim, started to express wolf-like aspects – little whines over Skype calls, talk of wrestling over a disagreement about favourite movies. I started to sense something, or maybe I DEVELOPED the means TO SENSE through talking to her.

And the topic of being primal came up. I was a bit confused at first, till she pointed out traits I had, which she, or the animal within her, responded to. And suddenly it all made sense – why I liked to growl, why I liked to run naked as a teenager through the Bush, why I felt SOMETHING fighting back within me when I was married and had chosen to stop thinking of BDSM and kink because I wanted to work for my marriage and be a good husband. Something primal and animalistic was there, it always there.

As these things sometimes go, one day we just stopped talking. Days went by, then weeks and then months. I haven’t spoken to her since, which is a shame because I owe her a lot. I guess that’s life, in a way. Strangers. Angels even? Who knows.

I’ve learned a lot about primal since then. A lot of it has come through googling, a lot has come through my own development and my development with my kitten, who has primal traits herself.

It’s strange meeting another primal person because sometimes I get this sense, however brief. I pick up on a trait, an inkling in someone. I can feel their openness and spontaneity and how raw they have themselves open to conversation – and how they conversation can flow! Usually these people and I get on like a house on fire – sense of humour and personality is similar and it’s easy to chat to them.

But it can be lonely too, sometimes. I check reddit, I’m part of Fetlife. I occasionally log into The Cage – I rarely see anything about a primal. I know it can be anything from not being advertised or being straightforward enough to mention – but it’s almost like it’s not at the forefront of Kink or D/s or BDSM. Or maybe it’s just me and it is there but behind whatever else someone displays via their notes or text or picture.

I don’t know about about anyone else, but sometimes it can feel like you are alone adrift at sea. I am blessed to have my kitten, my partner, who licks me and wrestles me to the bed – I have that connection now. But I didn’t always, and even then sometimes it’s just nice to know that there are others like you out there too, getting in touch with their own darkest desires.

To any folk out there, you are definitely not alone. There are more of us than you may think.

The Fox

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Six degrees Celsius.
80% chance of rain.
That’s just what the weather app told her – the news was different.
She sat on the couch, eyes on the tv, listening to the weather warning – stay inside, they said. High winds coming from the south, torrential rain.
The weather man flashed a smile at her, white teeth, gentle assuring light blue eyes.
Her stomach began to knot though, rumbling and tumbling over on itself, as if folding.
She lashed out at the remote and the room plunged into darkness. 

Her husband had left for work, taking their seven year old son to school – a fact that he sulked against, saying the rain meant they had to play under cover – and he and his friends were about to finish their battle between dinosaur overlords that they began last week. She did not sway though, school was school – and she had to go rain, hail or shine at his age.
Now they were both gone, leaving her to their quiet home, where nothing but the rain cascading down could be heard.

Pulling the nearby cream lounge blanket over her chilled body – the blanket he and her would snuggle under as they tried to squeeze in a episode over Netflix – she moved her free hand over the touchpad on her MacBook and it’s glow lit her face. She didn’t want to proofread and edit, not today of all days, trapped as she was in this storming snow globe, feeling the ice cut right through her blanket and long-sleeved pyjama top to kiss the tips of her nipples, but she had to get something done. Something or anything. 

She got through three pages of this manuscript before her mind began to stutter through her memories. A country girl, she was. Born and bred in Grafton, New South Wales, moving to the city of Sydney at the age of nineteen to room with her best friend while attending college, all the while working at a record store in the city CBD.
She met the man she’d call husband while not even fully understanding what it was she wanted in life, and that whirlwind of time led her to life in Geelong, Victoria – where she suddenly had everything – a beautiful boy, a loving m home, a stable job she enjoyed (mostly) and a sweet man.

Despite this, something had begun to gnaw at the fringes of her mind. It began, she had noticed, when the rain fell a week ago.
Day after day, 9am to 3pm, when she’d pick up her son, she felt something there. Something different. Like a mirror that had begun to splinter, threatening to spread.
She’d put her head down and work, but the silence was heavier than usual. Few times she sat around the house, pausing from her work, feeling agitated and restless for reasons she wasn’t quite sure.
A few times over sharing cooking duties, she had snapped at her husband – no, not snapped. Snarled. She snarled at her husband. Later, in bed, she recalled her husband hurt and startled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He had asked. ‘I’ve never heard you like that before.’
She could only shake her head, the moment a distant memory, as if her mind was already on the case of blocking it.
But she recalled what he had said next.
‘Even your eyes looked different.’ Her husband continued. ‘Like…like amber.’

She closed the MacBook and left it to rest beside her.
What was she thinking? The Victorian Winter had finally gotten to her. It found a thread dangling out of her arm and pulled till she unravelled, exposing her ivory skin, her bare flesh, for the winter to lower and feast upon.
She was happy here, she knew. But wait, what has that got to do with anything? Where did the concept of happiness come from?
She shivered from under the blanket, not sure if it was the cold that chilled her now or the thought. 

From her right came a scuttling sound. Her Frenchie no doubt, wanting her to let him in and turn on the heater so they could snuggle.
She frowned, curled her hair around her ears where they wouldn’t get to her eyes, and rose from the seat.
‘Mason, get out of the rain, boy – you have a house for a reas….’
Her jaw fell open and she could feel her eyes narrow, focused in.
Amber eyes peered back at her from the grey outside.
Carefully, she moved across to the blinds, and began weaving the beaded cord through her cold fingers.
An inch at a time the blinds moved upwards, revealing red tufts of fur, matted back in the rain.
Her eyes met amber and never left, even as the light of the morning filtered through the backdoor.
The fox was standing on the back step, it’s ears flattened, twitching against the heavy rain that fell upon its head. It’s eyes watched her cautiously, wondering.
She, herself, audibly gasped once it came into full view – and found herself unlocking the backdoor and pulling it open.
‘Heyyyy…’ She began – but the fox ran around the corner, obscured by the side of the house.
In its exit, it left paw prints in the mud – a sign of its existence.
Without thinking, she stepped outside. Rain lashed at her skin from all around, each drop crashing down against her pyjamas and drenching it into a thing of weight.
Suddenly she could feel the cotton of her top and bottom cling to her body, framing her hips, her breasts, her ass.
She rounded the corner to the left, stepping through the gate that separated garden from the outside area.
Nothing but the plants she had placed was there. 

‘But…where…?’
Her eyes scanned the corners of her yard. A hole perhaps? Hidden ‘neath the shrub?
That couldn’t be, another thought came to her, we’ve sandbagged the bottom so Mason doesn’t continue to poke his head under to the neighbors side and say hello. 

All of a sudden her mind was back on the weight of her pyjamas. She could feel everything in that moment, the rain bucketing down upon her, the wind tracing across her nipples, the water trickling down her back cold as ice. She grunted, no, snarled, and tore at the pyjamas she bought from Peter Alexander, the pyjamas that she loved for the feel of them against her skin. The fabric made a satisfying tearing sound and the soaking piece came free, her body relieved of the weight. Now the rain relentlessly stung at her skin – her arms, her stomach, her breasts. 

She felt herself snort and growl as her hands now focused on her pants, her bare feet drifting in the mud, encasing her feet in the sinking earth, as she stepped out of her pants one foot at a time. She tossed them into the wall with a huff, pants and torn top, and stood there heaving in the rain, in the storm, the weekly storm.

It came to her then – a huff, a growl, a snort, a snarl, a Welp, a cry. It rose from her stomach, up through her lungs. She began to scream in bursts of guttural groans. She didn’t sound like herself, didn’t feel like herself, something was wrong, something else was with her, no, in her. She could never go back, could never be the same again.
Burning against the onslaught of rain drops. 

Water ran from her forehead down across her eyes. She blinked through them, and found herself unable to stop screaming even though it stung her.
She felt hands claw at every inch of her, leaving red streaks across her chest. They marked her breasts, claw hooking across her nipple, dragging the pain outward.
Her legs, as if unable to take the assault of rain any longer, trembled and collapsed beneath her and she fell to the ground, mud splashing across her knees and face.
This wasn’t her, but who was she? This wasn’t her, the wife, the worker, the mother. The busy bee, say yes, nod politely. Swallow down the hurt, let it lump in your throat no matter what. 

She curled up in the mud, her knees rising back into her chest. The rain now reached to her rear, coming to whip her anus and reach out to lash across her exposed slit.
Her lungs sucked in crisp winter air, the likes of which she had never experienced before. The fresh air swirled down her throat, and she sucked in more, eager for more. 

When her hands found her slit and began to glide across the length of her lips, she did not question it. She stayed in the fetal position, her arm stretching back across to stroke what was exposed. Using the rain water that was beading on her skin, she rubbed her clit, letting her chest rise and fall to take in more of the sweet air.
Time weaved around her, leaving her trapped in a dome where the rain always fell.
She wriggled on the spot, her ass twisting into bed, lathering her back and legs.
Icy muddy puddles pooled around her, lapping at the sides of her stomach.
She lay there feeling her grunting come back, burning up her throat, tearing out between her teeth, leaving a string of saliva to fly across her neck. She felt her face push into the bed, her hands assaulting her slit, working herself into a frenzy. She didn’t know…didn’t understand. She wanted to scream.
She found herself grunting, groaning, spitting. Saliva, mild and thick, ran down across the centre of her chest, coming to hang across the  shape of her breast.
At once she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs clamping down on her hand between her legs. The world around her spun as she blinked away the rain. 

She sucked down more of that air, rolling onto her back, letting herself fall into the muddy puddles around her. 

How Do You Know If You’re Primal?

I’ve written a lot about the primal dynamic and what it is and what it means to me personally. Shamefully though, I’ve never touched on how you can tell if you are primal – and if you’re new to the lifestyle, this just adds to an ever growing list of dynamics and their rules that can potentially overwhelm you. Especially when being primal and feeling primal can be different for each and every one of us.

So what are some of the ways you can tell?

Behaviour

Take a moment to look back at your behaviour throughout moments in your life. How do you feel when you are naked? Can you recall some mannerisms during sex – a grunt or a growl, a surge of energy rocketing through your entire body? Perhaps a longing for nature – secluded woods, away from society? How do you feel about being outdoors?

Before I even knew what bdsm or being primal was, I was running through acres of land completely naked. I was masturbating in the muddy grounds after a storm. I was scratching and biting and growling during sex.

More importantly, I would experience moments – during sex or when I was horny or even outside of the bedroom – where I felt…different. And I had no idea why or what that meant. I felt different and restless and like I wanted to just find a clearing in a rainforest, lay down to feel the grass on my body and be…free. Away from everything going on in your life.

Manifestations

Maybe it comes out in a moment – you feel different, possessed by some sort of indescribable energy. You want to do things and say things that you know might challenge perceptions – but it’s there, on the tip of your tongue or bubbling to the surface. Maybe it comes out of you like a strike of lightening – you feel it wash over you before you come back down to earth. Maybe you feel like being rough during sex, choking and pulling and being held down or holding down?

I used to be scared of that feeling. I thought I was mentally ill or wired wrong and that no one could ever identify with how I felt because I was weird and unnatural and pushing any boundaries of good taste.

What I failed to see was that I was merely shedding my social profile – letting the primordial feelings come to the forefront of my mind to play and breathe a moment. Feeling strange and weird came about because I would settle back down into the boundaries of society, ready to be a well behaved citizen to the city I was in at the time.

Identity

This one may not extend to everyone – but some primals associate with an animal. They feel linked to the animal world, they feel that behaviour creep in to their mentality and waking life.

Primal folk can have ‘packs’ – groups of close friends with perhaps an unique set of rules and protocols and an established hierarchy. I’m not too well versed on this, I’m afraid, as I’ve mainly been a lone wolf or at least in a pack of two – myself and another.

Have you felt a longing to a particular animal? A call from the wild? A call to adventure? Maybe there’s more animal in you than you might realise – and there’s nothing at all wrong with that.

Primal can also extend to the PREDATOR and PREY state of mind – the urge to chase and roughly tackle and the urge to be chased and to be roughly tackled. Imagine the wrestling in the dirt, connected to the earth, hair strewn across faces in the entanglement – think on that and you’re on the right track.

Being primal means getting to a state of mind in which you are unfiltered, focusing on natural impulses, raw urges and usually a ferocious sexual appetite. It’s not always sexual though, sometimes it can relate to your confidence or your sense of humour, or your social anxiety.

More than this, it’s about retreating back to a place where you can think and feel without stigma, where you can be primitive and animalistic and as feral as you’d like to be.

It’s a beautiful, powerful and freeing to be primal and animalistic – but it can also be terrifying if you don’t know why you’re feeling the way you are.

To those scared of it, I will say this: shoving it far, far away will only make things worse. Instead, sit with your wild feelings. Get to know them. Push yourself but push gently. You have all the time in the world to grow at ease with these new concepts.

If you have any further questions, if I need to clarify on a few things, if you think you are primal and want to talk it over, you are always welcome to get in touch with me either in the comments section below or directly to my email at — darkanddominant@hotmail.com

Hellfire

Beatrice, O heavenly guide!

Lead me to my damnation,

I’ll happily follow you through the woods if it meant one last chance to sink my teeth into your flesh, to coat your nipple with my saliva,

To hear the fabric tear and cut you loose.

O Beatrice, what I would give

to baptise you come the morning,

To be rid of the agony of want,

To drown you in the waves of my ignorance.

Beatrice, O heavenly guide!

I am lost without your light

Join me in darkness

Please forgive me.

On Anxiety’s Role in Being Primal

In the past I’ve written about my life with anxiety, whether it was intruding in my sexual life or in general – but I never have spoken – or written about, for that matter – the role Anxiety has with the primal aspect of my personality.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with anything primal related, it’s a concept within BDSM that focuses on thinking and feeling – instinctual, sexual or otherwise – without letting fear take over and cause to block it out.

It’s about being in communion with the more coarse and unrefined aspects of yourself and understanding what that means for you and who you are.

Anxiety, on the other hand, has the ability to generate strange and delusional thoughts. It can be so sneaky that it seems genuine, as if it’s subconsciously laid down rail road tracks leading from the thought back into your memories – so you believe it’s bullshit.

Which brings me to my next point – what’s primal and what’s anxiety? Are the two linked? Are we supposed to accept the anxiety if we identify as primal?

For me, there’s a shifting of feelings that occur between the two. When I’m primal I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me – I’m at a heightened state, but I’m not at a flight-or-fight state. Anxiety brings with it an overwhelming sense of dread and doom. Your body’s security system has an overactive imagination.

For me, I can differentiate between the two because one sounds utterly absurd, while the other is me thinking and feeling on an impulse, something I have control of and have to actively let loose. One is calming, the other is panic.

Being primal does mean to listen to all impulsive thoughts – but anxiety is a misfiring Of said thoughts. You can certainly listen to what your mind says, and acknowledge it but don’t react to the absurdity because no matter how strong it is, it really is utterly delusional. And sometimes there is no root cause.

As always, ladies and gents, I’m here if you ever need a chat about anything. Life, love, BDSM, movies or gaming – anything. My email is still open to all.

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.