Something

There’s something about those eyes.

The faintest, lightest blue.

Like a lake in wintertime.

She stands before him completely naked. Lit by the soft purple glow of her bedside lamp. Thin black choker around her neck.

Head bowed.

Eyes down.

Arms laced before her tum.

Her chest rising and falling with every slow and steady breath.

And her eyes . . . wide and bewitching and alluring. Peaceful.

Waiting.

No, it never goes away. That feeling that he’s looking at her completely naked for the very first time.

That stomach flip.

That jolt of electricity sizzling over his body.

That tremble one his breath.

Blood pounding in his ears.

She chose him.

Him.

Considered him worthy of her submission. Her mind. Her body. Her sass regulated full force to him in their private realm.

All that she is.

He has reflected upon that for years.

Writing and rewriting and editing and trying to perfect the meaning, the feeling, the scale of what that means to him, what she means to him, her submissive to his dominant.

His self to her self.

Treading darkness with their light.

Naked under the stars.

Raw and wild.

A tempest raging all consuming and then the storm gives way to the morning light and their kisses are as sweet and soft as the morning dew that beads along their bare bodies.

So I’m into CNC…

‘I didn’t know you were into CNC!’ A follower wrote to me.

I am! It creeps into my fantasies, my stories, this desire to explore a CNC realm with sinister Doms and petulant toys. Hang around my space on this internet long enough and you’ll see a dirty little story pop up.

And sometimes it creeps into my actual life too, heavily negotiated and thoroughly discussed so that there is an ease of mind for both parties to explore without guilt or shame or hesitance.

CNC, for anyone who has found this blogpost, blog and are new to kink and BDSM, stands for Consensual-Non-Consent. It’s about roleplaying darker fantasies, experimenting with non consent in a way that you and your partner are both comfortable and interested in. It could be a fantasy in which rape is emulated, it could be something else brutal — but always within the realm of fantasy.

Why do I like CNC? I’m drawn to exploring those wicked fantasies, the type that enter your mind at night. That you might not want to put into words because you’re not sure whether or not you’d be shunned for that line of thought. But these fantasies are so naughty and delicious that you can’t help but linger on them throughout the week. Can’t help but take them with you into the shower or on the train to or from work.

I suppose the fascination comes from a few places. I’m interested in sharing that fantasy, in seeing what someone else wants to explore there, what we can create together – in or out of the bedroom, wherever our ideas take us.

I’m interested in discussing it – the psychology behind it, either for a submissive or a dominant. You know, where do our minds go? What we do want here? What do we not want there? What turns you on? I’m endlessly fascinated about the mind so I could talk about it all day.

Maybe the fascination comes from part of my background? Being raised Catholic and touching upon the taboo is thrilling, stimulating. It feels forbidden to dip your toe in, to dive into that pool. And especially with someone else. Because there’s something primal, something really sexy about inhabiting that realm with someone. You’re co-writing an epic fantasy together but me, as a dominant, I am directing it too. Navigating. Guiding. Actively listening.

And that excitement comes from elsewhere. From exploring that picnic basket of my feelings in the forest through the lens of a good book, like how we are compelled by the anti-heroes or antagonists of fiction and how we are intrigued by such a narrative. No matter how dark it goes.

I don’t know about you, dear follower, but as someone who enjoys CNC but also has my moments, where the self out of kink and the self within kink get entangled and causes me to spiral, sometimes it’s really fucking exciting to see a writer – a book – tackle it in a narrative in such unabashed, unapologetic fashion.

And then? Well, then there’s that feeling of being. Of acceptance. Of letting go of what this means and that means and tapping into that very primal force with someone. Laying out everything on the table through thorough discussions, what you both want, the boundaries there, the soft limits, the hard limits and then just — letting go. Of fear, of being too much. Everything you have, all in that moment.

I guess that’s where my interest in primal things crosses over into CNC, because feeling primal, being primal, there’s an element of tapping into pure animalistic thoughts and actions. I’ve always been drawn to that wildness, that ferocity of spirit in and out of the roleplay. Perhaps that is an aspect.

Lastly, I want to say this. If you’ve made it this far with my words, if you’ve stumbled across this post, and you’re feeling shame about those fantasies in your mind that you dare not speak of – try not to feel that.

Easier said than done right? These thoughts, that arousal, can be confusing. Spin you into a spiral. I know— I’ve been there.

The truth of it is it doesn’t make you a monster. Kinks are weird, we can’t explain them really. We feel them. We want to explore them safely, as we would a roller coaster at a theme park or a horror movie in the dark. We want that experience with the safety harness. Explore our humanities with our loved ones because for whatever reason, that’s intriguing to us. Together.

It knots my stomach to think of hurting my partner, in any way, shape or form. Sick to the stomach. I need aftercare after a heavy scene. But hearing her delight? Where that takes her? How her voice grows light and her eyes eager and the things she wants to say at the height of her arousal? It’s different. It draws me into her mind.

Shame with those thoughts are natural – these are intense, savage thoughts you are having that make you incredibly hard or incredibly soaked – thoughts you dare not speak out loud.

But it is a fantasy. A way to explore said feelings in a safe environment, completely controlled and negotiated. There is a line there between your self in kink and out of. A line there that you feel completely.

Be kind to yourself. Write them down if it helps you process them. But don’t spiral.

Through The Forest

Would you ever walk naked through the forest with me?
Would you feel comfortable to slip out of your dress, pull off your shirt, peel away your panties — and simply exist…in that moment…with me?
I wonder what that would be like sometimes. To go for a drive – so long, suburbia! – and find some space hidden away, full of the echoes of other free spirits gone by, shedding their skin.
I wonder about the long grass clutching at my legs, the gentle breeze across my ass, the soft sing-song of the birds.
I would listen to the forest.
Coming alive around us.
Enveloping us.
And I would peel off my own clothes, toss them away. Fuck them. Fuck clothes. Fill my lungs with this fresh air as I scream these words. I don’t care anymore.
Because I want you.
I want to see you. Guarded by the flowers, marked by the grass, cast in the glow of this here eternal sunshine. I want to see you – you. Do you understand that?
Fuck this pretence, fuck these masks, fuck these clothes and fuck our ties to that world behind the curtain of trees.
Would you be here with me now? Would you show me yourself? Completely bare yourself?
Under the sun. Under the stars. No hesitation, no self-editing, no word processor enabled. Just your beautiful self.
Sit with me.
Talk with me.
Would you?

_____________

It Still Floors Me

(Source – unknown)

I don’t know what it is…maybe it’s being human, maybe it’s my sun-soaked-overtired mind one foot into the dreamscape, but I feel like…being dominant, acting dominant, feeling dominant, hits me hard in the best way. Like…I’m standing on the beach, toes sinking into the sand, and wave after wave is crashing into me. I get taken aback by the force of the wave. No matter how prepared I think I am for that coming wave, it hits me and takes me aback — and makes me laugh. Makes me smile. Makes me giddy.

Dominance – and being dominant – is like that every time. I’ve been to the beach many times before, I don’t mind the swim, even though I’m low-key scared of open water. You’d think I’d be used to that feeling. After…what, 7 years of being in a D/s relationship, after 7 years of writing non-fiction, fiction and – admittedly – a few weak poetry pieces for this blog, you’d think I’d grow accustomed to that feeling.

But it always floors me. When the primal within me growls low, it floors me. When the Master in me comes up with a sadistic, humiliating and exhibitionistic idea , it floors me. And when she plays the brat, when her voice shifts into a change as she playfully wriggles her ass against my cock, it floors me. It blows the roof off of my home, this tornado of emotions. Love and trust and excitement and arousal and anxiousness and drooling across her tits and this organic feeling that you can be yourself with this person, that it’s okay to slip into this realm. That feeling what you’re feeling is okay under these circumstances. It’s heart-in-mouth, skin-tingling stuff. You get the idea.

And it is the same away from my partner as well. It’s the same with writing. The images that come, the scene or characters that materialise in my mind, excite and delight. Awaken my senses. Will wake me up out of a nap and have me reaching for my phone to get writing. Or have me sleepily reaching for my cock. I guess I’m highly excitable. But it’s always an image that knocks me on my ass in the best possible way, that leaves me with some heightened emotions and desires. And I’ll carry that image with me, this chestnut-coloured-curly-haired slave, wearing nothing but a collar, pulling on the nipple clamps attached to her, drooling down her neck in anticipation. Whispering into my ear to write her out on the page, this stranger I just met.

It took me the better part of my twenties to embrace this side of myself, to fight over this fear of resetting your life, but I’m here now, letting my toes slip ‘neath the sand.

Every Single Smack

Stretched out across his legs on the couch, tangled panties down around her thighs, her bare ass feeling the cool bite of the night air, tits resting against his knees, hair pooling down around her face, she can’t fight the delicious squirm that comes cascading down across her body. The shiver leaves behind a trail of goosebumps that crosses her arms, slithers down her neck to her tits and marks her nipples.

Suddenly she’s aware of everything – the way her tits are pressed against his knee, the way the chill in the air is doing something to her nipples. How she wants to grind them into him, drag them along his knees — just to shake off the shiver she still feels slinking across her body.

That same shiver reaches her ass, skims along the inside of her thighs.

An involuntary twitch wracks her body, knocks a sound from her wet lips, a sound somewhere between a giggle and a whimper.

She wants to reach back and touch her clit, can feel the impulse, the urge, clawing at her mind, but she can’t do a single damn thing about it — her hands are stretched out ahead of her, held together by his.

It hits her then – she’s moving, she’s rocking her hips, she’s . . . humping his leg.

Like an animal, like a wild animal, he thinks as he traces the edges of her ass.

‘You’re an eager little thing, aren’t you?’ The sight of her grinding into him splits his mind into pieces. He swallows, feeling the tightness in his throat, fights the urge to flip her over onto her knees so he can slip into her pretty little pussy from behind — but he wants to torment her some more.

Her cheeks positively burn hearing his words – but she can’t stop grinding into him. She wants this, needs this. With each thrust, she draws out the slither of pleasure that agonisingly runs its course along her slit.

‘Well, I tell you what. You’re going to count every single smack aloud for me, do you hear? Every. Single. Smack.’

His voice takes on an edge that makes her heart kick into overdrive.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good girl. Let’s begin, then.’

My Experiences With Dom Drop

Hello! A belated happy new year to you all. I wish you nothing but good health, magic, wonder and belly laughs for the year.

I want to write about Dom Drop. Because for the longest time I had no idea it was really a thing people went through — I just lived with it. I understand it now, like I understand my anxiety disorder and when I feel down or irrational, but going through it then and not knowing…I just wanted to write about it. Bring awareness to it, for anyone that finds this. Christ, I sound like a doomed journal found in an ancient tomb. Anyhoo.

Before I go on, I want to touch on what Dom Drop is. It is this state of depression that can infect you and cause you to question everything you knew – your thoughts, your kinks, who you are as a human being and a man. It gets right down to your core. Who you are. And it can eat away at you.

It happens after Dom Space, an intense state of being, like achieving a certain type of high from the rush of being dominant. It’s this all-encompassing high. You are in the forest, growling and biting and scratching and FUCKING – not making love, no sir, FUCKING. It’s just wild.

And then, afterwards, after the wrestling and name calling and bruises, you can drop.

Every so often there would be times – and frankly, there are bouts still now – where I have anxiety about my nature of being a Dom. It can come sometimes during intense play or it can come at the height of primal feelings, that roller coaster stopping at the height of the first drop. It can come even after thorough discussion, negotiation and reassurance from my kitten.

Thoughts like ‘Why am I like this?’ Would pass me by as I lay in bed, either panting moments after or later at night, lingering. ‘Where does this come from? This interest in spanking, in the fantasy of a 50s household as it pertains to D/s, in aspects of degradation and humiliation? In writing a forced orgasm scenario or rape fantasy?’ Normally I like to muse on where these things come from, because they’re still a wonder to me all these years being in a lifestyle. But these worrying thoughts were different. I was facing guilt, questioning my self.

Being diagnosed with panic disorder when I was 25 opened my eyes. It led me to see that my mind dives into the irrational. It could be obsessing on the settings on my tv, it could be ruminating on a conversation with a mate, it could be going out to lunch at a new cafe with friends and not having that moment to check the menu beforehand. And sometimes it’s a form of insecurity as a dominant.

Most times I dominate, I am in a state of clarity and peacefulness. Dressing her brings peace, the concept of a collar around her neck brings peace. The exploration of our sexuality together, through sides both sexual and non sexual, brings peace and love and joy. I can live a life of love to the fullest.

But sometimes that insecurity was a hydra, each head representing another concept or thought weighing on me. I can’t really describe it succinctly — I felt guilt despite our frank openness, something we promised each other from the very beginning of our relationship, I needed reassurance that everything was okay even after we discussed it thoroughly, I felt like my worries meant I would let her down – as a friend, as a dominant. I remember feeling ‘Shit, what does this say about me if I can’t get myself together?’

Where does this come from? If I had to warrant a guess? What we are taught by parents, by society, by what is considered the ‘norm’.

My Catholic upbringing plays a part in this. I was raised in a conservative household. I was a shy only son surrounded by a family full of sisters. I was taught to be polite and well mannered. I attended reconciliation, communion, mass every Sunday. It was a very conservative, pure upbringing. Being shirtless was a shock to some – it’s a life I have trouble describing, it was just innocent or rigid.

Is this why sometimes, when my partner does this adorable fucking thing, she looks up at me, eyes positively fae-like, and asks ‘Would Sir like to come on pet’s tits?’ — I freeze? I can tell you I feel conflicted. I love her animalistic nature, I love the sound of her voice, I love that little glint in her ever-wondrous pale blue eyes, love the way she looks eager and mischievous. It’s overwhelming how I feel, with her beneath me, unable to keep her hands from pinching and pulling at her nipples. And on top of this, somewhere amongst the feels, there’s that driving force to be dominant. That . . . insatiable feeling for her and her only. So yes I want to come on her tits. More than anything. It’s raw and beautiful and wild.

And yet.

I have felt that pang. Not always. But it does come. That ‘Shit, my come is gross. Here, let me help you clean up.’ after being wild together. That. Sometimes it is fleeting. Clouds over a sunny day. But sometimes it has gone longer. Harder to shake. I can’t help ruminating, negating. It’s like the Dom Drop went hand in hand with my depression and anxiety.

If it sounds draining, exhausting, I concur. It can be. It’s never enough to hamper a scene, a moment, our D/s life, completely, but it’s there nonetheless. Passing by.

What helps me? Talking. Lots of talking. Even after lots of talking negotiating what’s allowed, what we both want to explore, I want to talk. It’s like…a compulsion to hear it again. Hear it’s okay to be who I am. Hear how she feels, what she wants, that she enjoys this as much as I do, things I know I KNOW but need to hear AGAIN.

So talking helps. A direct line to her mind helps. Time spent together afterwards just being and cuddling helps. Sometimes it’s just talking me down from the cliff side. Sometimes it’s when she spins the wheel of kink and comes up with an idea that’s not in my mind but is in hers helps because I can see she’s like me — there’s that soulful interest in going to the same realm I am — and I’m right back at square one, where we both felt that connectedness and understanding and acceptance.

Sometimes reading other blogs helps me snap out of it and realise that I’m not alone here. We decompress after a long work week, we like to explore this other part of our minds, we dive into a fantasy that might be unlike our working life. That’s who we are.

Sometimes I wonder if me having an anxiety disorder can give my kitten a loving, healthy and fulfilling D/s relationship. Because that was the other head of the hydra, right? Guilt that I’d be a negative force in her sexual and non sexual life.

And that’s the thing about anxiety, it can be selfish. You sometimes get so caught up in your own bullshit that you forget to take a step back and see that this person made their choice and chose you. And through that acceptance I’ve come to see the answer to my question is yes, I can. Because BDSM and D/s is just friendship on fire. I lucked out. I met a person that I clicked with, who sees beyond my anxiety and depression.

That’s not to say with that in mind you can rest on your laurels and not get some self love in – because balance and peace of mind is paramount to…well, anything in life – work, romance, friendships. Meditation balances me out, helps me to be attentive and present. Mindful. I try to be my best – or better – every day. But in saying that, Depression Days are a fact of life for me. I can do my best but sometimes they come. It’s like living with a sour roommate on those days. It can be managed.

Anyway, Beyond this I have found that BDSM and D/s protocols – perhaps non-sexually more than sexually, such as tucking her into bed of a night, collaring and leashing together for a movie, or picking out her outfit and going shopping – these cute little rituals have been tender or relaxing or peaceful in a way I struggle to explain. It just is. And in these past seven years I have met people from all walks of life, people younger than me, people older than me, who have struggled with a mental illness and have found peace in their practices, whose relationships and talk of tenderness and sweetness inside and out of fantasies bring a tear to my eye. It can be done. Conquered. You can be happy.

The connection I have found with people through BDSM has been satisfying for my soul. It’s a way to express a slice of my love language. Whether that’s a tender lick on the cheek or a bite on the neck or a gentle caress that is a heightened sensation because it’s between that of a Dom and a sub. There’s a whole lot to D/s and BDSM that’s about an open dialogue, that’s about love and expression through talking, through engaging in a shared fantasy, that is sweet and beautiful and soulful to me.

If you’re struggling with a drop, take as long as you need to get off this carousel of questions. Find what makes you happy and light. Write about it if you want – messily, even, like I just have. Take the time to sort through your thoughts about yourself and kink and D/s – because mental health is paramount, safety and consent and communication and negotiation are all paramount- but try not to be like me and let the thoughts own you and grind you into the ground into a depression.

Be kind to yourself. The drop can be insidious.

Spring Reverie

It was the perfect spring moment last night. Lying naked in bed, feeling the cool air skimming my thighs, wind rattling the windows, punctuated by the rain beating down upon the glass.

The soundscape stirred the drowsing primal dominant in me. There, in that realm of light rain and strong winds, my mind raced ahead of me. An image came to the forefront of my mind fully formed – flipping her from her stomach on her back. Pulling her on all fours. Pausing a moment to admire her, all that she is, all that she means to me, how lucky can one guy be? I kissed her and she kissed me. Like a fella once said, ain’t that a kick in the head?

The way her body catches the street light peeking in from the windows, taking a shape mysterious to me, as if I’m seeing her for the very first time, halts the breath in my throat. I can see her glistening pussy, snug between her lovely thighs pale like moonlight.

And I feel it…that hunger, that insatiable hunger. To slip within her, fill her. To take in the scent of not just her arousal but her. Her sweat, her fading perfume, even her breath, odd as it may seem.

To claim her. As mine. As my submissive, as my pet, as a fae-like being here in our own universe where our dreams and fantasies collide and shake hands and dance together.

Beyond Your Boundaries

• 

Good morning, my gorgeous little pet,

This is what is going to happen when you get home from your work function tonight. As soon as you enter our domain, you are going to undress completely. I want you naked.
Find your house collar and apply it.
On our bed together, you will find my favourite lingerie of yours waiting for you. Dress into that, lay on your stomach – and message me you are ready. We’re going to wait ten minutes before I leave the study. Ten minutes for you — and no phone! No scrolling Facebook or Reddit, you’re going to sit and wait in total silence.

And then…I will come to you.

You don’t need to know why you’ll be doing this. You’ll do what I want when I want, but we both know I delight in your torture – and there will be torture throughout the day, I guarantee this – so I’ll say this.

I know you’ve had a stressful week, rushing around to make others happy, that is why I adore you. And that is why I am going to take, why I want to take you beyond the boundaries of your pain threshold.

Where we go exactly, I cannot possibly know, but I just know…I want to give that to you. I want to see you sweat out everything boiling in your mind, I want to hear you let out a howl that is so rough and unlike you that it claws your throat and leaves you breathless. I want to smack your ass, see you flinch, see you jolt, see your mind grasping at registering what is pleasure and what is pain and getting tangled in the distinctions.

I’m not just going my hand, as much as I delight in the sound of that CRACK on your bare skin, on my open palm. I’m going to use our paddle. Our whip. Our cane.

On your ass first. So I can watch you ever so slightly rise your hips as you beg for a thorough cleansing, a cathartic beating. The type that you will feel when you go out to brunch with your girlfriends on the weekend. Oh how you’ll wince as you sit down. My goodness. How I lick my lips at that idea.

But then I’ll move to your cunt. To your tits. I’ll take my time, marking every inch of you, grabbing my cock while I do, thinking of you soak yourself while you squirm into the bed like a helpless, defensive girl.

I’m curious about The Other. What comes out of you at the height of your desperation, of your frustration. You know the one. When we feel and react without processing, when we don’t have time to analyse a response that’s fitting, when we are stripped free of our armour, in this case the lingerie, my dear Valkyrie, and vulnerable to my every action.

I’ve seen The Other before – spitting bratty venom at me, one eyebrow cocked in my direction, her words barbed and laced with poison, her voice distinctly different then my everyday goddess, sultry and smooth. She’s unapologetic in her filth.

Most of all, I want to take you to such dizzying heights that the world melts away, that we’re high high HIGH in the sky, in shadow of the moon, bathed in monochrome. Or is that monochromatic. I’m no artist. I just want the troubles to wash away and slip off into uncharted space. Like warm water off our bodies from the shower we’ll take together after I have my way away from you, after I fuck you from behind, pulling you by the hair, running my hands over your nipples. Squeezing them till they explode in pain, till I hear you cry lot in said pain.

I want to give you a release. And I don’t want you to hold back.

I will see you soon, gorgeous girl. This Sir is very lucky to have you. Have a beautiful day.

‘For My Own Amusement’

She steps out of the shower, wearing nothing but a white tank top, no bra and plain grey panties — and he can’t help himself.
A change takes over him.
He seizes her by her wrists, she cries out in surprise – a series of squeals that’s a sonata to his ears.
Before either of them realise it, she’s up against the wall, her lovely hips and thighs pinned, her right leg bent at the knee.
He thinks of her ass up against the wall — and feels himself growing hard, can feel the ache with every passing second.
‘What are you d-‘
He raises the water bottle he has in his right hand — and squeezes it. Water comes squirting out. Like paint to a canvas, it paints the image of her curvaceous tits, adding shading to where her areola is, adding lines of depth in the drenched fabric where her nipples are hardening.
But the best part is not how the now-soaked cotton tank top clings to her tits, to the frame of her body, it’s the shifting expressions across her face. The fury, the shock, the indignation. She turns her green eyes onto his dark brown eyes, shaped in her shifting moods, and he can’t stop the smile that comes to his face.
‘Play with yourself for me, little pup. For my own amusement.’
Gone is the fury, the indignation.
But shock remains, so does humiliation. Kinda like how the T-1000 shifts through its multiple forms upon its destruction in the sea of molten steel.
But there’s something else written in those deep green eyes. Understanding.

Her mouth is open, cute little lips glistening with saliva in the light of the hallway, but only a guttural click is coming out, as the words are trying – and failing – in her throat.
As her left hand runs down the frame of her body and slips ‘neath her cotton panties, he says to her, ‘Look at me while you play. I want to watch you.’
And still she cannot talk. She merely nods her head in understanding, knocking loose strands of her wet dark brown hair down around her forehead.
Her hand starts to move from under her panties, knuckles taking shape against the thin cotton. It’s a sight that takes hold of him – he slips his own hand under his jeans, grabs hold of his cock and squeezes out the ache. It only helps for a few seconds. The ache returns almost instantly.
Her eyes don’t leave his. He sees her wavering breath in them, sees the struggle to control her breathing, sees her FEEL her own knees buckling as she touches herself.
‘And what are we doing, hm?’
Her mouth – still open – tries to form the words.
‘I’m…’
She cuts off as her eyelids flutter. She fights them open, keeps her eyes focused, tries again to speak. But he can see the struggle in her eyes.

‘I’m…playing…w-w-ith m-my clit.’
‘Yeah?’
He knows that she’s a little shy even after all their time spent in their shared multiverse of darkness. He pushes her what feels like the right amount.
‘How’s it feel?’
She swallows – it’s an audible click in her throat.
‘So….g…’
Again, her eyelids flutter as her fingers work her delightful slit. Again, he can’t help himself. How has he ever managed to be a dominant around this wild untamed brat when he can’t discipline himself? He yanks her panties, exposing creamy pale thighs and her hand parting a bare, beautiful slit.
Her eyes bulge, almost turning golden from green as she looks at him, that shock registering. But she doesn’t look away, she keeps going. Her fingers are working smoothly, delicately – she has this rhythm down pat.
She doesn’t even register her delight when he tears down his own pants and reveals his throbbing, pulsating cock.
Which wants her as desperately as he does – it bobs in the air, eager to rid itself of that maddening ache.
That ache that he can feel like cobwebs across his arms, like butterflies fluttering about in his stomach, like chills creeping down his spine.

As he watches her, he can hear his own heart in his ears, pump pump pumping away. Badum badum badum badum.
With his right hand on his cock, he reaches out and pulls at her tank top. It comes down in the most humiliating fashion, with her left breast slipping out, her nipple looking achingly hard.
Her pale face flushed a shade of red as she kept her eyes on him. She sucks in her lower lips and bites down.

And he can’t handle it. He breaks his own rule, breaks eye contact, he needs to taste her. He pins her to the wall further as he presses against her, his cock hitting her thigh.
As he grabs her left breast and squeezes it violently, his fingers catching her stiff nipple and pinching, he feels her hand brush against his cock and grip it firmly. He lets her grab it.
He continues where she stops, spreading her lovely lips with his fingers and finding her clit.
By then he presses his lips to hers – and they both exchange a rushed, throaty moan, the scent of their breath appealing to one another in a strange, primal way.
She breaks the kiss to let out another moan, a frenzied moan, a hurried gasp. He gets the message, he quickens his assault on her lovely slit, gliding his thumb over her clit, slipping his fingers inside her soaked pussy.

She’s muttering something in his ear but he’s focused on the rhythm, the feel of her thickened arousal on his fingers.
Then she cries out, sharp and loud in his ear but he doesn’t care one bit, he’s grinning, he’s admiring her, he’s enamoured with this wild beautiful woman that has chosen him to bare herself to.
Her body jolts in a series of spasms as a shy smile creeps across her face, as she pants in his ear.
They lock eyes.
He grins.
‘My turn.’

There Are No Words

At 4am this morning, I woke from a dream so incredibly detailed, with its own mythology and the like, that I scrambled for my phone and jotted down 1,372 tired words. I’ve read over it just now, having woken later in the morning, and have left it unedited and untouched, save for some spelling mistakes and sentences that didn’t make sense. What you will read is something I’ve written while not entirely awake, my hand pulled along by forces beyond this world.

I know some of you enjoy looking into the mind of the process or the writer or even ME, so I hope this intrigues you at the very least.

I can remember her taking my face in her hands, and looking at me with those deep blue eyes. My god, how deep and blue and expansive they are. How kind and thoughtful they are. Oceans. They are the sea.

I see her eyes flicker but before I can contemplate what that means, she’s leaning in to kiss me deeply.

Christ, her lips are so soft. They seem to sink right into my own lips. As if merging together.

I can feel my heart leap in my chest.

As she holds the kiss, as I hold the kiss, I suddenly see everything. I see her ass, lily white and gorgeous, I see her free of the shackles of her past life. I see her freedom. And it makes my heart pound in my chest.

When she pulls away, I feel like I know her more through that kiss. As if, through the act, a bond was created – and we fused.

She has to wipe the dark curl of hair from her eyes. Or I do.

I want to but I can’t look away from those deep, mesmerising eyes. I feel like I know her more now, know her better.

She kisses me again suddenly, deeper, harder. My stomach flips in excitement – or is that her excitement I feel, now that we are bonded. Now that my emotion is shared through the bond and hers is shared in my mind.

A sense of understanding. That’s what it is.

I can feel her soft hands on my face, cradling me, as if she wanted this for a while.

I want to tell her to be free, like I know she wants to be. There’s a side to her that I can sense. I want to scream it at her beautiful blue eyes, even as I wipe her dark curls out of her face.

Do what you want, what you must, for the freedom of your soul, for your health, but I know the truth. She senses it too now, my weirdness. My indulgence. I’m encroaching on something.

The other women around me don’t seem to mind our shared kiss. They wait patiently in silence, or do they observe? And if they observe, what do they see? Did I get it all wrong, terribly wrong? But that can’t be! She kissed me. I sense her. I sense her so strongly.

One by one hand, their hands lower me down to the cool metal table. How many women are there? Well, there’s the vampire – I know that. Blonde hair, ice blue eyes. There’s the girl in the hoody with the kind eyes. There’s the fiery redhead in the singlet with the rosy cheeks.

Somehow I know they’re actually all vampires. Except me and her. She who regards me with her deep blue eyes as big as the moon.

Does he know how lucky he is to have her?Where is he anyway?

As if on cue, he wanders into the small room, eyes ablaze. There’s fury.

In a heartbeat, before he can see, she tears her hands away from mine – somewhere along my counting of how many women there are around me, she took my hands in hers.

I didn’t even finish counting anyway. There’s more than three. They’re all gathered around me in a circle, her included.

I can feel her through the bond, I can tell she wants to undress and be naked. I can tell that’s how she likes to be. It comes in a flash in my mind, and I can see her walking along her natural habitat – a forest – completely nude, grass crunching beneath her feet.

“For a little extra you can become a vampire.” A woman at the end of the table says. She’s looking at me with tired eyes that seem to sag in their sockets. She’s dressed all in black, even with a black robe. The tattooist.

I shake my head. “No, thank you, just the tattoo. Like hers.”

I point to the woman with the kind eyes. She’s watching me closely, a smile across her ruby red lips. Out of all the women that have taken up residence in my home since my partner left, this one has spent the most time talking to me.

On her chest, above her breasts, she has a tattoo of a symbol that’s foreign to me. I couldn’t begin to describe it. I only know I want it on my chest.

And it just so happens one of the women in this wonderful, warm tribe, is an artist of the tattooing kind.

When did I get so lucky, to have this support from all these beautiful women around me? All these endlessly kind beings? I’d tip my hat if I wore one. I’m afraid the only thing I wear is my heart on my sleeve ever since she left me. Five years gone and cheated on me the past few months for some bloke with dark features, same as me. What did I have that he didn’t? Why did that draw the attention of a tribe of men and women into my home and why do they support me endlessly in this relationship breakdown?

May the party live forever.

I know she senses my thoughts because she frowns to herself. That or it’s because he’s circling her, his eyes on her as he joins her to her right, where he perches like a bird or a ghost or a bodyguard. I can’t decide which. I’m sure he didn’t think about this possibility when he, too, came into my home. I certainly didn’t expect to spark her interest. I’m not even sure she would talk to me if I didn’t talk to her first. The only thing I know about her is that she’s not a vampire like the others and that her wonderful eyes are as big as the moon.

Do I regret the kiss? I’m not sure, to be entirely honest. My heart and mind and very soul still rages at the recent betrayal of my ex. I mean, after she came clean about the affair, she still wanted to suckle on my cock while the others finger fucked her into a delirious state.

We all knew she did it to pass the time – her family was picking her up, her bags were packed – but we still did this. We all did this.

So there’s rage behind my willingness, that I’ll admit, but when she placed my face in her hands and kissed me that first time, I wasn’t just hypnotised, I was mesmerised. Because I could feel her thoughts. I could sense that she wanted to silence my pain as much she wanted to silence hers.

Does that make me a bad person?

There’s no fear in me when the women hold my legs down and apart. I trust these new friends of mine. They did offer me vampirism after all. They even wanted to charge me! But no, this was about the tattoo. The tattoo that would mark my pain and hurt forever, the tattoo that would bond me to these traveling nomads, friends for life.

Some of them, like her, had boyfriends. They were grouped in one room of the house watching tv and drinking. Eventually they would retire to their rooms and sleep, snoring softly.

The circle of women talk amongst themselves. Some of them banter. It makes me smile. They must’ve been traveling together for so long they’ve made friendships for life. Is this what this tattoo is? Am I part of the tribe?

I feel her soft hand on my arm and meet her eyes. There’s something else there now. A wound of sorts flickers behind her eyes. But who would wound the moon? Who?

Despite this, it’s a shy smile she gives me and it makes my heart race. I close my eyes and feel her warmth rising through the bond. It makes me smile too.