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.

Sex And Death: On Horror Films And Being Primal

This is how it goes.

A camp counsellor impatiently waits for her hunk of man to return from taking a leak so they can resume their sensual picnic away from their camp duties.

The sun is setting, casting a glow across the nearby lake. A glow that reaches up out of the waters lapping the lake edges and falls across this camp counsellor’s – let’s call her Jenny – body.

Shadows stretch out from the trees above, casting Jenny and the plaid picnic blanket she lays on in darkness.

She’s undressing down into her skimpy underwear, a deep purple. Her panties hug her ass and her bra shows off her tan lines.

But she keeps undressing.

She lifts off her bra, throws it aside, reveals her freckle-kissed tits.

Giggling, she wriggles out of her panties, revealing untamed pubic hair.

This will surely be a surprise for him – let’s call him Kevin – when he gets back. This will knock his socks off.

Suddenly the masked killer appears! Jenny can’t see because she’s rolled over and sunbaking.

She only catches on when the killer grabs her roughly in a way so unlike Kevin and whirls her around so she’s on her stomach, fully exposed to this stranger.

Before this killer plunges down his weapon – let’s go with a classic and say Machete – into her chest, maybe he’ll be forceful with her – grab her tits, twist her nipples till her brain misfires over whether to choose pain or pleasure.

Eventually though, the kill will come and with it…a release.

So why does this appeal to me?

A NEW BEGINNING

When I was 12, I began to run naked.

It was innocent at first. Just me feeling the long grass whip my legs and the breeze against my body.

I don’t know where it came from, that idea, I just knew that I wanted to do it.

And the feeling was exhilarating.

This was partially, I think, due to being raised Catholic – there were rules to follow and hell to pay otherwise – and partially to just exploring a whole other side of..well, me.

In my teenage years – that’s when it got to be sexual. Or perverted. Or weird. Or all of the above?

I distinctly remember going for a run one afternoon after it rained and being charged by the bush around me – the sight of the lush bush, the smell of rain, the freedom, I collapsed to the ground and began to grind my cock into the earth. It was wild, feral, animalistic. I felt different, like I was in touch with something deep and primal – something I had never heard discussed.

My teenage years was also where I REALLY got into horror. Aliens, Predator, The Thing, Scream, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th. I devoured anything I could find – namely American slasher films but also a lot of Asian Horror and French Body Horror as well.

Horror was always a part of me, I think. I remember being scared by Gremlins or ghosts in Ghostbusters I and II as 6 year old. There was just something about…the unknown. The things no one talked about to me as a kid – folklore and monsters and the metaphysical. Sure, being Catholic meant I knew about angels and God and satan. But that was all regulated to pretty thin, safe stories about good and evil and it didn’t feel as personal as, say, a one on one discussion.

Horror was also probably one of many elements that would factor into my anxiety disorder so there’s also that. But that’s a cliff note right now.

But an interest in the horror genre was also the effect of something else – of experiencing the darker side of life, humanity and our feelings. It was me looking at the world and fascinated by the dark and the weird and the supernatural.

I was 14 when I first saw John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978). I remember a friend of mine pulled me into her room and showed me her list of horror films on VHS excitedly – and I’ll never forget my experience with it.

Where my previous experiences with a killer – Freddy Krueger or Jason – felt fantastical and sensationalised, there was a disturbing stone-cold reality to Michael Myers that chilled me to my core.

And in the opening moments of the film, when he, as a child, peeks into the bedroom of his sister and saw her sitting in front of her mirror topless, there it was: unglamorous, unsensational. Just nudity and sexuality in a horror film.

But it did something. It was disturbing, yes, but it lit up something else in my mind and touched on something psychological. Something that found this voyeuristic moment alluring and erotic and arousing. What was it about watching this naked woman? About her unsuspecting self?

Slasher films became my go-to horror film. Not only was I a film enthusiast and loved looking at effects work, I was always drawn to why they were the way they were. Even when their own filmmakers admitted to moments of nudity and sexuality as a way to sell tickets- and what sells better then the build up and release of sex and death! – I was still fascinated and confused by the reaction the films had in me – this slight arousal to the moment – the voyeurism. The chase. The climax.

I wasn’t aroused by the bloodshed and gore, you see. It wasn’t about the violence, it was about the build up – and the Predator and the prey.

PART II

With me realising I liked that part of myself came the realisation I liked dominance. I liked verbal degradation and humiliation. It came out one time during intense play with a girlfriend and we both were drawn to it. It was just a big pot of all these ingredients and I had no idea what to think about any of it.

I buried the feelings.

And long story short, it was only when I was 26 that I began to properly explore my kinky side. And with that came the realisation I was primal.

Suddenly it all made sense. Suddenly I knew why I loved being naked, why clothes felt restrictive, why I wanted to run and fuck and pump her cunt with cum in the forest – it was that term, that damn umbrella term. All these crazy feelings of lust and love and excitement and rage and sadness were me getting in touch with these primal feelings.

It was all primal. That was the attraction to the horror film. The Predator stalks the prey. There’s a thrilling chase and a struggle, there’s gratuitous nudity and things that were forbidden to me – sex and violence. It all came together.

Okay, sure, the reaction is scientific. It’s the build up of adrenaline – a totally normal physiological response in the body that people can and do experience when watching horror.

But am I wrong in feeling that it runs deeper then that? That there’s also a reason to being drawn to the stark sensuality and visceral voyeurism of the horror film? Or is it because I’m what is labelled primal that it triggers a response in me? OR does it go back to a very animalistic part of our humanity? Something that links back to our history as cavemen? Is it the mind’s way of racing to understand what’s on the screen? Kinda like how in Stephen King’s IT and how the mind perceives the entity as a giant spider because that’s the closest it can understand it?? I don’t know. I’m just a writer, don’t ask me.

All I know is that the tan lines of the victims, the exposed skin, the forbidden sex, the forbidden watchfulness of the killer – it’s all very, deeply, visceral and erotic.

THE FINAL CHAPTER…?

So is this about nature or nurture or both? Did my love for the horror genre not only develop my sexual taste but my anxiety? Is horror responsible for the anxious dominant I am today? Where does it begin?

Am I alone in that attraction – to the horror genre, to the slasher film, to the Predator and the prey hunt?

And why does feeling primal feel lonely? There are other people out there, other primal beings on their own journey. So where on this plane of existence did that come from?

This is how my mind goes.

The Primal Predator

Surely It’s got to be a primal trait, right?

Enjoying the way her beautiful chest rises and falls with her steady breathing. My eyes traveling to her lovely neck and thinking about the whimper she’d make when I wrapped my hands around her throat and squeeze.

In my travels to find photos to inspire my mind, writings, sex life, I came across a gif of a woman cornered. The unseen figure had a knife trailing across her flesh, sliding underneath the strap of her nightie.

To me, it feels like such an animalistic mood or mindset – finding myself enthralled by the sight of her before me, taking in the tiniest details. How huge her eyes might seem, how glazed they might be. How she might stand there. Would she defy me? Would she be testing me in a battle of wills? Standing her ground? Would she hit me back with a verbal sparring? There’s a part of me that would like a challenge.

That’s another thing. There’s something alluring about that invitation to spar mentally, to begin the match, the chase, the hunt – whatever you want to call it. However it begins, it’s a connection between two minds. And that’s incredibly attractive. In a way, that’s really what helps drive my dominance – that connection between minds.

But going back to my earlier wandering thought – I don’t know, it just seems like such an animalistic thought process that’s almost seperate to dominance because of how my eye is drawn to those things. I mean – and this harkens back to my sadistic side – there’s a curiosity that I have with how the individual reacts before me. There’s a sadistic glee that creeps into my bones, at hearing their whimper – and it’s a smirk that spreads across my face as I see their eyes flicker with that dance between obedience and disobedience.

It’s an aspect of my dominance that comes and goes like the seasons. With the sporadic Melbourne weather we’re having here – the change between wild winds and rain and strikingly sunny days – there seems to be a change in my mind. I’m feeling that charge, that atmosphere that could drive me to strip a poor pretty little thing of her singlet (tank top for the un-Australian) just because the sight of her shoulders makes me ponder deeply.

I immediately self sabotage – calling myself a typical male or a dirty man – something I think that is from my own childhood – being raised as a strict Catholic. But it’s there, this mindset to cut away her clothes with a growl and see the look in the eyes of the fellow primal someone that stands before me and wants to see just what kind of animal resides within.

And I guess I ask the question, that it’s got to be a primal trait, because of how intensely I focus on the little reactions. It just seems like such a predatory aspect, a laser-focused sight on the tiny, beautiful features of a person. The things that fascinate me.

Whatever it is, however predatory it may be, it is a big part of who I am. I don’t want to deny it anymore, I want to understand it.

The Driving Force Behind My Dominance

What is the driving force behind my dominance?

Gosh, I feel like I’m staring down my computer at the start of an essay paper with a question like that one. What is the driving force?

On my Instagram, which is basically a college of the inside of my mind, I put up an image — and my whole body begins to react, my skin flushing with a heat that’s all too familiar. My mind is already in the theatre, experiencing past anticipations – the build up, the pause, the relief.

I feel the desire to smack her lovely, tantalising ass – spurred by the image, the invitation, the fantasy, the setting.

It still scares me, you know? This intense, all-consuming, burning desire – to smack her ass, to feel the biting sting on my palm, to feel the pain. THROUGH HER or WITH HER.

It still scares me because of how sudden it comes on — and I’ve tried writing about it. It’s hidden in my stories, this feeling of something slinking up my body, taking me over, possessing me. I kinda think of Venom, from the Spider-Man universe, if I’m honest. This symbiotic lifeform attaching itself to me.

“Do you feel like you don’t have a choice?” I was once asked by a reader who emailed me and wanted to delve into the psychological. “The way you write about it, it seems like you’re not on board with it.”

I guess me liking my dominance to darkness or to a symbiotic creature is because sometimes it does feel like that – because it’s so different to who I am outside of kink and this blog and this life. Maybe the only way my pop culture-addled brain can make sense of that part of who I am is by touching on the media I consume or have consumed.

And while I’m the first to wince back at something I write – Goodnight, Sammie! is a good example of wincing, being a particularly savage story for me to write – I don’t think negatively or it and I don’t want to put it away in a chest in the back of my mind.

But what is the driving force behind my dominance?

An impulse? A need to control? To oversee with a watchful eye the measures of pain and pleasure? To not only own someone in such a sexual and non sexual way but to OWN MYSELF? Own that exhibitionistic, voyeuristic, sadistic side of my mind that is so different to the guy that sings Disney karaoke in the shower?

I think that might be it. A need to connect – on a deep level, on a sexual level and on a non sexual level. I’m a Libra, I wear my heart on my sleeve, I like my hearty romance just as I like to strike her pretty, pale ass with a whip till she’s somewhere between a moan and a cry of pain.

And I need that in my life because without it, I’m some kind of Tarzan beast, right? Unkempt and unfulfilled. A caged tiger perhaps. Just pacing around the exhibit, restless and wild.

Whatever it is, whatever I am without it in my life, it’s crazy how an image can just affect me like that – just trigger my dominance. Because it needs to come out, it has to come out, it’s going to happen right now. It’s that crazy feeling of something tearing out of my chest and wanting to fuck madly and breathlessly. Does anyone ever feel that affected by an image? I don’t know.

I’m going to crash. It’s going on 1am here and it’s been a crazy week to start 2021.

I hope you are safe. I hope you are doing well. I want to thank you for hanging with me, for reading this, and I want you to know that if you ever want to chat – about your week, your dominance / submission, this piece or whatever, you can always reach me at — darkanddominant@hotmail.com

On Inexperience, Writing & Self-Exploration

I’ve been pondering about a question that came my way…gosh, a few months ago now I think? Time has been weird lately – but it was about whether someone who is new to BDSM could write about it, fictional or otherwise, successfully? Or have it be correct in any way?

I’ve been thinking about experience a lot – when it comes to BDSM. I’ve been in a bit of a teacher / mentor mood, I guess, because someone new to the lifestyle wrote in to me and expressed frustrations about being ghosted by a potential Dom due to a lack of experience.

I can’t say I agree with that reasoning but I certainly understand how one could come to think like that. But I digress.

I think that when it comes to writing about BDSM, it’s important to trust in where your mind wants to go, do you understand? Because when you put pen to paper, you ignite your mind. You form a sentence. Then another one. Then you create a paragraph.

Or you don’t. Instead, your heart’s a mess and so is your writing. But it’s down, it’s on the screen or the page and you’ve trapped it. Whatever is in your head is there, frozen in time. A symbol of YOU.

What I’m saying is – writing is cathartic. And through exploring it, you’ll find pieces of your self, through which you night learn some truths about your tastes.

And if you want to write about a specific moral scenario – a rape fantasy, say – do what feels right to you. It’s only a fantasy. But if that’s not enough, write your thoughts on it in a seperate file or page. Explore how you feel about whatever it is you are confronting. Hell, ask the community. Ask me, my door is open.

Regardless of inexperience. Or shyness.

Writing…whether you want to and you’re either a dominant or a submissive or both, it’s about discipline. It’s about sitting down and confronting structure. Not just of words but of your mind. So find a time in the day to write 300 words. Do it again the next day. Leave each break on a moment you are excited to come back to. In a week, you’ll have a decent chunk of the story or your thoughts out.

As for that pesky experience thing, that’s another realm of variables. What if you are knowledgable enough about BDSM but aren’t in a circumstance to explore physically to gain more of an understanding of your wants and needs?

The best answer I have for that is one that might not be to your interests. When I was alone – a lonely dominant, I guess you could say, I peered into the depths of my sexuality. I explored and became comfortable with nudity. I explored my pain threshold, my comfort with verbal degradation. I found new ways to heighten masturbation. Little things that excited and stimulated my mind.

Everybody is different though and to that, one must find what works for them. But still, I think there are things you can do to gain experience.

Please don’t let shyness deter you. Or your writing. Or your self-exploration. Or from reaching out to a friend, the community, a Dom or sub or even me. There’s no easy way to say this but you’re going to have to jump into that pool if you want to write or to reach out. And just like coming up for air after that plunge, it all feels a little bit better after you jump.

Seriously though. You’ve got this.

I’m Gathering Questions for a later Q/A so Ask Me Anything!

Hullo ladies and gentlemen!

We’re at the end of February, seasons will be shifting soon and moods will be changing. I thought that now would be a good time to put it out there that I’d love to do another Q/A with my readers – new or regular.

Anything goes, really. There’s no boundaries to anything you want to ask. It can be about your own journey, it can be about me or something I’ve written, it could be about something you want me to write about, it could be questions about dating or D/s or — anything. For me, as long as you’re comfortable, the sky is the limit!

Please feel free to ask via commenting below or you are always welcome, submissive male or female, dominant female or male, slave, pet, newbie – whoever! – to write to me personally. You can reach me at my Twitter or at my email – darkanddominant@hotmail.com

I’ll be hoarding questions and answering them sometime in this last week of Feb so don’t worry about having too many. The only silly question is the one not asked!

Have a beautiful weekend!

In Which I Ramble About Primal Spirituality

I can’t blame people for thinking that being primal and feeling primal is all about pet play and all that entails. After all, in the beginning, when I didn’t know better, that’s where my mind jumped to.

But readers….goodness, it is so much more than that.

Ever since identifying as a primal here on this blog, I’ve had people ask me what it means exactly, and I’ve had many a philosophical discussions, some that move towards the analytical. To seek to understand.

I had an encounter today – think native Americans and howling – that triggered this feeling within me. A fondness for running wild, the wind on my skin, heart racing in my chest, howling until my throat was raw.

Being primal for me isn’t just a sexual fetish that I happen to enjoy, it’s almost a way of life, a wild feeling deep within me that wants to roam. It isn’t restlessness, not anymore (though I did feel that with my ex wife), but it’s more that I feel like being out in the wild, in communion with nature and other wild free ones such as myself. It’s a feeling where I want to go sit around a fire, worry about nothing and enjoy the evening and all of its splendour. It’s wanting to live, not exist, in this environment.

I struggle to explain the feeling, I know. I’ve talked in circles with people who ask and I feel bad about it because they ask me in the first place. It’s just this deep feeling that comes about. Of being in a tribe or a pack, of being one amongst a few other wild ones. It’s this and a whole bunch of other things. A need to howl till my throat is raw, to beat my chest and hoot.

Sometimes it even comes to identifying as an animal. A wolf or a bear perhaps. Because, see, you start to feel like there’s characteristics there within you. Traits like the animal. And maybe there are.

I used to think I was crazy for thinking this. It sounded delusional, to liken yourself to a wild animal, to feel animalistic sometimes. But then I discovered it was common in primal people. It’s so common that there exists packs of close friends, people that run together and hang together. I wasn’t alone.

And, at the end of a day, it goes deeper than just being primal. Because kink and BDSM can be spiritual for each and everyone of us. And sometimes we don’t know why we are drawn so deeply to it, we just FEEL it. Like an epiphany swelling in our chest. It’s there and raw and unfiltered and you shouldn’t shy from it, you should let it wash over you.

So if I had to end this day, and this piece, for you, dear readers of my blog, to which I’m eternally grateful for, then I want to end this moment with a little note: You are not crazy. You never were. This is just another piece of the puzzle. Take care of yourself. I’m always a message away if you feel like you are going stir crazy.

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.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, dear readers! I hope it’s a wondrous year full of some beautiful memories you will treasure for a lifetime!

I still kick myself that people follow me – be it for the stories or random outlooks – especially in 2019, when I wrote less due to some anxiety spikes throughout the year and then finding a contract that keeps me writing – which I’m blessed for, I just need to manage time better. New goals this year!

Lastly, I want to say…no matter if you’re a man or a woman, a submissive or a dominant, no matter if you have zero experience in BDSM or a tonne of it, if you have a question about BDSM, want to say hello, ask about something I’ve written or want to talk philosophy of BDSM, you are always welcome to contact me personally, through my email or Twitter. Please don’t worry about being a bother, I am always happy to talk, no matter if it’s what I call ‘word vomit.’

I always tell people to ‘just write’ and not worry about structure or spelling mistakes or what have you, because I’ll read it no matter the length.

If you’re worried about me being busy and you don’t want to add to that, please try not to be. Writing to someone is far different than my work. It’s a welcomed respite. And even though I can be forgetful once in a while (Which I’m working on), I promise you I’ll always reply. I reply, not out of obligation, but because I genuinely want to. All are welcome.

Your endless support means the world to me. Thank you for following, for finding me interesting enough to follow, and hopefully I deliver for you this year.

Let’s make this a great year!

On My Mental Health & Nudity

Getting naked and being naked was a part of my journey into becoming more at ease with my sexuality. It was another piece of the puzzle in learning how to hold on to that confidence for myself. It was about learning to rewire my thoughts so I can learn to overcome my insecurity.

I can’t really put my finger on why that it is. Maybe it was because I spent my childhood on acres of bush land and developed a primal way to living. Maybe it was because I was raised in a conservative catholic household and nudity carried with it a sense of exhilaration, of something I shouldn’t be doing but am getting away with – something I still feel and know that others still feel in their own exhibitionist explorations.

Nudity was more than that though. It allowed me to confront my own sexuality and my own thoughts on kink and BDSM. It felt like a scalding shower, like I was stripping away the bullshit and there was nothing left but my vulnerable mind, raw and reeling.

I know being comfortable with my nudity was a turning point for me. I took nude selfies on Fetlife, challenging my perceptions. It helped that randoms found these photos and responded to him positively – but I feel that the real hurdle was just putting them online, of taking that dangerous leap into the unknown. Because the unknown is terrifying when we stare back into it, until we start to inch forward day by day – or even take that plunge.

Nudity allowed me to be in touch with all sorts of animalistic thoughts, some born from the exhilaration buzzing through me, some bubbling to the surface. By stripping away my clothes, I felt this weird sense of being in communion with the world around me. I felt positively charged. I felt good about exploring my racing thoughts as I was naked because I learned to sit with them. Day by day, I sat with them for a few minutes in a hour. Then I did that again the next day.

I resisted it in the beginning, feeling guilty and gross and nauseated. I felt that I wanted to hide away. But in the end, long story short and after much resistance and baby steps, I pieced together how I felt, thereby confronting my own insecurities.

When a new dominant or submissive writes in to me and asks about the ways in which they can confront their own feelings, I often recommend a period of reflection in the nude. As a mentor, I’ve recommended what has worked for me. And sometimes it helps or feels worthwhile for the individual, sometimes it doesn’t work at all. Everyone is different.

For me, growing at ease with myself and learning how to own this insecurity within myself meant coming to terms with the shape of my body. There’s a lot of things connected to nudity for me – my animalism, my dominance, my comfort. It was all knitted together from childhood, left for me to examine years later.

These days, I still feel silly or shy, but these moments are fleeting. I know my mind now and diffusing negative thoughts has become a little easier.