Read To Me

Out in this clearing beyond the trees, out in this hidden place of theirs, she stands straight as she’s been taught, she prepares herself to read aloud using her big, projected voice as she’s been taught.

The book in her hand, the book in question is a classic – Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Fitting, for this hidden place. It’s a rabbit hole in a whole different way.

Every Saturday they come here to read a chapter or two. She dresses for him – a comfortable dress, slinky panties. His choice. Then, once they arrive in the clearing, once he pulls out a chair from their small cottage in the woods – the tiniest structure with no power or plumbing, just a place to be with nature. A home away from their home. Once he pulls out this chair and sits down in it, sometimes crossing his legs, sometimes not, always burning a hole through her chest with those searing dark eyes of his – once he sits, he would always say those few words. Read to me.

The first time they tried this, she had asked him, “Why get dressed if I’m only getting undressed?”. She sat and listened when he explained to her why. That he wanted to see her in a ritual just for them, to shed her clothes and bare herself just for him. She had noted the glazed look in his eye as he spoke of being bare just for him. She kept that look with her through the winters, through the fifteen minute hike to the clearing. She kept it in the back of her mind when she read.

At first she was nervous to read. She never liked the sound of her own voice and though she was enjoying Alice and her odyssey into wonderland, the language and the rhythm of the language wasn’t always that easy to wrap her tongue around. When she’d mistake a word or made an error though, he did not chastise her, not once. He always watched her, that look in his eye, a smile spreading out across his face. He’d comfort her and tell her how well she’s doing, that it was okay.

When she was done, he’d rise from his chair, keep his gaze upon her as he slowly undressed down to nothing. She’d note his erection and find herself salivating as he led her to the comfortable, reliable double bed in that little shack where he’d take her.

Sometimes he took her where she stood, sometimes he’d take her roughly. One time he took her by the ass. She had only let him take her anally. It felt horrible to admit but deep down, she never trusted the ones that came before with that level of intimacy.

Now she feels his eyes on her as she stands there, holding the book in her hands, her heart kicking into overdrive as she feels the gentle breeze around him brush across her breasts.

He crosses his legs, loosens his tie – all the while holding her gaze.

“Read to me.” He says.

So This Blog Has Been Running For Five Years Today.

^ I never used to be comfortable with choking until my current partner, my kitten, egged me on like the low-key shit stirrer she knows she can be. That’s why I used this picture. Once upon a time, I used to squirm at choking. I used to feel nothing but distraught and guilt. I still do but now, at least, it comes with a level of horniness, precise control and sadistic glee.

But hello! Happy Thursday! According to WordPress, today marks the five year anniversary of this here blog. Since I’m sentimental about time measurement, I thought I’d indulge in a little note here.

I can’t start a sentence with a ‘I just want to thank…’ without thinking I’m accepting an award BUT I do genuinely want to thank each and every reader out there – the lurkers, the ones who found the courage to ask questions for themselves, the ones who trusted me enough to take me on as a mentor – or life coach, I suppose. Or is that lifestyle coach? Either way, I thank you for your endless support, your constructive criticisms, your challenging and friendly debates and your presence alone.

This blog has been an invaluable source of inspiration and growth for me, as has the people who comment in because concepts have arisen that have helped me reflect upon myself – such as that time I co-wrote a piece with a fellow writer about sadism and why I’m that way. But I feel like I’m still growing and finding things out about myself.

If I learned one thing about this experience, as both a human and a dominant, it’s that writing out my thoughts and reflecting has helped. So don’t let time slip by you. Challenge your thoughts, be who you want to be. Write for yourself. And don’t forget, as long as I’m running this weird blog, you’re never out of an anxiety buddy or someone to unload to!

One last thing. I’m always open to suggestions or things you’d like to see a focus on for this blog. If there’s something you’d like to hear about, let me know! Because chances are, it’s a window open for me.

Kneel For Me

How do I feel about kneeling?

I think it is a beautiful, soulful exchange. There’s something tender and touching about it, something exhilarating and erotic. About guiding her posture and looking into her eyes. About helping her to recite her mantra when she feels down or flat, so that she may be feel some semblance of how I see her.

O! If only I could create a gateway from my mind to hers, so she could see once and for all how I feel about her, as my friend and my pet and my whore and my submissive. How I’ve been wanting to write about her eyes but no world has never felt good enough to sketch in.

But it goes beyond just wanting that for her, it goes beyond wanting to lift her up. There’s a slight possessiveness, laced with a stab of guilt, at wanting to see her like no one else has. Of having – stealing – this moment in time to share together. Of feeling an insatiable, incredible desire that yearns for control and protocol and rules in a way I still don’t understand. This is a part that wrestles with other parts of me. Most times I want to earn her trust, that right to have her kneel. Most times I want to be worthy.

Sometimes I want to be greedy. I want to take. To force. To humiliate and degrade.

“Oh look at you, you poor tormented thing. Look how eager you are, how hard your nipples are. You’ve got it bad”. She’s got it bad, I think? No. I’ve got it bad. Sometimes my mind runs to sadistic tangents and fantasies. Sometimes it doesn’t care because it just wants the view of her bare ass, reflecting back at me from the full length mirror, ready to be marked red.

But there’s beauty in that sadism, beauty in the squeaks and gasps and cries and quiet “Yes, Sir.” or “Sorry, Sir. I couldn’t help myself.”

There’s beauty in these exchanges, on this day or the next.

Wouldn’t you agree?

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.

What Do You Get Out Of It?: A Dominant On Bondage

What does bondage mean to me, somebody who identifies as being a dominant? I’ve been thinking about that the past few days. That – and my dominance itself.

People have told me in the past that January, being the first month of a new year, makes people contemplative. I guess that’s true for me too because I’m wondering about all the finer details.

I think the first aspect – the most obvious aspect – is the sexual thrill. Why a sexual thrill? Well, I can draw that line – that red string on the board – back to my interest in control. How I like to have that control, how it eases my mind and, on my better days, my anxieties. Control is calming. But there’s also an underlying degree of sexiness there too. An edge. Control is calming and appealing but there’s also that part of my brain that is attracted to an image of someone – in my case, a submissive, bound by rope. Not only at MY mercy but at the mercy of the binding of the rope. Just that very sentence activates the sadist in me. I want her to struggle, for her to feel the burn against her tits and thighs. I want to see how my plaything reacts to that pain. In a way, I want to test her.

So there’s the level of control, and the sexual thrill brought about by that control – not to mention the sadistic side woken out of a slumber, but what else speaks to me, as a dominant? I’m not a submissive, I couldn’t dare say what appeals to the one that wants to be bound. But the question that so many readers and people I mentor ask me comes to my mind – what do you get out of it? And, here’s one of my own, does it go beyond sadism and sexual thrills?

I believe it does. There’s two things I want to ramble about, if you’ll allow me, if you care for read, and the first is the intimacy of it. There’s something else at work behind the sadism and sexual thrill and control, there’s beauty. Beauty at the weaving of the rope, at how the intricate pattern crisscrosses across her body, holding her all snug-like. It’s a work of art, it’s magic and it couldn’t be magic without her involvement, her devious mind.

Which brings me to Kinbaku-bi, or what the internet tells me is “the beauty of tight binding”. It’s an art form, it’s creative, it’s putting your mind into your kink so it’s personal on a whole different level and it’s artistic. My mind is drawn to how experimental you can be with it. Try this weave, try this chair, try bending her over. It invites thought and it invites discussion and even now, it has my heart and mind racing with possibilities.

So I think that’s what I get out of bondage, whether it being viewing it from afar or engaging it in directly. It’s erotic, it’s beautiful, it’s artistic, it’s personal – it’s multi-layered.

Thanks for reading and if you want to talk about this piece or any other, you are always to welcome to comment or write in to me directly at darkanddominant@hotmail.com

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.