The Wilderness Beckons

Just a few things before we get started – I don’t know if it’s needed but I know it got under my skin so – this piece features anxiety and that terrible mind-altering panic that comes with a panic attack. This may or may not be triggering. I don’t know how good of a writer I am in instilling that into a reader. But I know it gave me knots in my stomach.

Oh and this is long so get comfortable. I hope you enjoy.

————-

The restaurant was alive all around her – a hundred voices buzzing all at once. People gestured animatedly, some laughed uproariously.

Delilah couldn’t shut the noise out. It was going to consume her, this place. She was sinking into the chair and she’d continue to sink until she was absorbed into it, becoming just another piece of the environment.

“Are you okay?”

James’ voice shattered her thoughts into a thousand tiny pieces. They fell away from her grasp and scattered on their dinner table as she looked up at his kind face.

He was looking at her from across the dinner table, a look of concern in his deep, brown eyes.

Delilah’s eyes fell to his crinkled black dress shirt, to the crooked collar. She wanted – oh so badly – to reach across the space between them and fix that. It was bugging her.

She could have, by all means. But something held her still.

Was it the people around her, out at dinner themselves? She thought.

Is it because it’s our nine year anniversary and I’d only make even more of a fool of myself?

No, she thought, feeling her eyes lose focus on the crooked collar before her, it must be the rain outside. It had to be a change in the weather or a full moon or something screwing with her mind more so than usual.

Like a light flicking on, Delilah’s mind was drawn to the uncomfortable warmth in her armpits. She could feel herself starting to sweat. Did she apply enough deodorant?

Her body started to flush with a disgusting warmth that slithered from her spine down to her ass. She wanted to tear off this simple black floral dress and just get naked.

That was a feeling that hit her every now and then. A want, a need, to get whatever she was wearing off of her skin, like everything was itching at her, like nothing would settle her mind until she was completely naked. Sometimes it frustrated her so much she’d scream, other times it came with a sickening sensation that washed over her like warm water. With it, came a surreal understanding – a moment of clarity, perhaps – that what she was experiencing was erotic.

“Lilah? Lovely?”

Delilah looked at James. Lovely, normal James. Friendly James. Sweet James. Safe James.

“Let’s just go home and order something in. It’ll be just the two of us.”

James wasn’t just looking at her, he was reading her face. He knew her fidgeting habits, they had been together long enough for him to know, what he calls, her ‘tells’. Like she was a living poker game or something.

His face curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They were on her, never wavering. Like he held her in his own steel trap.

Delilah wanted to run and keep running, till her panting and heaving and body sweat made her incapable of thought.

She opened her mouth to speak, her lips feeling cracked and dry, but all that came out was a quivering breath.

James, eyes never darting, smile never lighting them, gave a single nod.

“We’ll go. Okay?”

Delilah felt resistance grip her body and mind in a convulsion. James caught this too.

“It’s alright, really. Please, baby. I’m not mad. Okay? I promise this to you.”

His tone was perfect, his delivery sincere. Delilah had no reason to doubt him but doubt, of course, ran as an undercurrent underneath each word, sizzling with each sound the word itself made.

Think of something else, Delilah told herself.

I am a cat, slinking away in the night.

Something else.

I rest my head on a neat pile of foliage.

Something else!

This is the place I call home.

“Let me pay the check and we’ll go, yeah? I won’t wait.”

Before she could get out one word, if she even could – her mouth was hanging open – James rose to his feet and left their table to hunt down the bill.

Delilah’s palms were resting on either thigh, nails dug deep into the fabric of her dress. She could smell the remainder of their food mixed with her perfume. It made her want to be sick.

Her mind fell onto the audible track of her heart beating in her chest and in her ears.

Be quiet, she wanted to hiss. No words came.

What is wrong? With me, with this?

No words came.

The restaurant was going to open its jaws and swallow her whole any minute now – just bare its teeth and consume her, dress and shoes and pretty little panties and fucking everything. She would be gone. Totally.

Run, a voice hissed at her. Her own voice, calm and cool.

Delilah felt acid churn in her stomach, a terrible burning sensation gnawing at her insides.

Run! The voice hissed at her – louder this time.

Delilah shot up out of her chair, her crumpled dress falling back down around her pale legs.

Stumbling on legs like a newborn calf, she moved out from their table and down the gauntlet that had populated tables on either side.

Voices were all around her, overlapping one another. Laughing people, animated faces. Hundreds of conversations filling her mind.

Delilah couldn’t breathe. She stumbled towards the exit in a stupor, waiters and waitresses eyeing her as if she was ill or a ticking time bomb seconds away from erupting and disrupting.

Their eyes on her only drove her forward more so, the sick feeling in her gut rising.

As she reached for the doors to the restaurant, she began to retch. Her lips, sore from being dry too long, held in a sputtering cough.

Was the door to the restaurant push or pull? She didn’t know, she didn’t think. She shakily reached out and pulled the door. Pull was right.

Stepping into the evening was like stepping into a walk-in freezer.

Boy howdy, the chill was a snake winding up around her leg and underneath her dress. She could feel it’s icy touch run over her breasts through her thin, lacy bra and stab at her nipples.

Outside, the city was alive and very much awake still. People flooded the walkway before her, some eyeing her just as the workers behind her did, some pushing past her.

Delilah didn’t notice this. Feeling lightheaded, she crossed the road, her mind on the park across the street from her. Her eyes fixated on the tangled bushes that would shield her from..from all of this.

A yellow taxi came to a screeching halt before her. The driver stuck his head out the window to yell obscenities. This only shot more adrenaline into Delilah’s system. Pinpricks of heat flushed down her head, as if she was standing up suddenly.

Delilah’s legs knew what to do though. They moved quickly – one foot in front of the other, heels click-clacking on the asphalt. Delilah mimicked their rhythm vocally, as if humming to herself, as she crosses the road and pressed her way through treebranches and into the park ahead of her. The rhythm soothed her, distracted her.

When she felt the light from the road disappear behind her, darkness enveloping her, her legs kicked into a run.

A wooden pathway twisted and turned before her and off into the distance but Delilah didn’t care to be led – she just ran.

Was it normal for her heart to beat this fast for her age? Was this going to be her end, having a heart attack on the park grounds?

Delilah let the thought swirl around her and engorge her. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, sweet, sweet air gushing down into her lungs.

She felt her left heel fall off…then the right. She let it go. The ground, the dirt crunching beneath her feet felt right. It felt light, lighter than she had been in months.

Tears dribbled down her eyes, blurring the dark park and bush ahead of her while wetting the corners of her mouth. She could taste it – the light salt taste of herself. She could lose herself in it, the blurred parkway around her her.

Something grabbed ahold of her bare foot and Delilah’s vision lunges forward. She was flying through the air, soaring over a pile of leaves and sticks.

Suddenly pain exploded in her chest, as if she fell on solid concrete. A heaviness that rattled the teeth in her mouth.

Delilah was on her stomach on the ground, leaves in her hair, tears in her eyes. She let out a cough that had been building since she left the restaurant. Her chest heaved, her breasts aching with faint pain. A dry cough came out once – twice, clawing her throat and bringing more tears to her eyes.

She was going to be sick. She just knew this, some sort of sense her mind was firing off to her. Her whole body prepared itself as she began to retch, her stomach muscles convulsing.

She emptied her dinner out on the park grounds in a series of guttural cries.

Breathless, teary-eyed, somehow feeling fucking amazing from the endorphins flooding her system, Delilah knelt there on the floor, her dinner underneath her, sizzling into the leaves in the ground, kinda like the blood from the creature in ALIEN.

When she felt she was done vomiting, when she felt she was done catching her breath, she climbed to her feet, dead leaves sticking to her red and crinkled knees.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to let loose a scream that she could feel lodged in her throat like phlegm.

The only thing that kept her quiet was the idea of being caught – either by someone walking along the outskirts of the park or within.

Fear crept over now, replacing the primal urge to run and be naked. Here she was, standing on trembling legs, in near darkness. The only source of light seemed to be the moon in the night sky.

Delilah felt the cold once more then. It came in waves traveling over her skin. Wind kissed the back of her neck and tickled a strand of her hair.

Somewhere ahead of her, a twig crackled. Leaves rustled. The forest began to move – trees shaking as if they were the limbs of the forest coming to life.

Delilah felt more wind skim across the back of her legs. She spread her legs another inch apart to let it through and felt it rush through the gap between her thighs and leave her.

Her heart was working overtime again, her mind aware of its pumping in her chest and in her ears again.

I’m going to be attacked, she thought. I am going to be attacked or raped or both and it’s going to be my fault because James was back there and James was safe and why did I ever leave the restaurant. I do not like this place, not now, not at all.

From the shadows, a shape emerged – and Delilah willed her legs to move. Nothing.

Delilah couldn’t look away. Her eyes, her mind, was frozen on the shape before her.

She thought of a rapist, of a killer, of a figure with the body of a man and the head of an owl.

The shape itself seemed to ripple, as if reality was distorting around it, bending it to its will – and now Delilah would be next in line to be forced, wouldn’t she?

She caught sight of a leg stepping into the light…then another leg. Leg dotted with hair.

A man, Delilah thought and understood. A naked man. A junkie? A homeless man?

Shame flushed her cheeks for jumping to that conclusion.

Piercing green eyes materialised from the darkness. Dazzling emeralds fading into existence. Stars being born.

The rest of this man’s face emerged from the darkness, staring blankly at her, his medium length dark hair – or shadowed hair – seemingly slick back with something. Sweat?

The man stepped further into the light, his toned arms catching the kiss of the moon. He was naked, Delilah realised. Utterly naked.

She wanted to avert her eyes but couldn’t. Something was holding her in place, keeping her vision on his eyes.

Even out of the corner of her eyes, as he took one step further, Delilah could see his cock, masked lightly by a thin cover of pubic hair.

A breath caught in her throat as the naked man stood before her. He did not speak, he did not smile. He only stood watching her, his glowing eyes never leaving her.

Delilah felt her knees buckle – and tried to right herself – but she collapsed to her knees, inches away from her own vomit.

She knew this, she was thinking this, but her eyes never left the man before. The handsome man, the gorgeous man. Was that a dimple on his right cheek?

Delilah felt lost in a daze, like waking from a dream. Her eyelids felt heavy when she blinked through the tears forming in her eyes.

Before she realised what she was doing, her hands were lifting simultaneously to the straps of her dress. They peeled the thin tangle down her lightly-tanned shoulders.

Suddenly, she knew, deep in her mind and heart, that she wanted to get naked for this man. She wanted to him to see her naked. She wanted him to gaze upon her small breasts, upon the freckle above her belly button, upon her belly button herself.

Why she wasn’t naked already, waiting for him, she didn’t know. How silly she had been, not to be proper.

Delilah stuffed the dress down around her waist, hoping – secretly hoping – this man would like the fluffy detailing of her white lacy bra that hugged her cool skin. She thought it was fun and girly and maybe He would appreciate it more then James did when she was getting dressed for their date. Maybe He knew what to do about her, unlike James.

Delilah peeled off the dress further, wriggling out of it.

She blinked tears away as her hands didn’t miss a beat, they reached behind her to deftly unclasp her bra. Her small breasts felt the bra become unhooked and savoured the freedom, savoured the night air. Her little pink nipples hardened at the touch of it.

Delilah only wanted to please this man. She knew she could do this by offering herself as a tribute. Her body, her mind, her soul. Deep in her heart she knew this to be true.

As her bra fell away, as she tossed it aside, not minding where it fell, she could hear blood pumping away in her ears. The deafening, sickening noise created for her some kind of thick, pulsating beat to which she could continue to undress to.

She shifted from where she was, peeling her dress away from her legs and letting it fall to a clump by her feet.

Now she was just in her underwear – black, lacy underwear, with a little pink bow front and centre. Delilah couldn’t shake the girly feeling that washed over her mind, slathering her body with slick sweat. She couldn’t shake this feeling that before Him she was a child – or worse, an infant.

Panic started to zigzag across her body in thousands of tiny pinpricks of heat. What if she wasn’t good enough for Him? What if He rejected her offering. What if He rejected HER?

The man knelt beside her, her eyes darting between hers, unreadable. His lips parted, he spoke something, his voice deep, the words in a language Delilah’s mind couldn’t process.

Her eyes fell. She wasn’t doing that on her own accord, she just followed the line of sight as they dropped down to his thick, hard cock.

A strange hunger filled her suddenly. She wanted to crawl on her knees towards his cock and guide it into her mouth. That felt, to her, like the right thing to do.

Just letting the idea play out in her mind, like a short film only for her, made her chest swell with pride. Would He enjoy her mouth? Would she be a good girl?

It all happened so fast.

The man shot out toward her – lightening fast, Delilah thought, before her vision went tumbling upside down. She felt the drop in her gut, like she was plummeting down a hill in a roller coaster.

The forest before her suddenly became still. Delilah could see the skinny trees stretch out into the darkness before her. That darkness seemed to swallow everything in front of her. Delilah was on all fours at the edge of the world, leaves and dirt crunching underneath her hands and knees.

Heart rabbiting in her chest, blood thunderous in her ears, Delilah struggled against the Man’s grip but he had her held tightly. She could feel his fingers digging into her sides, her mind painting the picture of reddened fingertips and her flesh turning white at the grip.

Delilah’s nostrils filled with the earthy scent of dying leaves and dirt. The scent of —

Her senses exploded, blood rushing to her head, swaying her vision. She could feel it, burrowing deep into her cunt – His cock. She wasn’t prepared for it, her body wasn’t prepared for it. Her cunt wasn’t ready for it.

Her chest seized tight, knocking air from her lungs. It came out of her in a wheeze.

“J..James…” Delilah managed to struggle out, her mind reeling and racing and running wildly with thoughts. Thoughts that didn’t come fully formed. Something was happening to her mind.

It came to her attention, then and there, her cunt muscles were clenched as His cock was buried within her. It only came to her because when she felt his cock slip out of her, she felt her muscles retract.

A moan escaped her lips as she felt a tickle there between her legs, something she hadn’t felt in a while. Something she now wanted more of – desperately.

Delilah heard Him grunt behind her as she felt the thrust, as she felt his balls smack against the inside of her thigh.

Feeling him fill her again filled her with a giddiness she couldn’t describe. Her mind reeling, vision swaying again, she fell forward, small breasts hitting the rough texture of dying leaves.

They crunched underneath her, pricking her flesh.

It all happened so fast, being flipped over and penetrated like this. And yet…pride was swelling in the back of her mind. Pride tinged with satisfaction – at being chosen.

Her life seemed all the more distant with each thrust the man took.

Delilah welcomed all of it. The force behind her, the earth underneath her, scratching her skin raw. Her knees, buckling under the weight of Him.

Oh she was pinned to the Earth and unable to escape but she wasn’t a victim. No, she was an offering. She felt that more than ever now, pride swirling with the ravenous hunger that had been building in the pit of her gut. She was a fitting offering. Possibly even the best ever. Was that too much to ask of Him?

Delilah felt her body grind into the dirt, creating a little crevice, a little groove. She felt flecks of dirt stick to her skin, rub at her skin.

A part of her wanted to crawl up to her knees and rest up against the Man. In her mind, she could see it just as she could see the ground before her now – she would climb to her knees, His cock slipping out of her cunt, smacking against his legs as she came to grind her ass back into him, teasing her in a way she never could before she had run into the park. Into this other world.

Delilah let the moment wash over her. She could feel his cock stretch her lips apart, she embraced this fullness feeling that made her giddy and made her feel sick at the same time.

Behind her, He grunted with each thrust, muttering under his breath in between panting.

Delilah lost herself in the rhythm of the act, each thrust for her becoming a welcomed embrace and a welcomed retreat. It was intoxicating, addicting. She wanted it, she wanted HIM. Again. And again.

“Harder” She tried to say – but all that came out of her was a squeak.

Delilah tried to speak again. She opened her mouth, her little tongue ready with the words, but instead a growl came out of her.

She felt her throat burn with the low noise, she felt her jaw clench as the end of it came rippling out of her lips.

Frustrated, she balled her fists into the earth and shakily rose herself up on them, in a way that felt like she was doing push-ups. Her arms ached as they took the weight.

Her intent was in lifting her ass back into Him. She wanted to grind against him, to feel His cock nestled between her ass cheeks.

Her whole body started to shake as she rose higher, arching her back and lifting her ass.

An explosion went off in her temples, tears formed instantly in her mind. She had been hit. No – smacked.

Her body was back down against the dirt, her breasts squished underneath her.

As Delilah blinked through the tears, her mind unraveled the thread of the mystery. Her ass was stinging where the man had smacked her. She could feel the bite on her left ass cheek, radiating pain. Pain that felt strangely good.

A memory came to the forefront of her mind, as if rattled loose by the smack.

Delilah was lying naked on her stomach on the bed she shared with James, her head buried into the bed quilt. Her ass was lifted into the air, feeling the cool kiss of the winter night.

Smack me, she had asked James – and he had obliged, only gently. Too gently for her own tastes.

Harder, she had asked, and James tried, but a sinking feeling began to manifest in Delilah. She knew his heart wasn’t it. She just knew.

That was a few months ago now.

Delilah’s mind returned to the present. She was panting, body sinking into the ground, ass stinging even with the cool night air clutching at her skin.

She opened her mouth, to respond to Him, but before the words could leave her lips, pain burst across her right ass cheek, rippling across her body. His open hand.

Then came shuffling and crunching – dirt and leaves and grass rustling. Then crackling. As if a camp fire was nearby. But if a campfire was —

Another eruption of pain, clawing at her ass, this time in the centre, and tougher. Harder. Not a hand this time, Delilah thought, her mind still processing the pain, but something else. A stick?

The something else came across her bare skin again, sending pain pulsating up across her thighs.

Delilah felt the pain, red hot and searing, and knew her skin was scratched open and bleeding. She just knew this to be true.

And yet…that feeling of pride was still with her, still in her, still aching like her soaked cunt. She understood to take this without a word, without a complaint. She would show him that she was worthy, that, yes, she was wrong to lift her ass to Him. Things could’ve come to her in due time.

That’s when she felt the crack of the stick against her cunt.

Delilah let out a howl – not just at the pain of it against her wet lips — she was extremely sensitive. That was an explosion of pain and pleasure in itself.

Before her howl had finished, Delilah was smacked again, this time a jagged piece of branch clawed across her clit. This caused the end of her howl to come out in a strangled whimper.

She could feel it there, the presence of the branch, even when it wasn’t there at all. She could feel its sting along her exposed slight.

And yet, exhilaration throbbed through her body, leaving her a quivering mess on the ground. She had always wanted this, to be spanked, hard and fast and raw. She had always wanted to be at the mercy of James but he confessed to her that he didn’t know how, that he couldn’t find that space.

All of this come flooding back to her as her cunt and ass throbbed with pain and pleasure simultaneously.

“Please.” Delilah managed to choke out. “Please. I will behave. I —“

She felt him enter her tortured cunt then. The rest of her sentence came out in a strained wheeze.

It fell upon her without warning, clawing at her cunt, seizing her leg muscles, blood rushing to her head, her senses in disarray, her vision a blur. Her orgasm came gushing over her in waves, forcing a grunt, deep and alien, out of clenched mouth.

Her face collapsed into the dirt. A dust cloud swept upwards into the air. Delilah let herself rest in the dirt. She was frozen. She couldn’t move. Even when she felt the cock rip itself from her sensitive little cunt, she couldn’t move. Her body went into a spasm but she didn’t move.

She lay there dazed, breathless. Her mind unable to string together a thought.

It was only when she heard the sound of something behind her exposed self crashing into the grass behind her, followed by silence, that she crawled up into a squat on shaky arms and legs. She lost her balance and fell backwards onto her ass. Pain once more shooting up her body in flaring hot tendrils.

Swerving around in a spin, Delilah looked and —- the man was gone. He was gone. Her lover, her punisher was gone.

Her mind was stuttering, trying to form a cohesive thought. Who was-

Why was —

Why did He —

What was so wrong with –

“Come back..” She whispered to the darkness around her. “I’m sorry I….please come back…”

Delilah hugged her knees. Brown, dead leaves stuck to her legs.

She felt her inflamed ass and longed for another smack to focus on. Anything instead of this encroaching darkness.

Her dress and underwear were where she left them. They were covered in dirt and leaves, just like her naked self.

Stunned and dumbstruck, reeling from the orgasm, from the absence of pain and of Him, Delilah began to slowly get dressed again.

***

James was sitting back in his seat when he saw Delilah emerge from the park.

He stumbled to his feet, the forks and knives on the table before him clattering.

All this time he thought she was in the bathroom. Calming down from a panic or what, he just did not know. Calling her resulted in going straight to voicemail. And who could he ask to check in on her? His only option was to sit and wait.

To hell with looking silly to those dining around him, his mind was only on Delilah and whether she was okay.

James was out the restaurant doors in just one breath. He was crossing the road in another breath, his eyes darting from her dirtied knees and bare feet to her distant eyes, caked with tears.

“Jesus, Lilah, what happened?”

When he reached her, he went to put his arms around her. She shrank away from his touch, her eyes looking down, her lips trembling.

James understood. He knew she didn’t like to be touched at the height of a panic.

Questions and answers would come later. Now she needed rest or a safe place or a bath or Netflix or something.

James put his arm around her slowly, gently. Delilah didn’t shrink away this time, her eyes were frozen on the ground.

Together, they made their way back to James’ car in silence.

Just Write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TD&D

How Can You Tell If You’re Dominant Or Submissive?

Ladies and gents, I’m kinda stumped.

Early in the week, I was talking to a lady about how to implement kink into her marriage with her husband, when she ran a question by me – How do you know if you’re Dominant?

I answered that question best I could in the moment, running my own experiences with identifying the feeling by her, hoping it would connect somehow. But now, days later, I’m still thinking it over. I don’t really know HOW. It all seems so organic looking back.

I have also recently had someone ask me If they’re still fully submissive if they enjoy being bratty – there’s a lot of misunderstanding about the persona and how it applies to the individual.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot of confused and alone people out there with a laundry list of questions and no one to ask. I’m more than happy to answer anything anyone has to ask, be you male, female, teenager, adult, new to the lifestyle or in the middle of a transformation or even someone with an inkling of kinkling.

Anyway, I thought I would try to the answer the question at length, hoping newcomers to BDSM might relate and it can help them in their own journey.

In the beginning, I had these feelings that I had understanding of. I didn’t know I could file my name calling under ‘Degradation and Humiliation’ nor did I understand why I was so interested in control – in exercising authority over my girlfriend. In these stages, there was no real sense of D/s and aftercare because I was immature and these feelings were immature and coarse and unrefined.

Before I continue, let me just write that there’s no absolute way for one person. Everyone is different and works differently.

I should say that my own development has come with a certain degree of blind luck. I met certain people at the right time in my life, people like me, through Fetlife or the semi-sketchy anonymous confessional app Whisper. I was a lucky bastard. I had the blessing of shaping who I was through encounters along my twenties.

Fetlife was a big player in my path, I would say. By signing up and looking around, I could see I wasn’t alone. I could even put a name to my kinks and thus have some semblance of understanding.

Google helped too, in a way, acting as a gateway to all sorts of media – books, images, blogs, people, Kink. Suddenly I knew of words like ‘Dominance’ and ‘submission’ and ‘dynamic’. Combine this with Fetlife and I had opportunities to feel the gravitational force to someone who was submissive. I’m talking, heart racing, cock hardening, breath quickening gravitational forces that helped me realise something was within me.

I know what you’re wondering. ‘Okay, but how does someone know if they’re dominant? Or even submissive?’

The best advice I can give is that it starts with an idea. Have a google of key concepts that come to mind when you think of BDSM – blindfolding, handcuffs, dirty talk. Start small. See if something strikes up your fancy.

If you want to reach deeper, have a look at concepts within a D/s relationship, such as setting tasks and rules and maintaining order. See if any of these concepts appeal to you on a base level. Try not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information – there can be a lot to learn but you can easily break it up into easily digestible parts.

Start small. Start light. A bit of spanking, a bit of issuing commands – talk to your partner about what they would like to try and see if it strikes a chord with you on any level.

The last advice I can give is to be open to yourself and to your partner. That goes for likes and dislikes and even if you’re uninterested. But always be open to trying at least. You never know what you’ll find on the road less travelled.

Late Night Musings on the Origin of My Dominance

Why is discipline so important to me in a D/s relationship?

There’s an underlying level of sexiness there, certainly, but there’s more to that, I feel. It’s something bigger than that. Bigger then me.

Maybe it’s as simple as I read novels like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and the subtle subtext of Dominance and submission spoke to me, in ways I’m still processing in my adult life. Maybe it’s just that simple and not the grand cosmic experience I sense in my heart. I’ve always been a romantic. I’m a Libra, the so called daydreamer with a taste for the sensual. That’s our thing, right?

I don’t know if I can accept an answer so simple – that it’s simply something we enjoy sexually. But even that is part of the human condition right? That we may not be satisfied with simplicity, that we need a new mystery to occupy our minds. I still don’t know if I buy that, because it still feels massive in my heart.

So where does it come from, this need to dominate? And where does the sadism come from? The words ‘just give me a reason to break you’ spat out through clenched teeth that so want to break out after multiple bratty outbreaks.

Because if it’s as simple as it being a kink, an enjoyable thing to do, why is the IDEA of breaking her down, to the brink of pleasure and pain, just to find that inner slut who wants to cry out all the thoughts the other is scared do utter – why is that so complex? So fucked up in its savagery but so utterly, utterly beautiful.

I don’t know, man. I’m the type to wonder constantly, Dream always, and stare at the stars ruminating on why.

Penny

Nineteen year old Penny stands quietly in her bedroom adorned with posters of The Doors, wearing a thin grey singlet top and nothing else.

Her dark blonde hair is untied, reaching back down to the tips of her shoulder blade.

The room is low lit – her small white lamp sits on an old chest of drawers covered with gothic romances and old fairytales.

There is no sound in this room – she’s stopped her run of Love Her Madly, per the request of her mother, who is heading to bed. On top of that, she should really be studying for her psychology exam tomorrow anyway.

The temperature in the room is just right, a blend of warm with the slightest hint of a breeze.

The breeze, of course, tickles the back of her legs and skims across her inner thigh. She can feel the breeze where she has shaven herself.

From the study table to her left, a brown, ancient thing that has been in the family for decades, she grabs her metal ruler. The sharp edges scrape across the inside of her hands.

As she steps to her double bed that fits snuggly in the corner, she absent-minded slaps the metal ruler against her lightly tanned ass to the rhythm of Love Her Madly.

In a heartbeat, everything she had been thinking about – tomorrow, exams, Jim Morrison – disappears. All that remains is the feeling of the metal ruler against her ass. That cold slight sting.

Penny is standing in the middle of the room, her shadow quivering, as of coming to life on its own. Like electricity, the idea hits her and sizzles it’s way down her body in one pulsating sweep.

Smack. It happens sudden.

The cold hits — then gives way to pain.

Smack. More stinging. This time the ruler scraped at her skin.

The thick sound of the ruler on her right cheek fires off amidst the silence.

THWAP! SMACK!

Another, and another.

Chills race down from the beads of sweat on her forehead to her nipples hardening underneath her singlet.

She can feel her pussy tingle with each smack. And with each smack, the sting begins to throb.

When she’s done with her backside, she’ll work on her front.

SMACK!

Penny shifts gears, the ruler comes down in a series of strikes, one after the other, the rhythm akin to an old Slayer tune – thrash on her skin. Smacksmacksmacksmacksmack.

It begins to overwhelm her, transporting her mind to a haven she’s only seen in the patterns when she closes her eyes.

There’s nothing out there but her amongst the void – her striking her ass.

Each strike is a pulse only she can hear, a reminder to chant low and meditate. She’s losing ground, her feet slipping.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

She can smell her own scent.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

Penny stifles her cries,

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘What the bleeding ‘ell are you doing, Penelope?’ Her mother asks groggily through the door.

Penny almost trips but rights herself, finding solid ground. She roses the metal ruler on her bed.

‘Just..uh…nothing’

‘Right. Well. Stop doing nothing.’

Penny listens but her mother says no more. One second more and footsteps begin to fade. Penny gets back to studying.

Dream Time

A guest at her friend’s house, the pretty little thing lays on her stomach underneath the warm sun.

Out of sight and out of mind, she lays on the verandah as the family naps away from the heat.

In this time, the eighteen year old has an idea. It hits her out of no where.

Reach into your satchel bag and pull it out. Test it. No one will hear. No one will need to know.

Before the pretty little thing can come to terms with the voice, she reaches into the bag and pulls out the 7 inch black dildo she had ordered off the Internet through a local toy store. Thanks Facebook sponsor.

In silence, she pulls apart her black bikini bottoms. She can smell her own scent. This just drives her further to slide it in.

She winces at first, but soon the toy becomes slick and inches further within her.

Soon she is full. She can feel it, all the way within her now.

Then she withdraws her hand, and rests with the toy still within her.

For a while, she listens to the silence around her. No bird chirps, no cicada buzzes. Nothing.

When the toy starts to slip out of her, she reaches back to pull it in. The sensation of the act causes her to moan.

With the toy back within her, she rests her head down again. The pretty little thing starts to doze.

The world around her begins to fade.

When she feels the toy start to slip, she reaches back and feels something coarse.

Looking behind her fills her with horror. The pretty little thing sees a hand gripping her toy.

That’s when she locks eyes – her friends brother. Four years her senior. And he must’ve slipped behind the corner of the Veranda she’s resting in.

He looks at her with his dark eyes and lifts a finger to his lips – be quiet.

Slowly, he slides the toy back into her and the pretty little thing whips her head back to meet the wave of pleasure crashing over her.

It’s slow at first, his movement. He eases it in and eases it out, all the while being completely silent, the only sound coming from her. Her wet lips.

Gradually, he begins to pump at an increased rhythm. It’s fast and smooth. The pretty little thing feels her body jolt with each thrust, feels the air leave her lungs.

She doesn’t know it, she thinks she is still, but she’s actually grinding back into the toy as it slips out of her.

With her head on the ground, her hair around her eyes, she lifts a hand behind her and unties her bikini top, letting her tits fall out onto the verandah. The wood beneath her instantly makes her nipples hard as they scratch against them.

She begins to play with her left breast, pinching it, stretching it. Today the pretty little thing wants to indulge – she slaps it from the side. Again. And again. It stings in response.

Better yet, she doesn’t have to worry about the sound bouncing off walls and echoing here. It’s just her here. Her and the toy.

The pretty little thing doesn’t get to play with her tits for long though, her orgasm sneaks up on her. She cuts out the moan that was hanging on her lips. Her legs jolt, her arm seizes up. The toy is held within her, all the way. Were you to be behind the pretty little thing, you could see the black edge of it buried deep within her.

The pretty little thing writhes around on the wood for a moment, feeling hot and cold flushes. Then she is still, and where the brother went, she does not know.

Causality, Sexuality and Fate

If you’ve clicked on this article looking for any definite answers, you’ve arrived at the wrong place. But what led you here, right now, to this very blog? What was it about this headline that caught your eye? What led you to open this?

A simple answer would be to say that our individual development and backgrounds lead us to develop into the person we are in this very moment. But is there something more to all of this? Is there something underlying each point of our lives, arriving precisely when we need it to?

Before I move on to exhibits as examples into my mindset tonight, I should preface this by saying I’m a religious man. I was raised catholic in a conservative household – I did my communion, I attend Palm Sunday – I did the whole she-bang.

In my adult life, its complicated – I don’t attend mass, but I believe in something bigger than me. I eat meat when I’m not supposed to and I blaspheme more than I should.

I link the rituals and worshiping of some D/s practices to a religious experience, though don’t take that as meaning I believe I am a God. I’m just a guy writing a draft on his phone at 2-30am.

But I digress.

Exhibit A: Berserk, Vol. 18

In this sequence from the manga Berserk, a woman follows her fellow prostitute, in the dead of the night, to a pagan orgy. She then proceeds to punish her. The more dominant one then apologises, embracing the younger one.

It’s a twisted act and comes straight after a mind-melting sequence that’s all sorts of body horror, but therein lies the interesting aspect.

Why does it arouse me?

Okay, sure, it’s one woman spanking another. That’s the simplest explanation but it’s also the most unsatisfying one.

See, it takes a certain mind to go from horror to arousal. Those are two completely different tones. And in this sequence, even the spanking comes with a deep characterisation and a vague sense of WTF.

So what led me to Berserk, this ultra violent manga? That was it a dark fantasy and horror.

Okay, but what led me to horror? And why is it I too can shift gears from dark and disturbing to sexual arousal.

Every good horror knows how to utilise tension. There’s the build up and release and a time to catch your breath. Is this piece executing that concept or is it merely setting up a character interaction later on? I don’t know. Is it the build up of horror lead me to want a release? Or is it merely the characters in that specific setting?

Was there some kind of otherworldly force leading me to Berserk from the very beginning, events that led me to horror to fantasy to dark sexual adventures?

And why is it my individual development lead to an interest in horror? What was it that led to an interest in darker things? And did my darker things lead to my interest in kink and BDSM? I could even take this one step further —ay hello again!

And all of THAT led to this very moment, to me writing this, to me reading Berserk. To the sexual gratification.

Exhibit B: Horror Movies

Halloween and Friday the 13th popularised, if not established, this sex-and-Death aspect in slasher films.

I mean, you know about the sex-equals-Death rule. We won’t touch that. What’s the correlation between sex / nudity and creative murder sequences? And why is it sensual? I’m not talking about the murder OR the death sequences themselves. I’m talking about the lead up to it? Is it just danger? Does it fulfil some deeply primal feeling of lust? Why is one always around the other? Has it become tradition for sex to find death or is there something else?

In some cases, the movie can lead the viewer to form their own fantasy about being stalked. In this case, it is interesting to note that this can take the form of the primal / prey identification in our sexual lives.

A cynic would say – these are just slasher films featuring teens set to appeal to a teen demographic – but the idea is there. And furthermore, how many people find it arousing or are drawn to this idea that it’s appealing? Let’s watch a slasher film – there’ll be tits and death! The men have the nakedness, the women have…errr…a cute guy?

Okay. So it’s appealing to the teen male demographic? That can’t be. I am a part of horror communities where the ladies enjoy it just as much as men – my kitten included.

So where’s the link?

And furthermore, has all our lives been building to this one moment – you reading my blog, me writing this blog, you and I watching horror movies, maybe even finding the same image sensual. Why? And how many people within BDSM are horror fans? I know enjoying kink doesn’t automatically make you a horror fiend. But I do wonder if one leads to the other? And why it came to either of those leads?

For the Teens…

Occasionally a teen will write me and mention they’re scared of their own mind. Well, ladies or gentlemen – if you’re of the teenage variety and have made it this far, let me tell you – we can be attracted to darker fantastical impulses and that can be completely fine. It doesn’t mean we are going crazy, it’s not a sin or something to shy from.

As long as you practice safety first and foremost with these fantasies, you should be fine.

And if you ever think you’re in the bad, know I’m the guy aroused by fantastical pagan orgies. You’ll be fine!

18th Century Eroticism Revisited

AD5

Can we all just stop what we are doing and appreciate the sensuality of this photo?

My God.

Have I mentioned before that I need to belong in a world like this? Domineering men, fair maidens. The pale untouched flesh hidden away by some of the most beautiful dresses ever to grace the world? It seems to me that I am a man from that era in the modern world. My pet, who loves her dresses, is seemingly inhabited by the soul of a woman from the same era. It must be, there is no other explanation for it. Its like yin and yang, two things that come together for balance.

The pale white flesh hidden behind that delicately woven dress. How I yearn to turn that pale flesh raw. Raw and red and blistering. How I’ll giggle when the little dove tries to sit down in an important gathering and wince. Only her and I will know what transpired the night before. Delightful.

I wonder: Will she come back to me? Alone, confused. Unable to understand why she is before me again, craving my open hand? Will she bend over by choice in this moment or will she crave my Dominance once more?

I have a task for you all. A quest. Something small. Something to complete when you have the time. Find me an image of a woman in old fashioned style, similar to the one above, that appeals to you most and list why? Happy hunting!

Random Dominant Thought #13

Why is it when I see her bare ass, I immediately want to whip it red?

I’m not talking playful whipping. I am talking welts, bruises, maybe even a skin tearing.

I could be in a vanilla-day, my mind not even straying to Dominant thoughts – and then BAM, she slinks out of her dress and bares her ass at me and the FIRST THING that pops into my head is – I want to whip her.

I want to grab her by the neck, throw her to the bed and whip her into submission.

It’s not so much that she enjoys it so I ENJOY IT MORE, it’s the fact that the sight of spanked red arse just excites me or more so, it’s her spanked red arse.

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^ See this? This needs to be calling card right now. My drive to spank her ruthlessly is at ridiculously high levels.

The philosophy behind punishment 

I’ve been a bit absent for a while but I wanted to discuss something that’s been on my mind: punishments and how you should approach them.

Say if your submissive has been out of line, to punish her straight up would be a bit unfair. There is two ways you can go about it: you can sit her down and talk about why she’s going to be punished shortly so she understands or you can do what I do – give her the chance to have three strikes and she’s out, all the while correcting her.

And then there’s the type of punishment, which comes down to the individual Dom/Domme. How do you punish? Well, I’m psychological. Rather then spank her, which is arousing and won’t teach her properly, I’ll take her right to address me, I might even take away her collar or stop her sexual activity. I find this to be far more effective because it deals with her mind and gives her time to think on her wrong ways.

But it can go the opposite. It can leave your submissive feeling abandoned and hurt. In turn she might fear you and fear being her submissive self because she’ll be afraid to act out.

This is why punishments should be chosen carefully and if you’re psychological like me, you’ll want to sit her down and tell her before hand why it’s happening and what it means.

There are other ways to punish as well. There is no limit to your imagination. Think about humiliating her, just enough to teach her a lesson. You are the teacher so to quote a certain something, with great power comes great responsibility. Humiliate her if you must but do it gently, lovingly even. Remember how delicate a submissive can be.

How you punish and why you punish, that comes down to the individual. Be fair, be considerate. And for the submissive reading, always challenge your Dom on the punishment – but do it carefully. The good Dom would want to hear your thoughts but be too cheeky and I won’t be able to save you. Not this time.