The Gift

He couldn’t explain why . . . He just wanted to write on her nude self. He wanted to gift her the only worthwhile thing he found in himself . . . His writing. For that was who he was, that was photographs of what he saw through his eyes etched, in this case, into her flesh.

It was how she made him feel . . . It was the thoughts he struggled to put into words, the words he struggled to shape on his tongue. It was about how her submission cracked the stone away from him, brought him alive, it was about how she made him feel – worthy, as a dominant, as a man forming his own dirt track in the journey of life. It was about love, passion, lust, danger, humanity, darkness . . . and balance.

And after he finished, after he placed the full stop to his feelings for her, for them, above her ass, he would read her his words, all the whole undressing above her, all the hovering over her, his cock teasing her, nestling between her shapely ass. She’d struggle to pay attention, to fight against rising her hips to meet him, distract him, but she’d do her best. She’d listen.

And once he reached that full stop, he’d slide right into her, to fill her, bare as he was born. Their bedsheets, the ink on her body, be damned. That could wait.

Snapshot From A D/s Relationship

This one is a short, light hearted little anecdote from my life today.

So there I was, singing an old Nirvana song in the shower. Y’know, going about the daily ritual, the daily grind.

When I reach for my Apple-scented shampoo.

And its gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Nada.

I didn’t move it. I always leave it in the one spot. So –

And then it hits me all at once.

The flashback.

I’m sitting down, getting my word count for the day, when my lady – a lovely 5 ft 3 inches — leans over me and starts sniffing my head. I’m talking big, deep inhales. It’s the norm for us both. We live by a primal way of life. So picture a tiny lady just sniffing my head like a hedgehog sniffs a plate of worms. It’s that rapid-fire, machine-gun-esque sniffing.

Ever seen Finding Nemo? When the shark trying to cut back on fish gets the scent of blood and his pupils grow to the size of legendary gobstopper candies? It’s like that.

‘What is that?’ She says. ‘You smell…goooood.’

‘Good’ is drawn out in a sultry purr.

End flashback. I’m standing in the shower like a chump. But it’s okay because the memory is cute, warms my heart.

I’ve since stepped out of the shower and had a shave. You know what else my kitten likes? The scent of my shaving cream. When she gets home, I might just use that distraction to flip her on her tummy and give her a playful little slap on the ass for taking my shampoo without asking. Tongue-in-cheek of course.

Beyond Your Boundaries

Good morning, my gorgeous little pet,

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

And then…I will come to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘For My Own Amusement’

She steps out of the shower, wearing nothing but a white tank top, no bra and plain grey panties — and he can’t help himself.

A change takes over him.

He seizes her by her wrists, she cries out in surprise – a series of squeals that’s a sonata to his ears.

Before either of them realise it, she’s up against the wall, her lovely hips and thighs pinned, her right leg bent at the knee.

He thinks of her ass up against the wall — and feels himself growing hard, can feel the ache with every passing second.

‘What are you d-‘

He raises the water bottle he has in his right hand — and squeezes it. Water comes squirting out. Like paint to a canvas, it paints the image of her curvaceous tits, adding shading to where her areola is, adding lines of depth in the drenched fabric where her nipples are hardening.

But the best part is not how the now-soaked cotton tank top clings to her tits, to the frame of her body, it’s the shifting expressions across her face. The fury, the shock, the indignation. She turns her green eyes onto his dark brown eyes, shaped in her shifting moods, and he can’t stop the smile that comes to his face.

‘Play with yourself for me, little pup. For my own amusement.’

Gone is the fury, the indignation.

But shock remains, so does humiliation. Kinda like how the T-1000 shifts through its multiple forms upon its destruction in the sea of molten steel.

But there’s something else written in those deep green eyes. Understanding.

Her mouth is open, cute little lips glistening with saliva in the light of the hallway, but only a guttural click is coming out, as the words are trying – and failing – in her throat.

As her left hand runs down the frame of her body and slips ‘neath her cotton panties, he says to her, ‘Look at me while you play. I want to watch you.’

And still she cannot talk. She merely nods her head in understanding, knocking loose strands of her wet dark brown hair down around her forehead.

Her hand starts to move from under her panties, knuckles taking shape against the thin cotton. It’s a sight that takes hold of him – he slips his own hand under his jeans, grabs hold of his cock and squeezes out the ache. It only helps for a few seconds. The ache returns almost instantly.

Her eyes don’t leave his. He sees her wavering breath in them, sees the struggle to control her breathing, sees her FEEL her own knees buckling as she touches herself.

‘And what are we doing, hm?’

Her mouth – still open – tries to form the words.


She cuts off as her eyelids flutter. She fights them open, keeps her eyes focused, tries again to speak. But he can see the struggle in her eyes.

‘I’m…playing…w-w-ith m-my clit.’


He knows that she’s a little shy even after all their time spent in their shared multiverse of darkness. He pushes her what feels like the right amount.

‘How’s it feel?’

She swallows – it’s an audible click in her throat.


Again, her eyelids flutter as her fingers work her delightful slit. Again, he can’t help himself. How has he ever managed to be a dominant around this wild untamed brat when he can’t discipline himself? He yanks her panties, exposing creamy pale thighs and her hand parting a bare, beautiful slit.

Her eyes bulge, almost turning golden from green as she looks at him, that shock registering. But she doesn’t look away, she keeps going. Her fingers are working smoothly, delicately – she has this rhythm down pat.

She doesn’t even register her delight when he tears down his own pants and reveals his throbbing, pulsating cock.

Which wants her as desperately as he does – it bobs in the air, eager to rid itself of that maddening ache.

That ache that he can feel like cobwebs across his arms, like butterflies fluttering about in his stomach, like chills creeping down his spine.

As he watches her, he can hear his own heart in his ears, pump pump pumping away. Badum badum badum badum.

With his right hand on his cock, he reaches out and pulls at her tank top. It comes down in the most humiliating fashion, with her left breast slipping out, her nipple looking achingly hard.

Her pale face flushed a shade of red as she kept her eyes on him. She sucks in her lower lips and bites down.

And he can’t handle it. He breaks his own rule, breaks eye contact, he needs to taste her. He pins her to the wall further as he presses against her, his cock hitting her thigh.

As he grabs her left breast and squeezes it violently, his fingers catching her stiff nipple and pinching, he feels her hand brush against his cock and grip it firmly. He lets her grab it.

He continues where she stops, spreading her lovely lips with his fingers and finding her clit.

By then he presses his lips to hers – and they both exchange a rushed, throaty moan, the scent of their breath appealing to one another in a strange, primal way.

She breaks the kiss to let out another moan, a frenzied moan, a hurried gasp. He gets the message, he quickens his assault on her lovely slit, gliding his thumb over her clit, slipping his fingers inside her soaked pussy.

She’s muttering something in his ear but he’s focused on the rhythm, the feel of her thickened arousal on his fingers.

Then she cries out, sharp and loud in his ear but he doesn’t care one bit, he’s grinning, he’s admiring her, he’s enamoured with this wild beautiful woman that has chosen him to bare herself to.

Her body jolts in a series of spasms as a shy smile creeps across her face, as she pants in his ear.

They lock eyes.

He grins.

‘My turn.’

Reflecting On My Own Upbringing

When I was 22, I suffered a panic attack over my sexuality that stretched out for weeks. I remember calling my mum up and in between shaky breaths asking her ‘What if I am…this way?’.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could almost hear the cogs ticking over in her head as she thought through it. Just as I couldn’t take it anymore, was going to blurt out abutting to subside my anxiousness, my mother replied ‘welll….then I guess you would be.’ my mother’s credit, she’s changed a lot over the years since. I think she grew up with the times, with her children. She’s still very conservative she has her – in my opinion – bonkers views about, say, two women raising one child, but she’s accepting somehow. I see the good in her, the love, overriding her own belief system.

To her credit, she tries to understand. When I said I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, she didn’t get what I meant. She thought anxiety could be dealt with, that me not eating was a bit dramatic. I had to explain it to her and slowly she has come to learn about how it affects my mind.

I’m saying all this to you because I’ve inspired by an instagram user’s story about her own upbringing and toxic purity culture to share a bit about the ways in which it has affected my own. In the chances that, like me with the user’s brave words, I would come to reflect and digest on my own upbringing.

Is it weird I sat staring at this blank screen for the longest time? Drumming up thoughts like – ‘Don’t use your upbringing as a crutch. Pull yourself up.’ – I feel like there’s truth in that statement but I also feel like that’s the old world parenting coming out in my thought. Being tough on myself.

I was raised Catholic. I attended Sunday or Saturday mass, I did my confirmation, reconciliation, communion, Palm Sunday, Ash Wednesday, Station of the Cross. I got soap in my mouth when I – at ten years of age – blurted out “For Christ’s Sake!”.

I came from a household where one sister was strapped after being caught masturbating. Where my father caught me looking at porn and played it back in front of my mother as some sort of weird power trip. I remember I would go on to – at the age of 17 – argue with my father about the merits of the film Eyes Wide Shut, an adult exploration of lust and love and infidelity. Oh and orgies.

I remember even renting an R18+ crime film when I was 14 and my dad confiscating it after we were out of the rental store. I’d joke and say he wanted it for himself but he was legitimately furious.

I love my parents, they’re genuinely good people. I always had clothes on my back, I got an education at school and I was allowed to go to parties as a teenager. And as an adult, I have a good relationship with both. I can see they’re human, mortal. Comprised of light and grey. I consider that a blessing to be in my position.

And then there’s religion. In a way I should thank it — it drove me to explore the darker side of my nature, to shout degradations and growl orders, to enjoy running naked when I felt, in my heart, that I was doing something wrong and bad and unwholesome.

I wasn’t spoken to about sex. It was never raised, even as a teenager.

I used to get spoken to about living in sin in my early days, that I couldn’t live that way. I used to get talked to by my mum about marriage and children. But not about sex or masturbation. There was a wrongness in the back of mind on things like that..being naked and such. It feels like a dream now, recounting it.

But I wouldn’t be who I am without that attraction to that delicious edge because of religion. But it took me an age to get here.

When I was in my early twenties, my interest in BDSM hit my head fully formed. And I kept running from it. I can distinctly remember being on chat rooms late at night, getting the inspiration to talk to someone about it. Then I’d close my computer and kill the chat. I was an anxious wreck. This was terrifying to me, I couldn’t rewrite my whole life. Who would accept me? Not my parents.

And it would come back again a few months later. And again I would explore for the evening…feel guilty…and bury the feelings.

Why? Because I was freaked the fuck out by it. It felt…wrong somehow. Why would it feel wrong? Why wrong? Why was I feeling that? I don’t know. All I knew was that I felt wrong, I felt bad, I felt INSANE. I was told to be a gentleman to women, to treat them kindly and I was wanting anything but in my dark desires. Degradation and humiliation was the tip of the iceberg, my gateway drug to kink.

That feeling of guilt made me anxious. Me being anxious made me moody. Me being moody made me hard to live with – irritable, sad, feeling so horny that I felt like I was an addict, which further made me anxious.

I was married by the time I was slowly starting to accept my kinky side. I introduced it to my then-wife. I explained what I was feeling, what I’d like to explore. I ran dressing her up for her day by her. Her response? ‘Only if I get to pick the clothes’.

She didn’t understand, she didn’t get it. I was crushed because I felt in my bones and she didn’t. I hate how I felt then – like I was going to have a mental breakdown. Like I was going to snap..there was this urge to be…bad and just let loose and not care. This would led me to the doctors where I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder because I stopped eating or sleeping.

Even now, years after this…after our divorce…I can feel that storm within me. Even now, when I write a story, I can’t help but think ‘this is it…this is the one that has gone too far.’ – that I should feel guilty for feeling dominant, primal, sexual. Me.

Is this a product of my anxiety or are there ties to my upbringing? Sometimes it feels so deeply intertwined that I’m not sure, ask me again tomorrow.

But I do know that if you’re in a similar situation, you are definitely not alone.

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?


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.


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.


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 Journey Onward

I was sitting here, just musing about this blog and my writings and how – in the span of it being here in cyberspace for six years – I have gone from newbie dominant to making mistakes and learning from them, from learning from conflict within myself or relationships, from opening my email and helping others, even when I wasn’t sure if I have the answers. I mean..I still wanted to help.

And I’ve been thinking lately where my blog would ‘evolve’ or ‘go’. I mean, beyond the cyclic nature of musing over my dominance every now and then.

And I think this place here, where I share my innermost thoughts, is my journal. It’s like I’m traveling on a train, looking out at the passing landscapes, the rolling countryside, and I’m jotting down my dreams, my fantasies, my experiences and my thoughts. All of my thoughts – my messy head, my anxious mind, my bad writing. It all comes out here.

You’re welcome to sit down across from me, ask me what I’m writing, exchange ideas and philosophy, even insecurities. I welcome the company.

And I like to help, of course. Where I can, if I can. I don’t ever know if I can but I don’t want to stop trying. I’ve been asked what do I get out of it – “what do you get out of mentoring?” – well, what I get is a hope that someone’s chest will feel a little less tighter knowing they’ve asked their questions, that they’ve felt heard and they know they’re not alone. I don’t hold any assumptions, I’m just some guy, but I do like to help.

But I don’t know where this blog will go, to tell the truth. I know I feel content with the knowledge I’ve acquired as a dominant and lover – but that doesn’t mean the nomad in me will stop wandering the road or that the writer in me will stop musing on stories, poems or experiences. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to stop leaving my door open for anyone to stop by if they need to chat or ask anything.

On the other hand maybe, to you dear reader, I’ll become like that one band that starts to repeat itself after a few solid albums. I don’t know – but if so, I’ll thank you for coming along for the ride.

I started this blog to make sense of my head, to put down into words my thoughts and feelings so that I could make sense of it, so that someone else – anyone out there – could stop by and make sense of it.

I think I’ll be doing that time and time again – in between stories and real life experiences and so forth.

And while I don’t know where this blog will go…dear reader, you are more than welcome to come along for the ride if you want. Your company will be very much appreciated.

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 —

Understanding What It Means To Be Dominant

When it comes to being in a D/s relationship, both partners – submissive and dominant – take on the responsibility of caring for one another, for being open to one another and to forging a balance so that both partners are happy and equal.

But for the sake of this piece, I’m talking to dominants both fresh and new and still growing.

Being a dominant isn’t simply about getting your own way. It’s not about giving orders and expecting a submissive to follow through absolute – Most Dominant’s don’t even realise that the submissive has the power to choose. They choose YOU to submit to. They have the right to negotiate.

No, being a dominant is about the non-sexual aspects as much as, if not more than, the sexual aspects. I’m talking caring about the mindset of the submissive, establishing a safe place to feel comfortable and safe, striking a balance where both needs are being met OR negotiating how needs will be met and how the two of you will be satisfied AT THE BEGINNING of your relationship.

AFTER CARE is something I see a lot of new Doms either forgetting about or not giving to their partners – some after a pretty intense scene. I don’t like hearing how some are left at that darkened heightened state to question their identity or their feelings.

It’s important to cuddle, to offer reassuring words, to create the safest boundary for the two of you to float back down to Earth into. This goes both ways, as Dom’s do need it too – but all too often I see After Care overlooked by new Doms. It’s incredibly important. A cuddle and Netflix or just the intimacy of bodies huddled together can go a long way. After all, you’re dealing in some heavy feelings and you never know what you’ll unearth exploring that.

And as a Dominant you CAN make mistakes in the role of leadership so long as you acknowledge where you went wrong, understand where you went wrong and learn from said mistake. The way I see it, we are always growing and learning and finding new things out about ourselves.

If your submissive has something to say about your methods, listen. Be receptive. To either that dynamic or for yourself. The worst thing you can do is ignore that and go on your own way because that can lead to rot and ruin. More than this, that could lead to the submissive living in fear of making a mistake because they won’t know how you will react.

So you see, being a dominant is about ownership of yourself and your thoughts and your responsibilities as much as it is about ownership of your submissive. Be accountable for mistakes, be open to growth and be receptive of new ideas and positive changes.

Her Bath

He hears the splash of water from their en-suite bathroom and turns to see her standing in the low-lit doorway. Her nude body, slender and slightly tanned is lit by the very candles she lit for her own bath – the bath he ordered her to run and soak in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand marking the page of the book he’s reading to her while she bathes. Only now that book drops to the floor. He doesn’t do it to punctuate the moment with a gag, it’s just something that happens upon seeing her.

“Seeing her.”

He feels like he is seeing her now for the very first time. It’s in the way the candles light the edges of her nude body, the way her wet hair lay in curls across her shoulders, the way he can just make out beads of water across her neatly-trimmed pussy.

And it’s in the way she stands – confident, still, her eyes not flicking back and forth between his as they do at times but watching him closely. Intently.

He gets the feeling something has suddenly started between them. A battle of wills, a clash of their minds. It is true this occurs between them, this is what has drawn him to her as a friend and lover and Dominant.

And yet…something feels different. Super-charged. Riding the wave high on caffeine.

He feels the rhythm of his heart in his chest and he feels his cock harden.

There it is! The slightest twitch in her eyebrow. The slightest smirk flickers on her face and is gone. She’s playing with him as he would with her.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Her voice is soft but it comes with an edge that he recognises.

He won’t bite though.

“Get on the bed.”

He’s thankful his arousal doesn’t cause his voice to stammer.

She moves past him and he sees that thing she does – the shrug without lifting her shoulders but it’s all there on her face. One might call him crazy for thinking that but he knows and she knows what she’s doing.

She slinks on to the bed, her slightly sun-kissed ass facing me in the darkness. Were it not for the purple night light resting on her bedside drawers, He could see the little things – the freckle on her left ass cheek. Or her trimmed pussy between her legs.

She lowers herself down so that she rests on her stomach and buries her head in her pillow.

As He grabs his own towel, hanging from the door of their cupboard to his left, He gets the strangest sense that she’s grinning to herself as her face is buried. He almost wants to ask but stops himself before the words form on his tongue. He knows she would like that.

Slipping out of his pants and freeing his aching cock, he gently crawls onto the bed behind her, careful of where her legs rest naturally.

He comes to kneel behind her, her ass directly below the throbbing head of his cock.

“We need to towel you off properly.” He says as he runs the cream coloured floral-printed towel over her right ass cheek, carefully dabbing at her still-wet skin.

“You didn’t answer me when I asked you if something was on my face.”

Her voice is muffled as she speaks into the pillow but he can hear the accompanying smile behind her words all the same.

“I don’t answer to you.” He says, moving the towel to her left ass cheek.

Carefully he runs the towel down her left leg, taking his time to work down to her feet, drawing out the moment.

When he reaches her ankles, he moves into her right leg, sliding the towel back up, carefully drying off the sides of her leg, to her ass.

She does not stir.

He raises the towel to the base of her spine and lowers himself to her, his hard cock skimming the curves of her ass. The feeling of her beneath him, his shaft pressing into her fresh, cool skin, makes him want to take her from behind, makes him want to hear her moan those soft cries and whimpers.

But he has her body to dry off.

“Arms up.” He says gently as he slides the towel to the base of her neck, content that he has dried her back.

She stretches her hands out either side of her neck and her body seems to lift and waken a moment as the stretch takes over her. He see her back raise, feels her ass nestle back into him. He wants to guide his cock into her right there – wants to fuck her till she’s winded — but he’s not done playing with her yet.

With his right hand, he presses down on her back, pressing her away from him, her ass away from his cock. He grinds into her on his own terms.

Which is exactly what he does as he runs the towel gently under her armpits, wrapping her arm in the towel and sliding it along upwards to her hands so that he dries every inch.

He repeats this with her right arm.

Then tells her to roll over.

She does – and the two of them come face to face for the first time in what feels like an age.

He throws the towel to the empty side of the bed and rests his hands on either side of her. His eyes travel down to her small tits – dotted with freckles. Her little pink nipples are hard and stiff. He wants to lower his mouth to them and suck them. He feels that hunger more so as he feels the heat from their bodies.

God how he wants her more then anything.

Instead, he looks her in the eye, not being able to help the smirk that spreads across his lips.

She looks back at him, her face unreadable and her eyes ever still.

“What now?” She asks him.