The Fox

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Six degrees Celsius.
80% chance of rain.
That’s just what the weather app told her – the news was different.
She sat on the couch, eyes on the tv, listening to the weather warning – stay inside, they said. High winds coming from the south, torrential rain.
The weather man flashed a smile at her, white teeth, gentle assuring light blue eyes.
Her stomach began to knot though, rumbling and tumbling over on itself, as if folding.
She lashed out at the remote and the room plunged into darkness. 

Her husband had left for work, taking their seven year old son to school – a fact that he sulked against, saying the rain meant they had to play under cover – and he and his friends were about to finish their battle between dinosaur overlords that they began last week. She did not sway though, school was school – and she had to go rain, hail or shine at his age.
Now they were both gone, leaving her to their quiet home, where nothing but the rain cascading down could be heard.

Pulling the nearby cream lounge blanket over her chilled body – the blanket he and her would snuggle under as they tried to squeeze in a episode over Netflix – she moved her free hand over the touchpad on her MacBook and it’s glow lit her face. She didn’t want to proofread and edit, not today of all days, trapped as she was in this storming snow globe, feeling the ice cut right through her blanket and long-sleeved pyjama top to kiss the tips of her nipples, but she had to get something done. Something or anything. 

She got through three pages of this manuscript before her mind began to stutter through her memories. A country girl, she was. Born and bred in Grafton, New South Wales, moving to the city of Sydney at the age of nineteen to room with her best friend while attending college, all the while working at a record store in the city CBD.
She met the man she’d call husband while not even fully understanding what it was she wanted in life, and that whirlwind of time led her to life in Geelong, Victoria – where she suddenly had everything – a beautiful boy, a loving m home, a stable job she enjoyed (mostly) and a sweet man.

Despite this, something had begun to gnaw at the fringes of her mind. It began, she had noticed, when the rain fell a week ago.
Day after day, 9am to 3pm, when she’d pick up her son, she felt something there. Something different. Like a mirror that had begun to splinter, threatening to spread.
She’d put her head down and work, but the silence was heavier than usual. Few times she sat around the house, pausing from her work, feeling agitated and restless for reasons she wasn’t quite sure.
A few times over sharing cooking duties, she had snapped at her husband – no, not snapped. Snarled. She snarled at her husband. Later, in bed, she recalled her husband hurt and startled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He had asked. ‘I’ve never heard you like that before.’
She could only shake her head, the moment a distant memory, as if her mind was already on the case of blocking it.
But she recalled what he had said next.
‘Even your eyes looked different.’ Her husband continued. ‘Like…like amber.’

She closed the MacBook and left it to rest beside her.
What was she thinking? The Victorian Winter had finally gotten to her. It found a thread dangling out of her arm and pulled till she unravelled, exposing her ivory skin, her bare flesh, for the winter to lower and feast upon.
She was happy here, she knew. But wait, what has that got to do with anything? Where did the concept of happiness come from?
She shivered from under the blanket, not sure if it was the cold that chilled her now or the thought. 

From her right came a scuttling sound. Her Frenchie no doubt, wanting her to let him in and turn on the heater so they could snuggle.
She frowned, curled her hair around her ears where they wouldn’t get to her eyes, and rose from the seat.
‘Mason, get out of the rain, boy – you have a house for a reas….’
Her jaw fell open and she could feel her eyes narrow, focused in.
Amber eyes peered back at her from the grey outside.
Carefully, she moved across to the blinds, and began weaving the beaded cord through her cold fingers.
An inch at a time the blinds moved upwards, revealing red tufts of fur, matted back in the rain.
Her eyes met amber and never left, even as the light of the morning filtered through the backdoor.
The fox was standing on the back step, it’s ears flattened, twitching against the heavy rain that fell upon its head. It’s eyes watched her cautiously, wondering.
She, herself, audibly gasped once it came into full view – and found herself unlocking the backdoor and pulling it open.
‘Heyyyy…’ She began – but the fox ran around the corner, obscured by the side of the house.
In its exit, it left paw prints in the mud – a sign of its existence.
Without thinking, she stepped outside. Rain lashed at her skin from all around, each drop crashing down against her pyjamas and drenching it into a thing of weight.
Suddenly she could feel the cotton of her top and bottom cling to her body, framing her hips, her breasts, her ass.
She rounded the corner to the left, stepping through the gate that separated garden from the outside area.
Nothing but the plants she had placed was there. 

‘But…where…?’
Her eyes scanned the corners of her yard. A hole perhaps? Hidden ‘neath the shrub?
That couldn’t be, another thought came to her, we’ve sandbagged the bottom so Mason doesn’t continue to poke his head under to the neighbors side and say hello. 

All of a sudden her mind was back on the weight of her pyjamas. She could feel everything in that moment, the rain bucketing down upon her, the wind tracing across her nipples, the water trickling down her back cold as ice. She grunted, no, snarled, and tore at the pyjamas she bought from Peter Alexander, the pyjamas that she loved for the feel of them against her skin. The fabric made a satisfying tearing sound and the soaking piece came free, her body relieved of the weight. Now the rain relentlessly stung at her skin – her arms, her stomach, her breasts. 

She felt herself snort and growl as her hands now focused on her pants, her bare feet drifting in the mud, encasing her feet in the sinking earth, as she stepped out of her pants one foot at a time. She tossed them into the wall with a huff, pants and torn top, and stood there heaving in the rain, in the storm, the weekly storm.

It came to her then – a huff, a growl, a snort, a snarl, a Welp, a cry. It rose from her stomach, up through her lungs. She began to scream in bursts of guttural groans. She didn’t sound like herself, didn’t feel like herself, something was wrong, something else was with her, no, in her. She could never go back, could never be the same again.
Burning against the onslaught of rain drops. 

Water ran from her forehead down across her eyes. She blinked through them, and found herself unable to stop screaming even though it stung her.
She felt hands claw at every inch of her, leaving red streaks across her chest. They marked her breasts, claw hooking across her nipple, dragging the pain outward.
Her legs, as if unable to take the assault of rain any longer, trembled and collapsed beneath her and she fell to the ground, mud splashing across her knees and face.
This wasn’t her, but who was she? This wasn’t her, the wife, the worker, the mother. The busy bee, say yes, nod politely. Swallow down the hurt, let it lump in your throat no matter what. 

She curled up in the mud, her knees rising back into her chest. The rain now reached to her rear, coming to whip her anus and reach out to lash across her exposed slit.
Her lungs sucked in crisp winter air, the likes of which she had never experienced before. The fresh air swirled down her throat, and she sucked in more, eager for more. 

When her hands found her slit and began to glide across the length of her lips, she did not question it. She stayed in the fetal position, her arm stretching back across to stroke what was exposed. Using the rain water that was beading on her skin, she rubbed her clit, letting her chest rise and fall to take in more of the sweet air.
Time weaved around her, leaving her trapped in a dome where the rain always fell.
She wriggled on the spot, her ass twisting into bed, lathering her back and legs.
Icy muddy puddles pooled around her, lapping at the sides of her stomach.
She lay there feeling her grunting come back, burning up her throat, tearing out between her teeth, leaving a string of saliva to fly across her neck. She felt her face push into the bed, her hands assaulting her slit, working herself into a frenzy. She didn’t know…didn’t understand. She wanted to scream.
She found herself grunting, groaning, spitting. Saliva, mild and thick, ran down across the centre of her chest, coming to hang across the  shape of her breast.
At once she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs clamping down on her hand between her legs. The world around her spun as she blinked away the rain. 

She sucked down more of that air, rolling onto her back, letting herself fall into the muddy puddles around her. 

Dreams

For me, dreams are a powerful experience. Some people don’t ever have them – I know my kitten rarely does – while others I’ve had the pleasure of being close to can’t remember theirs or find theirs to be unremarkable.

Mine, for some reason, are always potent. Whether they’re me reliving my past failed marriage and listening to a spectre spit my own perceived failures, dreams of fantasy and horror that inspire me to put pen to paper – or sex dreams – a manifestation of my inner bohemian sensibilities or just cotton-candy sex dreams to pass the time until morning? Or both.

When it comes to sex dreams, I feel everything intensely. Let me paint you a picture – I can feel the sexual tension within the dream, I can feel my cock ease into this faceless lady, feeling her around me. I can feel pleasure, a scratch, a bite.

I wake up with my cock at full hardness, pressing into the bed – and now, for today’s sex dream, I woke up with my fists balled, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. As I write this now, my other hand is still clenched, unable to let that sharp pain from my nails subside. Chasing a dream, I suppose.

The dream in question was a tale of a family divided. I played a brother driving his mother into town, listening to her tell me of their deadbeat husband. Their lackadaisical husband, soon to be divorced.

I dropped my fictional-mother off into town, and then made a bee-line for my fictional-sister to share the news. I found her in the bedroom of her house, apathetic.

The surrealism of the dream didn’t stop there. Anger turned to lust, lust scorched my skin as I crawled upon her bed – and suddenly, in her eyes, I saw it – the acceptance of the need in her own mind.

In the waking world, it all sounds like a bad porno in a low-rent room adorned with pink detailing everywhere – but in the moment, it was frantic. Nothing else mattered but the rhythm between us, the feeling of slipping into her right cunt and feeling her warmth beneath me. I held her arms above her head, light BDSM creeping into my dreams, teasing my lucid self to go further. To dominate,

Before I could come, I awoke dazed to a winterly morning, the chill kissing my shoulders and sending an icy trail down to my bare ass. My fists were balled, my Cock was hard and I had to catch my breath.

I will traverse this day in a primal mood, I will tell you. The closeness of an orgasm will linger as I set about my daily tasks, a low pulse in my Cock will distract me as I attempt to work. And it’s working – I’m here, writing on this blog. But now I must get up, get dressed and greet the day.

I’m sure I’ll dream again soon.

Incoming Rant and Ramble about being a BDSM Mentor

Grey sky leaking the bedroom windows, a soft rain on the roof over my head – laying naked in bed this winterly morning, I’ve been reflecting on my time acting as a mentor, of sorts, to those that have wanted or needed a recurring figure and friend to help them in their own journey, be they new and learning or savvy to the ways but finding new wrinkles in their mind.

When I first learned that such a thing as a BDSM Mentor existed, I didn’t really know what to make of it – was it key for some special sexual dynamic? Another riff on addressing one as ‘Sir’? It wasn’t until I read up on it, and read thoughts from the community on this here internet, that I realised what it was. And it spoke to me.

A mentor needs no ceremony, no bells and whistles, no special speech assigned to them – they merely are a friend on standby, someone to offer resources and guidance, someone who stands by the individual for as long as the individual needs their help.

A mentor is a preference though – one does not require a mentor. I didn’t have one, I stumbled through knowledge and here I am – and if someone like myself can do it, anyone can. No, a mentor is purely for those who feel they need the guidance. Someone to drop in and chat.

So in late 2016 / early 2017, I started to give it some thought. Could I be a mentor, I thought? Do I know enough? Can I help others? Am I worthy of their time? I doubted myself but my desire to help others where I struggled won over. I ran it by my kitten, clearing misconceptions, making sure that – if I were to chat with anyone about these things, man or woman, that she would be comfortable with that notion.

So I began to offer it more openly to readers here, being sure not to push the concept or make any shy person feel obligated, as I sometimes have been known to feel. I just wanted people to know someone could chat with them.

It became a thing of growth for me. I learned to be careful of influencing others with my own thoughts on kink, instead creating a space for them to feel at ease in their own skin. I listened and didn’t speak unless they asked. It’s not my place to interfere, I didn’t want to put thoughts in their head. If they needed a push, Well I would do that gently and only if I felt it was safe to do so. I didn’t want to rewrite their thought process.

Since 2017 I have been blessed to have had the opportunity to help people work through some of their own thoughts – and seeing these people go on to happy D/s relationships has been a beautiful and fulfilling thing for me, knowing in some tiny way that I helped them. It brings a tear to my eye.

It’s strange to me, when someone approaches me and apologises for their scattered email of thoughts or for wasting my time – because I’ve never had a problem with any of that. I’ve never felt out by an email, never minded wandering thoughts – as I’m the same – and I make the time to check my emails and blog. More than that, perhaps I think it’s strange because I can see myself in that person – scared and doubting, unsure about what they’re doing.

I don’t offer mentoring as much as I used to. A flare up in my anxiety caused me to doubt myself, leaving scars that remind me of those troubling thoughts – Who are you to offer that help? No one wants a stranger interfering. Just stop what you are doing.

But I try to relent and push through and still offer help where I can, because once in a while someone will write and say they’ve been trying to write for months but couldn’t overcome their own anxiety.

Being a mentor and mentoring fulfils my soul in many ways, but it has taught me growth. I’ve learned about who I am, about being a teacher, about the sides within me that someone I’m helping helps me see in the first place, thus teaching me.

It’s just a wholesome, lovely thing. And the fact that this person trusts me enough to let me in and help? That’s an honour.

Monsters

Ever since I was a young kid I was drawn to monsters. In the beginning, it was a child’s fascination with the unknown – grotesque ghosts, feral werewolves, unstoppable aliens, the very creatures from hell. I enjoyed their otherworldly presence, I enjoyed seeing something from somebody else’s nightmares.

As an adult, I still have this fascination, this…longing to see something beyond my own wildest nightmares. But there’s another layer there now – a new appreciation. Some monsters are tragic, creatures that were either once men, now different – creatures that are hunted for their own feral behaviour, creatures that have their own tragic background.

As an adult, the monsters that stay with me are Dracula, Dr. Jekyll, The Wolf Man, The Phantom of the Opera and so forth. Each of these characters are men struggling with something inside of them – this terrible self that can be destructive and alien and unlike who they are beyond the transformation. And though them I see tragedy and humanity and duality – and myself.

My mother, my sisters – they all raised me to be proper. They taught me values and morals that I carry with me every day of my life. I live by a few codes of honour – be kind to others, treat others as you want to be treated, be a gentleman not only to your loved ones but to the world around you – I certainly falter, some days I feel flat, prone to hotheadedness. I’d certainly never be violent – I detest violence – but I can be moody.

More than this, I can be primal and flirtatious and crass and sexual and just generally odd. I used to be terrified of this side of myself – this side that felt like being rough, that would think of such dark things….this side that would watch The Evil Dead and be aroused during the scene in which the vines of a tree, possessed by such dark magic, raped a poor unsuspecting soul.

After I would come back from a primal descent, shaken and panting, cock still throbbing from the throes of orgasm, everything I thought of in the moment would crash over me — and I’d be horrified.

That wasn’t me, I would think. How could I think such violent things? How could I get off on the things that go against everything I felt normally? You must understand I would never legitimately hurt someone outside of a controlled environment – think consensual non-consent – but the sheer idea of concepts new to me at the time – concepts like bruising, impact play, biting, choking, forcing my way into someone just to feel my cock split apart wet lips – horrified me.

I felt, in all honesty, like Dr. Jekyll discovering Mr. Hyde – who was this opposite? This feral doppelgänger? Why did I think such wicked thoughts?

And, fast forward years later, these wicked thoughts, this opposite man, still resides within me, carefully restrained through controlled environments and a watchful eye. It’s almost like a beast soothed by my other – kitten. Who helps me come back down, who accepts this creature and gives herself to it in love and adoration. If I am the beast, she is the beauty – one I’ve been looking for my whole life, soulfully fulfilling and accepting.

Maybe I’m not a beast or a monster or a creature, maybe I’m human with dark tendencies and that’s all she wrote – I don’t know. But I still feel it, you know? I feel it in my bones and in my heart and in my cock. I feel this ferocious energy, this mindset that says ‘don’t poke me, I don’t want you to see what happens if you do.’ I feel it all, and some days I accept it and some days I am scared by it, thinking —- am I alone? Or are there men or women like me out there?

Ask A Dominant – April Q/A!

I haven’t done a Q/A on this blog since December, 2018. It’s been four months – summer has come and gone, autumn is here and how have we changed?

I always like to do one of these because they’re fun and stimulating and maybe they can reach out to someone out there, lurking and reading.

As always, if you have any questions about the dynamic or lifestyle or me or my writing, you are welcome to comment in the comments below – or email me personally at darkanddominant@hotmail.com

Here are some recent questions I’ve had come my way that I’d like to share.

What inspires your writing? An image you see, a fantasy that resides in the dark corners of your mind or something else? Do you ever write a story based on something your kitten wishes to explore?

The inspiration for my writing comes from so many different things! A dream, a line someone says to me in real life! A look kitten gives me, a nightmare I had that was vaguely sensual.

Usually inspiration comes from exploring a fantasy of mine, from tapping into my primal side and exploring the most vulnerable and raw feelings that bubble to the surface. Emotions I’m scared to confront, emotions born from a really weird fantasy that I need to capture to control.

Sometimes I like finding creating conflict in the mind of a character and seeing how I can utilise that conflict in an erotic way.

There have been a few poems and stories based on what kitten wanted to explore, indeed! A Kitten for Christmas is a recent story that I can think of off the top of my head. But you can find traces of us in stories about being primal and exploring pet play!

What’s it like for a dominant when your sub has to use the safe word? Are you disappointed? Insecure? Or is it just no big deal?

When I originally answered this question to a reader and dear friend of mine, I couldn’t think of a time in which I had to stop because kitten uttered our safe word. But that’s my memory for you – scatterbrained. I have since remembered that indeed had to stop.

And what’s it like? Well, first and foremost the safety and well-being of my lady comes first. There’s simply no question to that. If she’s not having fun, I’m not having fun.

To set the scene, we were pushing the limits of her pain threshold and we found it. I wasn’t disappointed or insecure but I was curious – and as a Dominant (and someone socially awkward at the best of times) I was faced with a bit of a challenge – I didn’t want to be a dingus and hurt her further so I took the time to comfort her

We discovered a new thing about her that day and it’s something that we know about when we play in the future!

—————-

There’s no judgement here on this blog – feel free to speak up with your wonderful voice!

The Many Ways In Which You Can Assert Dominance

Whether you’re new to being a dominant, or you’d like to try OR maybe you’ve hit a brick wall and a dry spell, regardless – there’s a few different and exciting concepts you can tackle to see if they work for you (and perhaps your partner in crime!) personally!

Dominance can be split up between the psychological and the physical. The psychological can relate to tasks such as writing essays, using body language and implementing concepts in which the dominant’s presence can linger within the mind of the submissive. The physical can relate to bondage, spanking, impact play, hands on bodies – the list can go on and on to really creative ways.

Something to consider here is what comes naturally to you as a Dominant. Get to know yourself, your limits and your tastes. Understand what it is you’d like to explore, what it is that drives you as a Dominant. What are some concepts that speak to you? What excites and stimulates your mind? What triggers that side to come out? Personally, I find that when confronted with a concept in BDSM, I slip naturally into the dynamic. I can feel that energy surging within me. It’s there.

As a counterpoint though, sometimes my anxiety creates interference with the broadcast and I can’t think or feel properly. If you’re like me, and you don’t know how to proceed, take a deep breath and think about using your voice, your body language.

A most important aspect to consider is your submissive. What are their interests? What would they like to explore? What works for them that will also work for you? Together, have a think about the concepts you’d like to touch on together, about the dynamic you’d like to have.

When it comes to matters of the psychological, I like to think about the ways in which I can leave a small piece of myself with her – to remind her of my ownership, of my presence with her to protect of her, of my love.

Concepts like dressing her, setting tasks like having her express a mantra each meal of the day, have her kneel before our bed and ask if she can share it with me, having her sleep naked, setting writing tasks like small essays, journaling or writing short erotic stories about what she enjoys.

Think about ways in which you can torment the mind of your submissive, to tease and taunt – but keep in mind at all times to be fair and within a safe environment. Remember to put your submissive first.

When it comes to matters of the physical, consider activities such as rope play, collaring, restraints and ball gags. Extend that line to thinking about ways in which the two of you can explore the environment together.

Keep in mind that this is my own D/s dynamic – everyone is different and has different needs and desires. Maybe this will work for you both and maybe it won’t.

Remember to be open and communicate with one another about your own needs – listen to one another.

On top of that, being dominant isn’t just a lush fantasy, it isn’t cause to be a dick and get your own way. It’s about being mindful of the vulnerability of another soul, it’s about exploring and harnessing the darkness within each other. It’s about knowing yourself and knowing when to be gentle and aggressive.

You’ve got this, just don’t doubt yourself.

Please Don’t Hesitate To Write To Me

Every now and then I’ll come into contact with a reader who might express hesitance in initially writing to me.

I wholeheartedly understand. It’s hard to communicate about something so personal and intimate and overwhelming. Especially to a stranger.

There have been many times – and I’m sure there are many times to come – where I’ve tried to write a blog post and I’ve deleted several drafts because I’m fidgety and awkward and I feel stupid.

If you’re reading this, and you have wanted to write to me but put it off because of – age, inexperience, maybe English isn’t your first language, maybe you think you’re too weird or I’ll shun you. I’ve even had some tell me that they don’t feel they have a lot of worth and can’t possibly write to me – please don’t let that train of thought get the better of you. Especially with someone like me, who does not judge for any of those things whatsoever.

One of the goals in creating this blog, besides harnessing my own darkness and desires, was to help those like me who felt they were truly alone and had no support. I wanted to offer the opportunity where a person – regardless of sex, identity, tastes, race or experience – could feel free to write to me – to say hello or ask for a perspective or to just shoot the shit, as they say. I love meeting people and helping if need be – I live for it.

So please don’t ever be afraid to approach me, please don’t be afraid of your voice or your interests or who you are. And please don’t put me above yourself, on some higher platform, because I’m just Aussie guy writing on the Internet. As far as I’m concerned, you and I? We’re equals.

And this all extends, not just to writing in to me, but to being yourself as well. Love yourself. Cherish who you are, all dark thoughts and everything that comes with that electric realm of possibilities – because let me tell you, that’s a magical and beautiful thing.

My email is always open. It never closes. There’s never a bad time to write, I’ll never get annoyed by your approach and I certainly won’t be too busy to write a respond to you. I will say this – I am scatterbrained. I’m a man with one foot in the dreamscape and the other in reality. If I don’t respond, it’s because I’m off in my own world planning devious things. I’ll reply before you know it.

Anyway. Here at the end of Easter long weekend, I wanted to write this to the person that may or may not hesitate to write in. Don’t be afraid of this part of yourself, it’s a beautiful thing.

Take care!