1. Disc Theory #4

Part: Episode 1

1. Disc Theory #4
A Dom recounts his experiences with his favorite sub, what kink means to him and the importance of sex.
Desmond Blume stuns again with his mastery of BDSM, in a story in which kink is explored by souls born for devotion and dominance.
1. Domination The moon cast its light through the open window and onto her wrists, bound by maroon hemp rope. She was on all fours. Her legs were spread wide. Her naked back was glistening with post-sex sweat. I dragged two fingers down both sides of her spine, leaving a wake of tingling. She was still blindfolded and panting. I commanded her to tell me everything she liked. She couldn’t speak and I realized she was still in a daze. I knelt down in front of her placed my lips on hers. We were the most connected then. Just afterwards. Everyone likes to be in control of their own lives and their selves but we never really are. We construct our lives with intention and routine. We lay down foundations in our youth and build a life on top of that. A great house. A great marriage. A superb career. Kids. Cars. Social lives. Memberships, family. We travel, but we always come back. We always come home. We know who is the receptor of our love. We know who to give our love to. We are ever so specific in which route we take. The dream was hazy. I was sitting at a bar and she was there but she wasn’t with me. I was with someone else. Or something else. I was writing. I’m always writing. I was drinking another Boulevardier. I was sitting there writing and drinking, trying not to stand out. But you always stand out at a bar on a Saturday night when you’re alone. And when you’re writing. Nowadays it’s more normal to see someone alone peering into the black rectangle. No one writes anymore. Except when they do write. They write on their laptops. No one writes in a notebook anymore. Especially at a bar. She sat there seductively. Her legs were crossed and as she talked to a guy she crossed her arms as well. She was easy to read on the outside. Harder on the inside. Her hair was sandy blonde but had streaks of turquoise and faded hot pink. It coiled down from her head and fell just over her bare shoulders. She glanced at me it was as if she was emitting signals. Either it was that or she though it strange to see someone writing at the bar. The man was hitting on her. In real life we met on Tinder. She was just outside of Chicago visiting her family. I had set my radius search too far from Logan Square and we matched. My bio always said the same thing: Dominant in the sheets and progressive in the streets. It was a cute line and it filtered out a shitload of vanilla people in the windy metropolis. In the dream we disappeared into a hotel room. The people from the bar were gone. The neon bar lights melted into cheap hotel room paintings- a copycat of a Miró and a photograph of the Bundestag in Berlin. The old…

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