The Tempest: Still Waters, Real Power, Dominance Without the Bruises
For Dominants who lead with presence, not punishment, and the submissives who crave depth over damage.
We don’t talk enough about Dominance that holds steady instead of striking hard. About the kind of power that doesn’t shout, doesn’t show off, but still commands. This is for those who understand that control isn’t chaos, and that real Dominants don’t need to break skin to make an impact. Because sometimes the strongest hand is the softest one, and the deepest bonds are formed, not forced.
The Storm And The Sea
The night was dark and still. My new windows, wide and commanding, jutted out over the coast like a private opera box. The sea stretched in a sweeping arc toward Dover, vast and luminous. It felt infinite.
Lightning blanketed the sky, and forking bolts cracked across the sea, followed by low, distant rumbles. I could feel the thunder coming closer.
It felt like I was inside a hanging garden. The glass framed the world so completely, nothing stood between me and the storm, just small and still, curled up with my laptop and an espresso martini, watching the sky perform for an audience of one.
The breeze slipped through one of the open bays, cool against my skin. I wondered how incredible it would feel to be outside in nature, raw, wild, and unfiltered. There’s nothing like it: air, water, electricity against skin and soul. Pure energy, manifest.
Then the rain began. The storm was arriving. And somehow, I had become the fantasy; the creative who moved from London to the coast, now writing in the dark with a drink in hand, the ice cubes clinking softly in the moonlit window. It was so elemental, I wanted to share it with someone. To run outside naked. To feel the passion, rain and warmth of an early summer storm.
From the safety of my room, I watched the sky break open. Raindrops tapped like tiny drums against the glass. I love thunderstorms, especially when I’m wrapped in them yet safely held, like under a tin roof or behind the thick, rain-streaked pane of a midnight room.
There’s something about storms that makes me want to be touched. To be taken. They’re charged, mysterious, mistresses of their own voyages.
Wrecked Willingly
Then, after all the quiet and darkness, the room lit up like a Christmas tree, only in the most terrifying, unnatural kind of light. And then boom, it crashed down. There were two storms: one forked way out at sea, the other directly overhead.
Together, they made me feel wild. Primal. Feral.
That deep, untamed part of me stirred, the part that longs to be taken by something greater than myself. I know it intimately because I’ve felt that force before: the electric charge of power exchange within BDSM, when Dominance and submission align in their purest form. When it’s real, when it’s right, you finally feel alive, after a lifetime of hiding, protecting, and fantasising.
You become vulnerable.
You become trusting.
You become wild and free.
It made me want to spend the rest of my life by the sea, not for the sand or the sun, but for the rawness of the elements. The truth of nature. The parts of life that get stolen from us in cities. Even in the suburbs, the view is so often obliterated. We’re left with curated slices of green, artifice, and boxed-in sky.
But here, tonight, I remembered: the world is still wild.
And so am I.
City Currents
I miss London, its 24/7 nature, never stopping, never sleeping. Despite being alone, I never felt lonely. You can lose yourself in its anonymity; you’re everything and nothing all at once, surrounded by chatter that isn’t yours, yet free to claim it if you wish.
I felt safe in the noise, the hot smell of dust rising from the Underground, the shops with more on the pavements than inside. The sirens, the distant trains, even the rhythmic murmur of late-night deals, all predictable, yet oddly calming.
I was spoiled for choice. Tourists saved for years to visit the landmarks and flagship stores I walked past every day. And at five, the City broke into alpha hour: suits sharp, pace relentless, a tide of high-achievers in black, white, and navy. I’d find a tall man and slipstream behind him like a ship carving through the tide of the City.
The Yellow Brick Road
And yet, the coast... It was always a place I imagined I’d reach someday, a shared dream, never a solo plan. But here I am. Through a strange set of circumstances, the move became a fluid transition, unfolding as if the Yellow Brick Road were being laid in front of me with each step.
It’s different here. Everyone talks, small talk is big, and it’s an art. Living here feels like stepping back to life before smartphones. Instead of looking down and scrolling, people look up and speak.
Over the years, I’ve often heard how people loathe small talk: "It’s mundane. I can’t do it. I’m terrible at it. It’s so boring, so unnecessary…"
But is it?
Within two weeks of moving, I’d shared tea and exchanged gifts with the neighbour downstairs, and been given the keys to cat-sit for the ones upstairs while they were away. In the city, through all my many moves, I never knew my neighbours beyond a nod or the occasional hello.
It’s like underground etiquette: you don’t talk to strangers. And if you do, don’t be surprised if you’re ignored, or eyed with suspicion, as if you’re asking for money, a pervert, or worse. The golden rule? Don’t speak unless absolutely necessary. Rush hour on the Tube means heads down, phones out, silent scrolling. And yet, in doing so, we miss so much. So many lost chances to connect.
Here, neighbours stop to say hello. They care. There’s no rush to be anywhere; every day feels like a slow Sunday. People call me ‘love’ or ‘darling’; men open doors without thinking twice. It’s not like the city, where they hesitate, unsure if a simple gesture might be taken the wrong way. Chivalry hasn’t disappeared here; it just isn’t questioned.
Read Me Like A Storm
Yet, the storm and my new coastal home reminded me so much of what I yearned for, something primal, raw, and real, and not the curated, performative version I’d been living.
I don't want to be seen. I want to be read.
I want someone to unlace my mind before he touches my body.
One who doesn’t flinch from depth or fire, because he carries both in equal measure.
He doesn’t dominate with noise, he does it with knowing, the kind that strips me bare with a single glance across a room, because he’s already understood what I hadn’t yet admitted to myself.
I want to be devoured by someone, like the storm, someone who sees my softness not as weakness, but as an invitation. Someone who sees my submission not as surrender, but as an offering of strength and choice.
I do not seek a dominant who demands obedience, insists on titles, expects deference he hasn’t earned, or strikes without reason or care, discipline that bruises, but means nothing, just a slow count to ten.
I crave the one whose presence alone builds such trust and surrender that I find myself crawling into his hands, begging and aching to obey.
The Power Of The Tempest
Such power is unapologetic. It doesn’t have to shout, posture, or arrive in a superhero cape. Real dominance, the kind that steadies you while setting you alight, is often quiet. Elemental. Felt rather than flaunted.
What we seek isn’t fantasy. It’s realness. Honesty, presence, vulnerability. To be known, not just admired. To be held, not managed.
We’re all wired differently, drawn to different shapes of connection. But still… don’t you sometimes wish you could just drop the act? Lay down the armour, the anxiety, the pressure to perform the version of yourself you think you're supposed to be, or have been asked to be?
Can we not just be as we are, like the tempest? The coast? Unfiltered. Intense. Beautiful in our chaos. Powerful without needing to explain why. And perhaps the heart of true dominance isn’t in performance at all, but in accepting yourself?
In growing into your confidence, not through force, but through feeling. The more you trust your instincts, the steadier your hand. The more you know yourself, the more others will feel safe coming undone in your presence.
We learn from both the experienced and the inexperienced.
We learn to hold our power from both ends of the leash.
I’ve had the privilege of watching some Dominants grow into their confidence, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness, a journey that, in many ways, mirrors my own. The secret, or perhaps the key, is self-acceptance.
I let go of the pressure, from both myself and society, to be the "alpha" I was never meant to be. That was never truly me. My strength lived elsewhere. And ironically, it was in releasing that expectation that I discovered the confidence and power I thought I lacked, simply because I didn’t fit the archetype I believed I was supposed to become.
Let it be enough. Let you be enough. Let love, in all its fierce, quiet forms, find you there.
Discipline, Not Damage
There is, of course, a place for punishment and pain, depending on the dynamic you seek. Sometimes, the very edge of pain, the threshold itself, can open into immense pleasure and release. Or those moments when you truly don’t want to obey… but then you hear that soft, steady voice:
Shhhh.
“Just do it for me.”
And something in you melts. Not into fear, but into the exquisite ache of surrendering to their desire for your obedience.
Control often touches the edges of pain. Like teaching a child, we’re taught early that pain can deter, correct, and shape. And sometimes, we want to show just how far we’ll go, how much we’ll take not out of martyrdom, but devotion. When pain is used with intention, it can co-create something powerful, even transcendent.
But used carelessly, or too often without thought, it becomes as dull and empty as a domestic chore. D/s reduced to routine, protocol for its own sake. Or worse, a way of avoiding intimacy when the connection has grown hollow.
The Call Of The Deep
The storm has passed. The sky has quieted, and the sea, for now, has softened, but something in me remains stirred. There’s a stillness that comes after the wild, not of emptiness, but of truth. That deep ache that says: "I’ve touched something real, and I can’t go back".
Like Waterhouse’s nymphs perched on rocks and in the water with salt in their hair, holding some lost thing in their hands, not searching for rescue, but remembering something deeper. Something older. They are not of the kingdom above, nor fully of the sea. Like me, they exist between worlds.
That’s what real submission feels like, not weakness, not escape, but the ache of a creature suspended between longing and instinct. She waits, not for a prince, but for the one who understands the tide she was born from. The one who doesn’t try to tame her or haul her ashore, but swims beside her, dives deep with her, and lets her stay wild, all within his hands.
Because real dominance doesn’t rescue, it meets. It doesn’t conquer. It calls. Like the storm that made me remember. Like the sea that now surrounds me. I remain like her, a mermaid far below. He will not find me in the shallows. Like Hylas, he must be drawn into still waters. Not lost, but met. Not claimed by many, but chosen by one.
