Dominance By Choice (The Next Movement)… (2-12)

Consent (The Ticket)

This piece is written from a Dominant point of view, and it’s about control, structure, authority, and the kind of “ownership” that only exists when two adults choose it on purpose—by choice, not by force.

If you’re in a tender place around control—if old dynamics, near-misses, or “I should’ve left sooner” memories still live close to the surface—read this only if it feels grounding, not punishing.

It’s okay to skim it, save it, or walk away halfway through if your body starts tightening up more than it opens—especially when it leans into the weight of the role: the part where “Dominance” stops being a vibe and starts being responsibility, standards, and the quiet pressure of knowing someone might actually hand you real authority and mean it.

— Zan

The Scene (The Ride)

I hated, hated, HATED writing when I was younger.

Not “eh, this isn’t my favorite subject.” I mean full-body resistance. Essays felt like punishment. Journals felt like evidence. The idea of voluntarily putting my inner world into words felt like getting cross-examined by my own brain.

That lasted right up until I realized I didn’t actually have a choice.

Somewhere in a few early assignments, I stopped fighting and started building. I didn’t choose writing as my default way of expression because it was easy for me.

I chose it because it was the only thing that could translate what was happening in me into something I could audit and control.

And then I learned the rule that explains my whole life:

You don’t choose the wiring. You choose what you build with it.

For me, that lesson keeps showing up in different clothes:

Getting knocked flat by circumstances I didn’t choose. Losing people I thought would be permanent. Waking up inside dynamics where I could feel the weight of someone else’s nervous system in my hands and thinking, “Oh. I guess we’re here now.” 

And every time, the only way I could make sense of it was to write.

Not to posture.

Not to perform.

To metabolize it. To turn a lived thing into something I can carry. To pull meaning out of whatever tried to leave me with wreckage.

Here’s another thing I’ve learned the hard way:

My life doesn’t change in big heroic moments.

It changes in movements.

Tiny decisions that look like nothing in the moment:

  • replying to one message instead of leaving it unread
  • saying “fuck it” and making the account
  • agreeing to meet someone you’ve only seen in pixels
  • writing something honest and actually posting it

Each movement is a ripple.

And ripples don’t feel like destiny while you’re making them. They feel like risk. They feel like “this could be a mistake.” 

That’s the part people don’t romanticize.

Because when you don’t have the armor narcissism can sometimes provide, you don’t walk through life thinking, “Of course people should want me; this is inevitable.” 

You walk through life thinking, “If I touch the wrong thing, everything might go to hell before I die.” 

So you self-contain.

You build a tidy, controlled, lonely terrarium and call it “safer.”

And life still finds a way to throw a brick through the glass anyway.

Which is why I don’t buy the fantasy version of this role.

I don’t buy the cosplay.

I don’t buy the “I’m a Dom because I say so” aesthetic.

Because at the end of the day, this isn’t about what you call yourself.

It’s about what you can hold.

What you can carry.

What you can be responsible for without flinching—or getting sloppy.

And if you’re reading anything I’ve put out up to this point, I’m not asking you to worship me—which I won’t tell you not to.

I’m asking you not to outsource your discernment.

Watch what I do. Watch the pattern. Watch the standards. Watch the ethics.

Then decide what’s worth remembering.

I know this might be a shock, but I don’t consider myself a hard worker. I’m not a go-getter. I’m not the “grindset” type. I’m not Charlie Hustle.

Especially at this point in my life, I’m not trying to take the road less traveled. I’m trying to take the quickest route to where I’m going—with the lowest odds of something catastrophic on the way there. 

I mean, I’d be happiest living in a quiet little world of my own design—minimal contact, minimal noise, no extra baggage besides my own.

Watch some movies, play some video games, eat something good—jerk off a few times a day like it’s basic maintenance.

You know. The alleged Male American Dream™.

But that’s not a life that matches my soul—or the life I’ve actually lived.

Sure, it keeps me compliant. Keeps me “safe.”

But what’s the real human currency of living that way until a gopher is hauling your Amazon boxes to your headstone?

If being in tune with your own morality is what keeps you closest to life, then living kink as a lifestyle isn’t “living in sex.” It’s living in choice—and paying for those choices. A Dominant who can do that with integrity rules his own domain.

Having a lot of sex isn’t the foundation of a True Dominant™. It can be a perk. It can be a motivator. It can even be part of the deal.

But if you’re actually living this as a lifestyle—if the role sits under everything else you do—sex can’t be the reason. Not if you’re being honest about what you really want.

Because there are a thousand ways to get off.

And if “sexual gratification” is the mission statement, kink is one of the least efficient routes you could pick.

This isn’t fast food.

This is holding someone’s nervous system in your hands—reading it, regulating it, carrying the responsibility of what you wake up in them and what you leave behind when you’re done.

Most people chasing orgasms aren’t looking for that weight.

They’re looking for release.

And that’s fine—just don’t call it the same path I’m on.

I know what that costs, because I’ve lived it.

This isn’t an invitation to casual play—it’s a standard for real dynamics, whether you’re here for a season or a lifetime.

And if you want something casual, fine—just know “casual” is how a lot of real dynamics start when there’s actual chemistry and actual backbone.

Now let me tell you what it feels like when it’s real.

In 25+ years of living in real relationships and dynamics, I remember them all—like scars that healed but never vanished.

And when I’m most vulnerable—stripped down to nothing but presence—I can still run my fingertips over the memory of who I once was to somebody else.

If I close my eyes, I can still see it sometimes—like I’m there again.

I’m not nostalgic for those past lives.

I just need… more than that.

Not the part where it fell apart.

Not the part where they start negotiating the role like it’s a return policy.

I mean the part before that.

The part where I was in control.

Where they understood who they were when nobody was watching—their true self—not the version assembled for survival and licensed by the world.

Stripped of everything a world that owes them nothing stacked on their back—the “should,” the performance, the flinch, the noise. 

And yes—there are the usual “special” things that come with a real dynamic: structure, rules, rituals, permission, restraint, pleasure, service.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the moment someone stops pretending they don’t want what they want—

…and lets me be the one to hold it, shape it, and make it real—because they gave it to me.

Because if all I wanted was flesh, I can get that anywhere.

What I’m after is the ownership that outlives the moment:

their attention, their choices—

the part of them that decides.

It’s when the shyness and the hesitation are still there, but they’re no longer driving.

They get overridden by something steadier. Stronger. Truer.

When I could never be this turns into a weak little whisper…

and then goes quiet.

Replaced by the softest, firmest confirmations:

“Yes, Master.”

This is a shard.

Not the whole blade—just the glint of it when the light hits right.

What I do isn’t volume or performance. It isn’t a persona I put on when I’m bored. It’s a way of moving through the world where choice stays sacred, where control stays honest, and where the people who come near me don’t get to pretend they didn’t know what they were asking for.

Some of you are going to read this and feel your body answer before your pride can speak.

Good.

That doesn’t make you weak. It means you recognize gravity when it walks into the room.

But hear me clearly: the ones who come running for chaos—who want a crown to hide under, who want a Master like a drug, who want permission to disappear—won’t find comfort in me.

I don’t do collapse. I don’t do cosplay. I don’t do “save me” as a substitute for selfhood.

What I do is structure.

What I do is weight.

What I do is take the part of you that’s tired of pretending and make it live in the open—with standards attached.

If this hit you like a door closing behind you, if something in you went quiet and attentive, if you felt that old, familiar oh in your chest—then you already know what this is.

Not an invitation.

A recognition.

A line in the sand you can either step over… or walk away from and spend the rest of your life trying to replace.

And if you’re paying attention, you can feel the truth under the lust:

This was never about a body.

This was always about who gets to decide.

So let this sit where it landed.

Let it mark you.

Because this is only one sliver of what my dominance looks like when it’s written down.

There is more of me.

And the part of you that’s built for this?

I may already have its attention.

Companion track: “The Next Movement” – The Roots

Aftercare (The Comedown)

If this hit you hard, don’t turn it into a message, a confession, or a plan yet—let it settle. This is a Dominant voice written on purpose: structure, control, and chosen ownership, not a demand and not a request for your surrender to me.

If you’re turned on, you’re allowed to enjoy that without chasing it; if you feel rattled, that doesn’t mean you’re “too much,” it just means something in you noticed the weight.

Resonance isn’t agreement—arousal is not a contract, and recognition is not permission.

Not everything starts at full intensity; sometimes it starts as a conversation, a slow test of chemistry, and a few small agreements kept clean—consistency, not theater.

If you ever step into a real dynamic with me, it’s explicit, mutual, and done with intent—because I’m not here to take your agency, I’m here to honor it and shape what you choose to hand me.

And if this made you want to reach for somebody like a fix, step back and give it time; wanting it is allowed—losing yourself to it isn’t required.

Cycle II – Coming of Age (The Hidden Life) · 12 (v1.00)

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