How Did He Know?

As some of you on FL may know, we are out of town for 5 days. Packing for 5 people, 3 of them small snot nosed ankle biters, is no small feat. I usually end up picking out clothes for everyone and He makes it all fit in the suitcases as needed. We don’t normally go on trips this long, so I was more stressed than usual about packing, and having the stuff we needed, and making sure nothing vital is left 500 miles behind.

The evening before we left, I was hitting my panic-control stride. When I am in full on panic control, I’m terse, tense, focused and irritable. I was going over packing lists, dealing with tired, excited, anxious kids, and an Owner that is laid-back to the point of comatose. After getting the kids to bed and the majority of luggage packed, I suggested we shower and prep for the trip. He putzed around some more, pushing the shower back another 30 minutes, which didn’t help my frustration, because I was tired and just wanted to shower and sleep. Finally, He gathered up our stuff and we headed into the shower.

I warned Him that I had to shave everything that night, as the leg hairs were about ready for braiding. Shortly after I washed my face, but while I still had shampoo in my hair, He announced He had to piss. I settled down onto the tub floor, kneeling with my breasts pressed together and my mouth open. His hot, aromatic piss landed on my tits, and my mind emptied. I was finally in the moment again. I could just let go and be His, with no worries, no demands, nothing beyond kneeling with His water washing over me. After He was relieved, He shook His dick at me, silently demanding a blow job. The first threads of irritation washed over me as I sucked Him into my mouth, thinking about how long it would be before I could go to bed…how much hot water wasn’t going to be there for me to shave in…how it had been so long since I had orgasmed…I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wasn’t in the moment anymore, and I had lost that slave composure again. I was tired, sad, aggravated, frustrated as I deep throated Him and licked his member.

He pulled me away by my hair, and said “How about we fuck your ass?” in a teasing tone that didn’t allow for any discussion. I huffed from the floor of the tub, having far passed the end of my patience and entered pissy slave territory.

“You realize I still have to shave, and in cold water, and I am dead ass tired, right?” I crabbily asked Him.

“Yep. Now get the oil.” He smirked at me.

So I got the oil and assumed the position, still frustrated and resentful. He slid His hand down my backside, seeking out my puckered asshole. I actively tried to relax as He started lubing me up with the oil, but my frustration was holding me back. He slowly worked a finger in me, then started on two as I focused on my breathing and battled the anger and resentment away.

“Play with your cunt,” He ordered.

Part of my mind was thrilled at the command, but the other part groaned. I wanted the orgasms, but I didn’t want to let go of my righteous (to me) anger and struggle. I didn’t want to kneel to Him. I didn’t want to humble myself in the throes of passion.

I swirled my fingers in the oil and lightly tapped my clit. It was electrifying, and I flushed hot red as my body shivered. He felt my response and pressed into me, His fingers more insistent and demanding in my ass. I felt Him draw away, and I heard the ‘snick’ of the lube cap as He poured some oil over His stiffened pole. Then He pressed into me again, this time seeking warm haven in my slowly yielding hole. The pain, and the pleasure, and the pressure, the subjugation to His will; it all welled up in me, whipping into a painfully exquisite orgasm that had me seeing cross-eyed. He came the next stroke, driving me into the wall and making me see more stars.

I caught my breath, slumped against the wall. He withdrew, and I felt sore and physically empty, but mentally fulfilled and calm. I had achieved that moment of calm and serenity again.

I thanked Him from the bottom of my heart. Because of His insistence that I do as I am told, I was able to finally relax and sleep restfully, something I hadn’t achieved in quite a few days.

How did He know that when I said “No, I don’t want to,” it meant “Yes, but I can’t ask for it yet”? How did He know that I needed to be used and taken, against my will? How does He know me, better than I know myself at that time?

How does He know me so well?

 

 

Seven Years

As some of you know, N and I celebrated seven years of marital bliss on this past Monday. We’ve known each other for fifteen years, have been a couple for thirteen, and we have shared so many good times together we feel timeless and powerful, tenacious and enduring.

I didn’t post this earlier because I didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound all sappy and mushy and puppy-lovey.
And now, I just don’t care if I sound all that and then some. I love my Owner, He’s my best friend, my Lover, and I can’t imagine life without Him. He is the Sun to my Moon, the yin to my yang, the ketchup to my curly fries. The lemonade to my iced tea.
I love You, N.

Seven years have come and gone

Singing our own heartfelt song

The path is worn, the line is drawn

Another seven at the dawn.

Ten Commandments of Kink

shamelessly stolen from FetLife

The Ten Commandments of Kink

1) All activity must be safe (we do not cause true harm), sane (we only engage in activity when we are clear of mind), and consensual.
2) We must always be respectful of our partner’s safe word (red/yellow/green) and their hard limits.
3) We only enter into activities after we have gained trust, education, and an open mind.
4) We must always be polite and ask questions.
5) We must not touch other people’s equipment without permission.
6) We must always be clean, hygienic, and mindful of our own equipment.
7) We must always be mindful of aftercare.
8) We do not engage in humiliating and degrading scenes for solely our own amusement.
9) We always protect each others anonymity from the harsh eyes of the vanilla world.
10) Most importantly, we do not forget to have a good time.

I get the reasons behind why something like this is often penned. Really, I do. I just think it happens to be a colossal waste of time, and an easy way into deluding newcomers and oldsters alike that they know the right way to “do” kink. And it just isn’t.

First point: The overusage of the word “must”. “Must” shouldn’t be in there at all. In all of the human world, must cannot come into the equation when we start taking individuals into account. Such as “we must always respect safewords.” Yeah, until a slave is not afforded one by said slave’s owner. For someone to declare they know better than said O/s couple when enough is enough because they read a commandment list on the internet…that’s a little bit of fucked up right there.

I object to this constant whitewashing of kink to better appeal to the masses. Honestly, I blame NCSF and Jay Wiseman’s clique for a large part of this problem. What some of us do is dangerous. It can be dark, mean, terrifying, emotional, and ass-clenching. Some people like to enter into a situation in which they can’t get out. If I give consent to N to have His way with me and He decides we are going to use a equine speculum in my ass, you’re damn right I am going to be begging and screaming and trying to crawl away until I’m bound and gagged. Again, for some white-knighter to come and “save” me from the very thing I have searched for and finally found, would piss both N and I off muchly. And to have my preferences deemed “wrong” because it makes the “community” look dangerous and mean is such utter bullshit. Let’s just sacrifice a few people on the fringe of things for wider appeal, and sell our souls in the process, right? What could possibly be wrong with sanitizing an entire sub-culture that was initially formed to embrace and relish our alternative lifestyles?

“We do not engage in humiliating and degrading scenes for solely our own amusement.” So who’s amusement are we supposed to be doing it for? The other day N trussed me up and fucked my cunt. Half way through He pulled out and spread my pussy lips wide, then clucked in disapproval. “Lookit that. Wider than the damned Grand Canyon,” He admonished me. My cheeks flared and I teared up in embarrassment and shame, even as my cunt squelched with pussy juice. Were we not supposed to engage in humiliation because there was no audience to amuse with it? Why on earth should two people in a serious relationship *not* do things to amuse themselves?!

Also, I don’t get this hate on alcohol and play, or light partaking of weed and play. N and I do not smoke up, but we have very good friends who do, and I wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to bend over her knee after she’s had a joint. There is no reason taking the edge off is absolutely, no discussions about it *bad*. Having a drink before playing will not kill anyone. Having a case, well, I don’t recommend that at all. But really, if the person supposed to be topping you can’t tell when enough has been enough, do you want them topping you sober, either? I’d rather see someone who has the smarts and self-awareness to be able to responsibly drink coming at me with a flogger than someone who has limit issues and “fixes” it by teetotalling.

I guess what I would like to leave my readers with is the idea that Ten Commandments of Kink is a cutesy, pablum idea, but ultimately, it doesn’t actually achieve anything. It doesn’t teach newcomers the thing they need the most of: critical thinking skills. It alienates chunks of the “society” even as it brain-numbs the new people.

If I could say anything to the new people, it would be watch, listen, think. Think for yourselves. Sure, listen to the advice and experiences everyone will offer you…and then decide if it is right for you. Do not accept someone’s MUST NOT DO list without critically deconstructing it. If you and your bitch (of any gender) do your research and decide you want to play around with humiliation, degradation, non-consent, or anything like that, do your research again, seriously think about it post-orgasm, and then embark. Just because you are new does not mean you lost your brains. Just because they are “experienced” means they know anything more than how to say some cool buzzwords and parade around in ill-fitting leather. You are the best arbitrator for what is right for you…don’t ever forget that.

And when some self-righteous busybody who has stupid Anais Nin quotes on her profile comes to lecture you about how what you are doing is wrong and dangerous and against the goals of the greater kink community, and that she hopes you die in a ditch completely alone, just remember: you are the best person to judge if your decisions are working for you. If you chose your Owner well and your head hasn’t fallen off yet, tell that busybody to get stuffed, because obviously she doesn’t have enough dick in her life.

Cheers to your enjoyment of what it is that you do. 🙂

Slow Processor

No, I am not an AMD Athlon.

People who have argued with me or debated with me will know that I am exceptionally good with rapid-fire arguing. When particularly impassioned I can rail off a line of questioning that would make Jack McCoy proud. Given the chance, and if I am pissed, I will blast my opponent with questions, over and over, until they either start arguing back with equal to increased ferocity or knuckle under and give me what I want.

Unless it is N. I am forbidden from doing this with Him, and if I inadvertently try He shuts me down and sends me away.

This habit does not make me a fun friend if you have done something that wounded me. It does not make me a good person for mediation and reconciling. I know that, and I have made peace with that.

With that in mind, I will share another facet of living with me that will make you scratch your head. When I was named, they should have named me Mary, because I am quite contrary.

When I have a momentous event happen in my life, I react immediately with what I know and feel. If my first emotion and my first thoughts are anger and hurt, I will react accordingly and lash out. If it is surprise and humor, I will laugh and feel at ease. As time has gone on, I will revisit the event and process my feelings and thoughts further, often discovering another layer below the initial flare. Sometimes my impressions will go through three or four evolutions before I have fully examined and absorbed an event’s effects.

Because of my initial flare of feelings and reaction, people think I have accepted the event and I am done with it. That I may express differing emotions a few days afterwards surprises them, but they usually roll with it, let me talk it out and feel my way through it, they are understanding of my need for a sounding board and occasional guide.

What they don’t understand is that if the event was very intense, traumatic, or painful, I won’t go back to process it right away. I will put it away for weeks (or even months) until I have sufficient resiliency to withstand revisiting it. Sometimes it may take me a few years to fully understand what happened, what I did, what I felt, and how to incorporate it into my self. Each time I reassess these points, I put it away again for awhile. Processing painful or scary events takes a lot out of a person.

Unfortunately, each time I go to revisit and further process an event, there are less and less people willing to listen to me, because they feel I am lingering, dragging on the drama, playing the victim card. I start to feel vulnerable and attacked, so those events never fully get processed. Instead they take up little corners of my mind, like craft projects never finished, little pieces scattered here and there in the middle of use. And once in a while, I’ll step on a sharp piece and become absolutely pissed that it was left out to begin with, not finished and neatly put away like I would prefer.

I’m at that point right now. I have this craft that I am wanting to revise and process further, but I can’t from lack of supplies and tools. So I’m stuck with this pile of craft parts, and each time I walk by it in my brain, I just scowl and stick my tongue out.

I don’t know if anyone else is a slow processor like me.This might just be a part that was permanently transformed by my abuse. Or maybe I’m still rather screwed up cognitively, but I just don’t know it because it doesn’t come up as a conversation.

So if anyone out there is reading this and saying “Yep, I do that too” or “Well, I used to do that but then I …” I would really appreciate hearing from you. Advice and suggestions are welcomed, because I don’t want to be a burden on my family and friends much longer.

In Other News: Everything is going well here. I’ve been fucked a few times, and those injections of sanity have cleared my funk up. I’m still tired and I still occasionally dream about flying to Boston by myself to stay at a hotel on the beach, but hey, it beats wanting to burn down the barn for entertainment.

 

Cranky

This is why slaves shouldn’t have access to laptops. They can go hide in the bedroom and bitch about how life is annoying and should just stop.

Sex is no longer being had in this house. (Well, I don’t think the dog is getting any, and I’m pretty sure the cats aren’t either…) I haven’t come in over a week, and I am pretty sure that’s how long it has been since sex was had. So a little horny angst is going on…I’m on the rag, which sometimes means I’m humping the air and moaning from a faint breeze. I’ve tried to come on to Him, but He’s about as aware as a rock. He’s too tired, too absorbed, too blah to care.

I’m finally reaching the end of my ability to exist on this lonely dirt road without other adults to talk to. Sometimes during the day I feel like there are six small hands dragging me further and further under the surface of life, sucking my energy and vive like little darling vampires. I don’t call Him at work for much because I don’t want to cling. I just want to talk, to connect, to hear another voice in a post-puberty octave. When He gets home, I try to be nice and ask how His day was, what did He do, who’d He work with, because I just want to live vicariously thorugh Him. And at the same time, I’m screaming inside to shut up, He doesn’t want to be debriefed, He just wants to go sit at His desk and stare at the screen. I respect His 10 minute no touching rule, but I just want a goddamned hug, to be seen, to be acknowledged.

And that brings me to the largest pocket of festering pain…I am feeling more and more like a friendly ghost who does the housework (occasionally) and cooks. More and more I feel like what I am giving up, what I am turning away, what I am suppressing, is no longer fulfilling. Today after supper, if I could have, without even asking Him, I would have gotten changed, called up a girlfriend or two and driven into town, had a few drinks, tore it up a little and just let my hair down. And every step of the way as I imagined it, I was blocked. No permission. No money. No gas in the van. No one to call. And nowhere to sleep when I came home.

I don’t like the word no anymore. No orgasms. No friends. No drinks out, relaxed at a bar. No random driving through the country with the windows down, the music up, a cold bottle between my legs. No acknowledgement. No voice. No choice.

It isn’t like the life and lot of slave comes as any surprise to me. I mean, it shouldn’t. But every so often, something pops up and just rubs the total inequality and sheer drudging pissiness of it all right in my face. It refuses to fade if I close my eyes and shake my head. I can’t just imagine my way out of this.

I think, at times like this, I can understand the appeal of active dominance better. Right now as I type this, I sit on His bed and listen to angry moody emo music, while He lays on the couch upstairs, stuffing His face with high-calorie-high-sugar foods I can’t even think about, watching a car show or something, probably completely oblivious to how pissed I am. When He reads this He’ll shake His head, maybe roll His eyes, and go about on His merry little way. What does He care? I have no ability to fight back, I prove no threat to the order of things. I had convinced myself to strike tonight, got my lappy and speakers, hid in the bedroom…and then folded and put away all the clothes. So much for striking. Why be actively dominant when you can just coast on the training you have already done? I don’t think graceful, smiling submission means as much to Him as obedience does. He doesn’t care how much I scream and cuss about something as long as it gets done the way He said to do it.

He mentioned possibly not going to the munch this upcoming Saturday. I didn’t say anything, but a little piece of me flared up and went out. My chance to see something past the ten acres…gone. To see the smiling faces and hear the laughing voices of new people and relish a new experience…gone.

I understand why some of the old horsemen would break an unruly ‘stang by tying it to a post for a few days with no interaction.

 

It’s Good

Life is going fine here. Sex is being had, breasts are being pinched and wrung, we are running like a well-oiled machine.

(Now that I said that everything will blow up.)

I have a few ideas bouncing around in my head, and hopefully I’ll have time to share ’em.

I hope everyone in La-la land is doing well and having fun. 🙂

A Searching Apology

To the person who stumbled onto this blog while searching for

“my plug has come off the sink chain”

I’m very sorry you had to see this.

And I hope you come back. 🙂

My Long Road

I wrote a long post about the things I have lived through in my life, and was trying to explain how this played a role in who I am. It got tedious and I didn’t want to write a novel, so here’s the short short version.

I had:

• seen my mother held at gunpoint by the man I called daddy (my stepfather)
• been thrown across the room trying to save my mother from that man as he straddled her and slapped her like a rag doll
• been molested by that man from ages 5-9
• been petted and degraded by his friends for favors
• been held at gunpoint by policemen as our house was raided for a drug bust
• lived in poverty for all of that time. We didn’t have phone services, occasionally ate Hamburger Helper without the hamburger, lived on government commodities and goodwill baskets.

• Moved across two states with nothing more than what could fit in a minivan
• struggled with leaving a small quiet country town for a urban school district with racial tensions
• been molested by the brother I moved in with
• been molested by the uncle I moved in with
• listened to my grandmother call my mother no-good trash and say that I was raised by wolves
• lived in a one-bedroom apartment with 6 people and a baby
• shared a bedroom with my abuser until I was 13
• sliced my abuser with a steak knife in a desperate attempt to avoid another beating
• suffered through three years of attending a school in which most of my classmates had seen naked pictures of my mother screwing various items and men (not my father)

• tried committing suicide twice before the age of 16
• started drinking at the age of 13
• started using drugs at the age of 13
• started cutting at the age of 13
• laid stoically through an attempted rape
• suffered through my parents’ various mental illnesses and irrational fits of rage, which included throwing a stereo, scissors, booster seat, and various books at me at random times
• listened to my mother swear she was going to kill me because I had the nerve to call her counselor and alert them to her being crazy again
• deal with my father kicking in my door (and removing the lock for the rest of the time I lived with them) because I had locked it before I left for school to stop my parents from stealing my babysitting money
• Sit through a long screaming lecture from my mother about how the cops said all the abuse I endured was my fault and that I didn’t love her anymore because I reported the abuse and neglect
• Ran away from home after my mother and father got into a screaming match and my youngest brother was knocked over in a fit of rage
• Was denied treatment for my mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation and PTSD) because my mom felt the therapists were blaming her for my condition.
• Sit through another lecture from my mother in which she informed me that *when* (not if) I got knocked up, I certainly wasn’t going to get any help or support from them, including having a place to live. That’s rich coming from a woman who had her fist child out of wedlock at the age of 16 and her second at 19. She also refused to give me access to birth control.
• never learned to: drive, balance a checkbook, drink responsibly, apply for a job, apply for college, or have a meaningful relationship with a partner

Given all of that (and more that I just don’t feel like thinking about or writing about) it is no wonder I ended up in a halfway house for a week while my meds and treatment were ironed out. I spent four years in therapy, 5 years on medication. By the time I was able to get the help I needed, I had internalized the constant stream of negativity and abuse from my family into an auditory hallucination. I thought I could hear people’s thoughts about me, and it was *never* good. It was actually the negative feedback loop I had grown up with, being projected onto others to save my self.

And for once, I can say I am truly past that. I am whole and sane, with many interesting scars and stories to tell about them. I am a complex slave to own, with a trying and tricksy history that makes even the most normal of situations into a challenge at times.

It is that history that makes me confident in saying I know what abuse is, and how N and I live our lives is nothing like abuse. It is that history that makes me confident in saying I can fully offer my consent as a sane adult, because I know what it is like to be an impaired adult. It is that history that makes me able to fully appreciate what I have now: security, love, appreciation, and happiness.

I have walked through the fire, scraped my knees on the jagged edges of insanity, and am whole and pure in the face of the future. I am battle-hardened, sharpened to a wicked point by pain and endurance.

I am, who I am, and I love myself for who I have become.

I Need the Very Thing That Terrifies Me

To be broken, and put back together…

 

It has been a long time since N and I have “played”. I mean, serious intent on pain, broken sobbing, both of us consumed by our intensity kind of scene.

It is exactly what I want, and exactly what I am terrified of. I have no pain tolerance anymore, and the kind of pain I want is mean and hard and icky. I long for the subsumed ego after a good beating, but the journey to get there, although integral to the result, is something I would want to skip. Except maybe not. Falling victim to His desires is something I alternately loathe and ache for.

Even worse, I am hungry for something that I won’t get for a while still. I seek an unreachable experience, and the very fact that it is so far from my grasp makes the yearning stronger.

I do not ask for much, especially in the way of S/m. I know it is a lot of work on His part and as tired as we both are, I don’t want to tire Him more. So I just wait, and dream, and fear.

I think when I finally reach my dream, I will die the tiny little deaths of agony and ecstasy.

I can, and can’t, wait.

 

I Fixed it For Ya

If anyone knows the original author of this, please let me know and I will be sure to give due credit for it, and link to the original.

I just saw this posted in the response section of a K&P writing. Sifting through all the holier-than-thou BS that accumulates as “awsum stuf” on K&P reminds me why I’m better off not reading it. No wonder I want to yell “Get offa ma lawn” more and more.

Some spiel about real dominants, with the original in bold and my edits below in italics

I am a dominant man. I am just that.

I am a dominant. I am just that.

I am not dominant because of any superiority on my part.

I may or may not be superior to you. Not all people are created equal and I am intelligent enough to recognize this.

Not because I feel I am more intelligent, or wiser.

I may be more intelligent than others, or wiser.

I am not dominant because of the strength or mass of my body.

Dominance by force and oppression may be in my repertoire.

 I am not, nor would I want to be dominant with all women.

I am not, nor would I want to be dominant with all people.

Yet to you, I am Master.

I am your Master only after earning your trust and I embrace your submissiveness.

I am your Master because we both entered into a inequal relationship in which I retain most, if not all, authority and you acquiesce.

I have looked into your heart and mind and clearly see your desires and passions.

We have exchanged goals, hopes, and fantasies and know each other well.

You have thrown away your fears and inhibitions.

Together we have learned more about what we can do, will do, and will not do.

You tell me of the needs of your heart and body. You have given me total access to your soul, and I accept the responsibility and honor. You are a woman. You are not weak or inferior because of it.

You are my partner. You may or may not be weaker than I or inferior to me.

You are a treasure to be cherished. We are not equal.

You are my partner, not a Faberge egg. We are not equal.

I have the strength of body and mind and the instinctive need to protect, possess, defend and provide for you.

I am a human being who will do as we agree within our relationship without letting the rest of the world define what is required or forbidden in our relationship.

You are a woman and instinctively stronger of will and heart.

You are my partner.

Your belief in me gives me courage and direction.

We both find ourselves in our relationship.

Your strength disperses my doubt.

Our relationship benefits us both.

Your needs and desires encourage and give purpose to my efforts.

Seeing our growth and success encourages me to continue.

We are not equal. We are halves of a whole. We compliment each other and make each other complete

We were complete people before we embarked on our journey, but together we are happiest.

My desire to dominate you is instinctive.

My desire to be dominant is who I am, but the skills are not necessarily instinctive.

It is not to degrade you nor is it degrading to you because you are secure in being totally feminine.

Degradation can be hot within the confines of our understanding, regardless of gender. Arbitrary gender stereotypes and gender-societal roles are not applicable to everyone on this Earth.

We each recognize and accept our worth, and our need for someone to trust and fulfill our needs. You are sure, strong and proud in your womanhood.

You are sure, strong, and proud in your personhood.

You do not submit as acceptance of inferiority, but from strength and passion.

You submit to me for your own reasons and not others, whether it be from a place of inferiority or a place of supreme strength, or a mix of all.

You expect a man to stand strong and be a man.

You expect a person to behave as they say they will, with integrity and honor.

You desire and flourish in the strength and control of a man.

You are happy under my authority.

In return you present control of your body, unqualified trust and honesty, and the faithfulness of your heart. You submit because I have earned your trust.

You submit in our relationship because it fulfills a need in both of us to do so.

Because I have opened my heart and soul to you.

I have been as honest as I have said I will be, and you reciprocated with trust.

Because I have listened to your words with my ears and heart and have learned to anticipate your needs and emotions.

Because we use effective communication and discourage romantic, ineffective, coy guessing games, our trust has strengthened over time.

And because I have proved worthy in your eyes, you have given me the only true treasure of life: you have given me dominance over you.

Because I have behaved as I said I would and you have as well, we have found a happiness and enjoyment in our authority-based dynamic.

What you give is not abnormal, but pure, natural and the rarest gift a woman could give a man.

The position you have accepted in our relationship structure is your choice and will not be worshiped nor exalted, but appreciated and understood.

You have given me complete and unshakable assurance of your commitment to me.

You do not put me on a pedestal, but accept that I am human and will make mistakes, and still trust me with your life.

Your submissiveness is a magnificent gift and sacred responsibility.

Your submissiveness is most likely a personality trait, possibly something inborn. I appreciate you sharing it with me, but I will not treat it as the Holy Grail.

I accept this from you with humility and joy.

I accept your submission.

I understand the rarity and purity of this gift.

I appreciate it.

I recognize it is your body and soul, your heart and mind.

I recognize that your ass is mine.

I dominate you only because you have allowed it.

I dominate you because that is how we relate to each other.

I dominate only because you have allowed me to and when I see your body kneel before me, in my mind and heart you are raised above all other women, and all the treasures of the earth.

I dominate you because that is how we most effectively relate to each other. This does not make either of us super special snowflakes of the most sparkly kind.

What you give freely can not in reality be bought

I could buy a slave, but it is highly illegal and I don’t want to become Bubba’s bitch.