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.

This Is My Slavery

The sun is high and warm, with only wispy mare’s tails clouds marring the sky. I drip with sweat, itchy in my long sleeve shirt and baggy jeans. I can feel the leather of my boots pressing clammy against my damp shins. The wind comes and goes, much like the dog, capriciously and without notice. The cat is lolling in the shade of the barn, resting indolently on the concrete pad of the side door.

I follow the three-furrow plow placidly, swinging my gaze from in front of the plow (looking for obstacles) to the back of the plow (checking the roll over and the soil condition) and then up to Him on the seat of the tractor (hand signals, commands, needs?) The sonorous mutter of the content Farmall M tractor, the steady hiss of sod being cut by the lead disc, the clucking of the lame wheel as it rides in the newly-formed furrow…all these things meld into a Mobius-strip soundtrack as I walk along, watching the plow, checking the rows, preventing any problems.

I am His eyes.

I slide the spade from shoulder to shoulder, frowning as the wooden handle roughs up the tender skin of my palms. There’s a low throb in my hands, a sharper acrid beat where the blisters are beginning to form. As I plod along, the pain melds into a low hum in my hands, matching the chugging commentary of the tractor. I ignore the irritation and settle back into my meditation.

The plow bucks and digs into the ground, refusing to move any farther forward. I swear and threaten the plow and the tractor as He urges the tractor forward, lunging the tractor, alternately blocking the wheels, backing up and lunging forward again. I lean forward and tear long tapestries of sod out from behind the lead discs, barely feeling the brief heat of the nettles hidden in the long grass. Finally He breaks free and I walk again.

Each time we pass the silo, I hold my spade up slightly, head cocked in an inquisitive gesture. At the nod, I come forward and scrape the plowshares clean, chucking the ragged streamers of sod into the last furrow. I give everything the once over and nod for Him to continue. Words are useless; there is no way we can out loud the tractor. Everything is based on gestures, down to the need for water.

Once in a while I trail away, headed for the barn or house. I grab a long, cold, dripping drink of water, then fill the bottle for Him and head back out, wordlessly handing Him the welcomed bottle. He hops off and we discuss the work so far, poking the soil, judging the conditions, assessing what might need adding.

It is under these conditions that I fully feel like an extension of Him. I’m His tool. I’m just like the plow, the tractor. And I’m happy. I’m content. I can just fall into the rhythm of serving Him and let everything else fall away.

 

Things I’ve Learned on FetLife

1) There are only two kinds of submissive people: brats and doormats. Which one is better depends on who you are asking. Brats are apparently sassy, smart, fun-loving, feisty and girly when you ask them, and when you ask the doormats, they are cunty, bitchy, mis-behaving attention seeking malcontents looking for their next beating from anyone. Doormats are patient, docile, adoring, devoted, peaceful souls if you ask them, and boring, wallflower, mindless soulless robots with no sense of humor if you ask the brat.

2) It is rude, wrong, and mean to belong to a clique, but it is completely acceptable to chase newcomers out of a group because they aren’t like you.

3) Defending yourself and your dynamic against slurs is a huge sign of insecurity. If you were secure in your happiness and relationship, people could take a giant shit on it on a daily basis and you wouldn’t even notice.

4) Honesty and transparency is good, except when it isn’t. And no, when it isn’t will not be discussed ahead of time.

5) Narcissism, navel-gazing, and insinuation are the three biggest fetishes on this site.

So rush out and sign up today!

Love in an Elevator

Last weekend, N and I got up to no good. This comes as no surprise, I am sure. It is *where* we did deliciously hot things that was quite the change.

I dropped off the kids early Saturday afternoon and drove into town afterwards to shop around a bit before supper with N after He got off of work. It started innocently enough; I called to check in and let Him know where I was. I asked Him if He was busy, who He was working with, and let Him know I was at Home of Economy looking for sweaters and jeans for the kids.I’m curious about His work, just ’cause, I spose. I like to know if He’s having a good day, who He was hanging with, that kind of stuff. I just like to hear about His day, because I like to feel like a part of it.

He was alone. His coworker left early, and His boss left as well. And my brain stopped working, leaving my clit in charge. I found myself asking Him if I could come meet Him early…and He knew exactly what I meant.

When I drove up, there were no cars in the lot, so I texted Him that I had arrived. He met me at the side door and escorted me inside. The minute I stepped onto the man-lift (that’s fancy industry talk for “tiny coffin-sized elevator that feels like it will plunge to your death at any moment”) I pressed myself into His body, fleeing my fear of the lift by sinking deep into us. My mouth sought His, my hands locked behind His neck, and my soft, willing body molded against His lean frame. Hands and mouths roamed hungrily, and the man-lift reached the second floor much quicker than I was ready for.

Continue reading

Anal, Masochism, and Communication

I’ve discussed my reluctance with masochism previously, but in talking with Intriguing about my most recent brush up with N’s “I don’t care if you don’t want it, you’re getting it” philosophy, I’ve realized that my version of masochism is horribly clear as mud, and I’m damned lucky N’s been around me long enough to understand that when I say no, I’m needing a yes, but asking for the no/yes combo nullifies the no.

I’m not real fond of anal sex, which is why it makes my cunt gush fountains. In the shower last night, N told me to grab the oil bottle. I slumped…there’s only one reason He tells me to grab that bottle, and it’s not a good one. I tried my little girl lost look and said “It’s pretty late…I’m tired. We should go to bed.” He shook His head and pointed at the bottle. “But I’m sore and the water will get cold!” I wheedled. He just pointed again, His face hardening. I huffed a sigh and reluctantly grabbed the bottle, pouring a little into my hand and warming Him up with a hand-job. I tried to use a few of my usual tricks to maybe get Him to want a happy ending with that instead, but He cut me off at the pass and told me to knock it off.

Eventually He’d had enough of my slippery jerking and told me to turn around. The oil was cold as it ran down the crack of my ass, and I complained. He laughed and said that I always say its cold, but He doesn’t quite believe me, and He’ll need more data before He thinks about it.

He pressed Himself into me, and I tried to relax, really. I tried to ignore that I was cold, tired, tense, and wet. It hurt as He forced His way in, and I spent a while working through the pain. Part of it was that the lube wasn’t spreading far enough, but instead of asking for more, I relished the pain. I didn’t want to be the one who needed more lube. I wanted to suffer as long as He was happy; I wanted to hurt as He was feeling pleasure. So He continued to ride my ass as I rode the pain, knowing that my cunt was twitching and dripping, unable to smother my moans and whines as He thrust deeper and deeper.

“Play with your cunt,” He growled in my ear. I whimpered a little, knowing that He loves to feel me getting off with His cock buried deep in my ass. I hate the indignity, the shame, the wanton hussiness it brings out in me. It’s up there in my top ten humiliation activities, which is why He finds it so attractive, I’m sure. Even though I was trying to ignore the heat radiating from my pussy, my hand was sliding down to nestle between my nether-lips, and it wasn’t long before I was begging Him to let me cum. I could feel His breath across the water on my neck, and suddenly the cold of His breath, the pain of His fucking, the knife’s edge of orgasm I was on…it was all too much. I needed the permission, or my clit was just going to explode and fall off…

“Yes!” He growled as He lunged forward, spearing me to the wall and making me cry out as the rush of the orgasm met the sharp sting of His thrust. It was a volatile combination that made my knees melt and my vision blur in the explosion of pleasure and pain.

I stood, head against the wall, breathing heavily as His cum dripped down my leg, mingling with my own juices before washing away in the shower spray. I couldn’t find my breath, or my thoughts, or words to thank Him for ignoring my wants in favor of His own. How could I say thank You for ignoring me? Thank You for not listening to me? Thank You for giving me what I can’t ask for?

I just looked up at Him and smiled weakly. “Thank You,” I muttered.

“Thank you.” He said with a grin.

I know that owning a reluctant masochist has to be hell sometimes, especially if you love them. Sometimes sorting out the “I don’t wanna” from the “I do want to, but can’t say it flat-out” gets to be a bitch. But I’m thankful that not only does N speak my language, He’s willing to put Himself before me. That fulfills me way more than indulging me ever will.

Thank You.