The Strange Revelations of Being Owned

Yesterday I had written a long, 800+ word post about the subject I’m going to tackle again in this post. And then the fucking computer ate the whole fucking thing, so I flipped it the bird and stomped off in a huff. So here goes.

One thing I have discovered about myself as of late is that I have a dangerous PMS cycle. I’m good for 2-3 months, a little bit of bloating and fatigue, mild irritability, but nothing real shocking. Then we hit the BAD MONTH and I’m sitting on my hands so’s I don’t strangle the Boss Man, eating small children and fluffy cute animals alike (dipped in chocolate, natch), demanding human sacrifice and  generally struggling to not burst into flames. To avoid being caught unaware of the impending doom, I started charting so I could see it coming in advance and evacuate a 5 mile radius in time. The upshot is that I haven’t murdered anyone. The downside is that when I am off my cycle, it becomes an immediately noticed event, by N and I alike. This last cycle I started out two days late. No problem. Three days – N is giving me questioning glances and enjoying fucking my brains out to encourage commencement of my anemia. Five days- He’s getting that anxious look and I am irritably fending off interrogation about my feminine status. Seven days, and I am starting to get worried. I’ve not been a full fucking week late before.  I started worrying about the state of His vasectomy. Everyone and their goddamned grandma has a story about So-n-So’s cousin/best friend/sister’s roommate’s uncle and how they have X number of kids after their vasectomy failed. (My favorite is “I know a girl who has her tubes tied and her husband got his snipped and they have two more kids!”) They are compelled to tell you these stories once they find out that you have made taken the “final” step in regards to birth control. Apparently it’s supposed to help you feel secure about your sterilization. I dunno.

Saves ya money this way *and* you get that fuzzy DIY feeling.

It was on the night of the eighth day that I started to think ahead if I was pregnant. And it was an unpleasant navel gazing session for sure. I was alone in a hotel room in Bismarck, three and a half hours away from Nick, realizing that I am so far beyond where I thought I was property-wise that I’m desperately scrambling for at least ONE landmark.

If I were to become pregnant again, I’d want an abortion almost as soon as I found out. That’s just the straight truth. (I hope that those of you reading who are “pro-life” don’t hate me after reading this.) My last pregnancy was hard towards the end, and all three labors were absolute hell. I have three kids that still require fairly intensive parenting and I am up to my eyebrows in crazy just trying to deal with them. I don’t think I could handle any more. Not without some magic pills. We did what we could to make sure that didn’t happen again, so I think we covered the bases and have every right to have a serious issue with an unexpected pregnancy.

That wasn’t the revelation. The revelation was realizing that I wouldn’t get my abortion. No. N would make me carry the pregnancy to term, knowingly using my psyche against me the whole way through. He knows that I would start off resentful of Him and the baby, but when I saw the heartbeat for the first time I’d relent a little. Feel it move for the first time, and I’d thaw a little more. See the baby bouncing around on an ultrasound, I’d repent of my hard-hearted ways, and by the time I gave birth and held the child in my arms, the last little rind of ice around my heart will have fully melted and I would be hooked. He’s seen it happen with my third pregnancy (although I didn’t desire an abortion then). I’d find a way to make everything work, and add another on to the brood. There’s always room in my heart.

When I realized this, I felt angry, betrayed, resentful and indignant. I was upset that He would veto me on someting so personal and individual as reproductive rights. How dare He treat me like a broodmare or heifer! Like…property!

Oh. >.<

Woof.

I talked to Him about it, and said that I had figured out that I wouldn’t be able to get an abortion. He nodded perfunctorily, like He knew all along and was just waiting for the slower people to catch up. Again with the brief flame up of indignity, but it didn’t last long. Can a person be angered by their apathy?

I don’t know when He jedi-tricked me out of being able to make my own reproductive right decisions. I know, I know, that whole “rights” thing and all, but seriously? I’m the one who would be pregnant, I am the one who would be nursing, I’m the one who would be raising the child in the first few years of it’s life. And yet, somehow, I can’t even find it in me to give the argument the most cursory try. I just accepted it with a little gall and moved on. It barely fazed me.

What else am I just going to roll over and take? What other little line was erased when I wasn’t looking? What hidden part of me was slowly converted while I was off playing Suzie Homemaker for Him?

Where am I?

Coasting (1/01/2011)

Dictionary.com defines coasting as “to continue to move or advance after effort has ceased; keep going on acquired momentum”

That is what the past two months of my life have been.

Life in this house has been stressed, to say the least. The holidays are not always a time of beauty and love for many of us, and for me it is magnified by having to leave the comfort and security of my house and traveling at least 1000 miles round trip. Doing this as a couple was easy-peasy and we looked forward to it…doing this with three small pre-school children is self-abuse. On top of that add money issues from trying to stabilize after the bankruptcy, the stinging defeat of two positions I ran for in my volunteer work and general bickering amongst family, and you have a toxic stew of unhappiness and inattentiveness.

Nick’s reaction to overwhelming stress is to rely heavily on my internal enslavement that is already established and expend less effort on active Ownership to focus more intensely on solving or grappling with whatever has come up. This is fine for short-term situations; I feel honored that He trusts me enough to expect me to continue to perform to His standards after His direct involvement has lessened. Unfortunately, lately it went beyond short-term and I began to struggle with His lack of active Ownership. The base of our O/p dynamic began to crumble as I stagnated and the IE started to erode. When I feel the beginnings of the decay I tend to react with a sharp uprise in resentment and outright civil disobedience. It’s my flawed last-ditch effort to draw attention to the fact that we’re off course and doomed to hit the shoals if He doesn’t start steering soon. (I’ve been broken of the need to jump for the steering wheel…that NEVER ends well)

Our last-ditch effort came about while we were on holiday in Arizona for the Christmas break. Being out of my routine, in unfamiliar surroundings, with Him still asleep at the wheel…the last of my resolve dissolved and I started running amok. Back talk. Balking. Lashing out. At one point when He inadvertently hit me harder than expected while trying to get my attention I threatened to hit Him as hard as possible if He ever did it again. And I meant it, not like a playing mocking tone, but in a very real “bad things will happen if You do that” way.

You can easily see that no good could come from this.

We were adversarial by the time we made it back home. I was angry and resentful, feeling abandoned and insignificant, untrusting and nearly aggressive in avoiding Him. He was also distant and snappish, easily irritated, disinterested in sex or vanilla intimacies.

I mourned the absence of what we had. I spent a few nights awake trying to figure out where I had gone wrong, where I had let in the decay that separated us.

So one morning I woke with a new resolve. One does not inspire leadership by challenging each move…I vowed to be submissive to Him, without any prompting, to be unresisting, to be more pleasing, to remind Him why He took the lead in our relationship to begin with…

I doted. I devoted. I lavished attention on Him, played geisha to Him and struggled to curb my impetuous anger and presumptuous thoughts. What could this dying effort hurt? I was already in pain and sadness…what could showing Him these things, being revealed and raw to Him really do now?

His inner dominance awoke to my more docile self. He saw my pain and confusion, felt my loss and anger, and responded. He began to make His way to the wheel and was reading the maps. And suddenly He went “How the fuck did we get here?!”

Damnit, I *knew* we were supposed to turn at Albuquerque!

The past week has been a time of self-awareness and discovery on both of our parts. I have discovered that languishing for His dominance is nowhere near as effective as inviting it; He’s discovered that in making me what I am today He has shouldered more of the burden of Ownership than He initially thought. It was painful, lonely and I hope we never have to do it again. We still have our moments, where I get defensive, waiting for Him to pull away again, and He has His moments where He fully expects something from me that withered away without His direct nurturing.

He’s made changes that will hopefully get us back on track. I’m trying to hold a positive outlook on His renewed attention. He has goals for us, a way to ensure that we don’t decay like that again. While I welcome His full return, I still resent times when my leash is shortened. I have grown accustomed to Him not caring, so for Him to poke His nose in and stir shit up again makes me a little edgy until I re accustom myself to it.

And if we do run off course, I’m grabbing the wheel. A little coup d’etat might encourage Him to not let go of the wheel next time.

Censorship vs Laziness (05-08-2010)

This has nothing to do with the following post, but I thought it would be nice to give you an inside glimpse into my weekend. While typing this intro, three times now my fingers have hovered above the keyboard, my mind ordering the words into coherent sentences, when He has said “I want…” I need…” and “Go get me…”. Each time I would go get said item, settle back into the office chair, wrapping the blanket around my legs, dredging back my concept for today, to hear another command sent my direction, always issued nicely, but with no room for objection.
At least He said “Thank you” the last time, or He would have had a very small torx-head screwdriver sticking out of His ear, and wouldn’t He have looked stupid. 😀


I have seen quite a bit of comments and theories about censorship of a slave’s reading materials, internet usage and friend-to-friend communication. The two most common reasons given are:

  1. The Master does not want to have to deal with the slave learning undesirable information or developing a negative/questioning attitude
  2. The Master is limiting information to protect an easily swayed or overwhelmed slave from being inundated and confused on a subject

We will start with reason number one. This is the more problematic reason in my opinion. Most often I have seen Masters professing that they limit the information their slave can access to make sure the Masters’ influence is the only influence. I can see how that would be sound reasoning in the beginning of a relationship, with the Master is just making inroads and rearranging the slave’s thought process. But in an established relationship, where the Master claims they are completely in charge and have thoroughly enslaved the slave? If the enslavement is so thorough, how can the Master’s conditioning of the slave be so easily washed away from the mind of the slave by a few web pages? In other words, if he’s such hot shit about being a Master that she is hopelessly enslaved to him, why such worry about what a few web pages or other broads on the big wide web say? Is the hold on the slave’s mind so tenuous that any contrary information could dissolve it?

That’s why I tend to view Masters who offer this as their reasoning as too lazy or unskilled to effect lasting change in their slave’s mindset. Given that they are so vigilant in guarding against any differing viewpoints lest it erase all their hard (or not so hard) work, I wonder if they wouldn’t be better served by focusing the effort in getting a firm grip on the cerebral matter and worrying less about what goes through the ears.

On to reason number two. This one is much more grey-area. There are people who are just naturally more gullible, more prone to being persuaded. Anyone with a slick manner and silver tongue can swing their mindset around whichever way they fancy. These slaves, most of them can recognize this tendency and acknowledge it as a double-edged sword. With that self-awareness in mind, I wonder if the Master couldn’t use the unusually strong power of persuasiveness to reinforce that His word is the only word to be believed and followed. I understand the limitations of Masters and can totally accept that slaves with the tendencies of gullibility do need an extra layer of defense to keep them from believing the wrong people and ideas. I believe it is a balancing act, between keeping the slave and the relationship healthy, vs making every effort to instill a system in the slave’s mind that devalues others’ contributions in comparison to her Master’s, unless he indicates otherwise.

I realize that many people will have voluble vocal complaints about my suggestions to tinker and readjust, sometimes even demolish and rebuild parts of their slave’s personality. That’s fine.  I still stand by my ideas. In a long-term O/p and some M/s relationships, some amount of conditioning, brain-washing, re-aligning is happening from the Master to the slave. Bitch all you want, there it is.

I’m not addressing the reason behind door number three: Because he wants to. What is there to address? Whims are often not very logical anyhow, and who I am to critique another kinkster’s fun?

What do you think?

Tangled Tora (06-15-2010)

There’s been quite the flurry of communication in this house as we further explore some of the outside stressors that are taking their toll on our sanity. One of the topics that came up was His continuing interest in swapping with another friendly couple or with a female, preferably bisexual, but not necessarily required.

That topic, of swapping, always leads to interesting reactions on my part, because it is absolutely loaded with implications, fears, insecurities and nightmares for me. It makes even the most mundane comments from Him make me tremble with suppressed rage or sob quietly in the bathroom.  It’s quite the fucking mental minefield, for sure.

The more direct consequences of the swapping I’ll discuss later on in a different set of posts. This post will be a multi-post series on how an open-bedroom policy has an affect on how I serve Him in the O/p relationship.

Being His slave is my life. It sounds awful, and even now a part of me involuntarily grimaced at typing that, but it is. This house, the kids, Him – it’s all I know how to do. It’s all I have done for the past 5 years. Consequently, much, if not all, of my perception of self-worth is directly related to my being His slave, and doing it well. This is fine for 90% of the time, when there isn’t much that challenges my perception. It’s that 10% of the time where I start to examine things, I start to panic, I start to get uppity in fear and self-preservation.

Part of the 10% is when He expresses His desire to bang other women. On the surface, I’m all good about it. Theoretically, I can understand the drive, the hunger to know another body in a purely sexual way. Emotionally, a part of me starts to shut down. Because in the scenarios He’s described, the girl would be sleeping in the bed with Him, getting up in the morning and eating breakfast with Him, looking at my house, my stuff, touching my things…

(I realize how absurd it is for a slave to be bitching about someone else touching her stuff. I am fully aware that in the basest sense, I own nothing, nothing is mine. I am referring to “mine” as thing normally allotted to me, that I have forged important connections with, like the house, which I have spent a great deal of time trying to make not only livable but lovable; the bed, which is my refuge from the world; and most of all, my service to Him.)

and I imagine myself laying next to the other half of the swapping couple, wondering if she’s spooning with Him the way I often ask to, if she’s falling asleep listening to Him breath His dream breaths like I do, if she’s making Him breakfast with the love I try to…

Can’t imagine why I am not jumping at the chance to swap.

I fear being replaced. I’ve had nightmares about it. Imagining the girl doing everything that I use to define my worth to Him is enough to make my hands shake. I fear being abandoned after narrowing the focus of my life down to pinpoint accuracy of life with Him.

This inner turmoil brings on large amounts of self-doubt and self-hatred. I hate that I am not able to take my Owner’s word as gospel when He says I am not replaceable and that He’ll never leave me. I hate that I place limits, even if unwillingly, on His future actions because I am not strong enough to get over myself.  I hate myself for not being able to place His desire, His wants, over my inability to get a grip on life as a slave.

I just want to move on to acceptance. I don’t want to have to push through all the pain and fears, the old hurts and new terrors, to make it to the fabled El Dorado of kinkdom: gracious and calm slavery. Especially since this is something I have to do without much assistance from Him. He can’t kick my ass through it. I have to force myself every inch of the way, snuffling and sobbing, until I can finally look in the mirror and be absolutely sure that I am the one He will keep, I am the one He truly knows and desires, that I am the one that has earned the title of His slave.

Only then will I not stand in the way of His wants and desires. Because even though now I wouldn’t stop Him from sleeping out, wouldn’t begrudge Him from finding some sweet thing to enjoy, a part of my soul would commence bathing in acid. I’d kill myself inside to serve Him, all the doubts and fears and insecurites eating me from the inside out until I was nothing but a shell of the woman He loved.  I know all the poly sayings and theories and truisms. I know why my thought processes are false. That is what is so frustrating about it.

A good example would be this song by Tracy Lawrence called Time Marches On.

And most of all, even as I’m beating my breasts and gnashing my teeth about how it kills me to be an impediment to Him, I’m so very very thankful that He restricts Himself to guard the safety of my sanity until I am strong enough to know that Him sleeping around doesn’t mean I am not valuable to Him.