Voice

I’ve backspaced over a few starts already, trying to find some analogy that fits. From a boat taking on water, to a cracked house foundation, to the over-used and tiresome car maintenance analogy, but nothing is sounding right.

So I’m just going to write my story as it comes to me. It’s not likely going to be pretty or funny or flowery. It might be angry, or ugly. It will be honest.

I shut down the blog (and deactivated fet) because I was feeling raw and vulnerable. With as much as I have shared over 9 years of blogging – by my own hand, admittedly, and usually something I enjoy and find a very positive undertaking- this place can sometimes feel a lot like standing naked in front of an open window.

Only I can’t see out. It’s one-way glass and all I see is my own murky reflection. I can’t see who is looking in. I don’t know if you’re friend or foe. And if I’m not particularly fond of the murky reflection I’m seeing, and if I’m feeling exposed and weak, then I want to shut the curtains.

There have been over 8 million views here. I’ve made over 2,500 posts, and there are over 50,000 comments. I average, 3, maybe 4, rude comments/emails/messages a week. Not bad odds, considering. On a good day, that occasional comment is nothing. I read it, I roll my eyes, I delete it, and I forget it. On a bad day, though, it can feel like a knife in the gut.

And I was having a bad day.

Hell, I was having a bad week. A bad month- a bad few months.

Like that’s a newsflash. I really suck at pretending things are great when they aren’t. I did try, though. I tried really hard to find the silver lining, I tried to listen to the people who told me it would smooth itself out. I tried to be positive and pro-active.

There was just so much shit.

So. Much. Shit.

I had (have) so much anger and resentment over this move and the repercussion it has had on the other people in our lives. Which have been many, and harsh, and unfair.

I have so much guilt over this move. Guilt over leaving my kids. Guilt over moving farther away–rather than closer to–my aging and increasingly unhealthy parents. Guilt over the pets that I had to disrupt.

And then I have so much guilt over being so angry. How can I justify being so angry over something that’s clearly made him incredibly happy? What kind of person- what kind of wife, what kind of slave(!!) begrudges her owner his happiness?

Hasn’t he put in his time, sacrificed and given and provided for, gone to the ends of the earth and back when it was never his obligation to do so. Hasn’t he earned this change to this easy, comfortable, laid back existence?

He’s almost 50, you know. 48 on his next birthday. Not exactly an old man but… old enough that he felt the toll his last job was taking on his body.

Old enough, wise enough, to know life is too short to be unhappy.

He swore to me when we moved the last time that he wouldn’t make us move again until the kids were out of school. He kept that promise. He fulfilled his end of things, and I was- I am – incredibly grateful for everything he’s done for me and our kids. The grandkids, too, as we all remember how difficult that situation was.

He put himself first, finally, and it was high time he did. Understandable that he did. I really was completely on board in the beginning.

And it was my place, you know? I was just the slave, not his partner, not his equal, not the one he needed to consult or convince or placate or soothe. Just the bitch who needed to be told what to do.

Plus, there was his assurance that it was our time now. It was going to be the time to make our fantasies a priority, to make them come true. Time to focus on us, on everything that we’d had to put on hold for the last decade. He dangled that carrot and reignited the fires with his words and his promises.

That’s what got me through pushing my last kid out of the nest (literally. Like.. literally.) and then moving thousands of miles away. That’s what got me through selling or giving away most of “my” stuff. From kitchen stuff to clothing to holiday items to toys to furniture to… yada yada yada. The animals, saying good bye to my kids, my parents, my friends, my home, the plans we’d made, the work we’d done…

And moved here.

Did you know that the size of Upper Michigan is roughly 16 square miles and the population of that entire area is just over 300 thousand. The population of the little area we lived and stayed within is just over 20,000.

Houston, on the other hand, is roughly 8 square miles and has a population of 2.1 MILLION. While we’re not in Houston proper, but on the western edge of it, it’s still culture shock to the Nth degree.

I like living rural. I liked privacy and quiet and solitude. Which was another thing that he used to dangle in front of me. The many uses that solitude had when it came to matters of nefarious purposes. The many things he said we would do there, could do there.

But he wanted to move, so we did.

To this place that isn’t mine. Where nothing fit and nothing felt right and nothing was the same and I missed my kids and I was (am) eaten up with guilt and sadness.

To a kink community that is huge (HUGE) and that I don’t feel like we fit into.

The only thing I had here, the only reason I came here, was him. What I clung to and counted on was everything he’d talked about, the chance to live out that dream and do all the things we couldn’t do before.

And he promptly lost it.

Lost the urge, lost interest, lost the need. He was happy doing other things, things that didn’t involve me at all. All he wanted from me was a glass of water now and then.

No exaggeration.

Anything else that happened of a kinky nature was something I asked for, something I instigated, something that I even went so far as to nag for and bitch about.

Otherwise he completely and utterly ignored me.

And maybe, as a slave, being ignored- not needed, not wanted- is something I should be able to swallow. My place, etc., etc.

And maybe I could have- WOULD have- if all that other stuff ~flaps hands above~ hadn’t literally JUST happened, if being a slave wasn’t the ONLY thing I was clinging to.

And maybe if his reason for disappearing was something more legitimate than what it was, something a little understandable to me. I mean, I’m an adult, I know people don’t get everything they want when they want it, and especially as a slave when it’s been preached and drilled into me that it’s not about me or about what I want, that my needs are deprioritized.

But.

You can’t go about making yourself THE priority, ensuring that you are the ONLY thing a person has left in their life- and then shut them out.

Or at least you can’t do that without repercussions.

I feel like I tried. I feel like I did everything within my power- which, by the very nature of what he’d been building for the last 10 years is limited- to fix it.

I communicated. I asked over and over again what I needed to do to make it better/easier/more/less/anything. And he assured me that I was doing nothing wrong, that nothing was wrong, that everything was GREAT.

And that, my friends, was the end of my “power”.

You might be thinking, well jeez, kaya. You’ve only been there for a few months. Give the guy a break. Right?

Sure. You might be right.

Trust me, I told myself the same thing.

Maybe if he would have recognized the problem. Maybe if he would have said “Be patient, cunt. I know, and I’ll get to it as soon as I have my shit settled.” Maybe if he’d have given me a morsel of hope, a crumb to tide me over, acknowledgment of what was wrong.

But he didn’t. What he presented was that everything was as it should be, everything was perfect, everything was exactly as it was going to be.

He was deliriously happy. He was PERFECT. Everything was PERFECT. His life was PERFECT.

And i was absofuckinglutely miserable.

I don’t think I’m properly expressing the level of nothingness that was happening here.

N O T H I N G.

I didn’t have to follow rules. I didn’t have to clean the house. I didn’t have to ask for anything. I didn’t have to cook. We weren’t having sex. We didn’t talk. We didn’t spend time together. There was no kink. The toys weren’t used.

I wasn’t used.

Unless I came to him and said, sir, please, would you [fill in the blank] with/to me today? and maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t, but it was always and only if I asked for it. If I didn’t, all the better, because his giving me what I asked for was hurried, uninterested, and obviously him doing it to shut me up.

Because when you’re a slave and a masochist, that scratches the itch, right?

I could, and did, sit on the couch and do nothing all day long- nothing at all- not get dressed, not make dinner, not pick up anything or do the dishes or brush my hair or do ANYTHING- I could sleep all day (and did, more than once)- inform him that I was ordering pizza for dinner- and repeat that for days on end

and he didn’t care.

he’d flit around telling me how fucking HAPPY he was, how wonderful everything was, how great life was

while I died a little more inside, every day.

I would yank myself up by my bootstraps, pull on my big girl panties, and follow the old rules, clean the house, cook dinner, make myself look pleasing and be pleasant and proactive and all of those things that used to matter

he’d flit around telling me how fucking HAPPY he was, how wonderful everything was, how great life was

You see? It didn’t matter either way.

Do it or not do it, he stopped caring. He was so involved in this other thing, this other hobby, that all he wanted was for me to leave him alone. To not make waves. To not need anything from him.

So.

I gave him that.

Indifference is a murdering bastard in an M/s relationship.

And I gave it back as good as I was getting it.

The final straw that broke the camel’s back (for me) was when he didn’t want to go get groceries with me.

Which sounds so incredibly stupid all by its lonesome, not even a ripple on the surface under normal circumstance with a normal couple. (It *was* a ripple for us, in the old days, sending me to the store alone, though, if you remember)

His decision to send me off to the store by myself was him handing me the last shred of my freedom that he’d been holding onto. That had been, literally, the one and only thing we still did together, my fear -still- of the crowds and the traffic here, and he’d go with me, offering safety and familiarity just by being there with me.

I’m not even going to apologize for being a ninny. This was something else that he’d spent years creating, reinforcing that dependence and that fear, shopping without him could be an anxiety-inducing event on a good day, so this- doing it here in this city and with everything else going on, feeling so vulnerable and alone and scared and hopeless and then

then he just tossed that last thing at me, so nonchalantly. Just… here, go. take it.

That is what I felt to be true, and I sank and sank and sank, like an exhausted swimmer who’d been handed a cement block.

And when I struggled one last time to the surface and tried to give him that weight, that heavy heavy weight that was taking me under, he exploded and threw it back at me.

It was my fault. I was in the wrong. The demise of our M/s was on me. I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t made it interesting enough or pleasing enough to keep his attention and it was because of me that he’d found something else to occupy his time.

I was too much work, needed too much input, couldn’t just follow the rules and be happy.

Couldn’t just let him be happy.

So.

That’s where we are.

I quit.

Personally, I say he quit on me months ago but since I’m the one who had the balls to say the words, it was me who quit.

~shrug~ Whatever. I can shoulder that.

It’s not supposed to be this hard. This is something that is supposed to make us happy, it’s supposed to be fulfilling and feel good and be fun.

Not this.

I don’t know where we are going from here. I don’t know who I am or what I am or what I want anymore.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

It’s been a few weeks since everything “went down”. All we know is that we’re not splitting up.

Neither of us are content being vanilla, but I’m not willing (ready?) to go back to his (new) version of M/s. I suspect the only thing he’s missing is being waited on. That’s not enough for me.

I won’t go back, not just because we hit a bump in the road because I know that happens, but because of everything that was said, the way the blame was handed down. I told him he was the general blaming the troops for losing the war. My faith is shaken- my faith in myself and in him, my trust is damaged. He was behind the wheel but I crashed us. Apparently I’m not the slave I believed myself to be.

So, it’s a lot to take in. A lot to figure out.

For the first time in a decade I have a choice in what happens next.

I have a voice.

I just gotta figure out what I want to say.

EDIT TO ADD:

There are two sides to every story. Obviously, I can only give my side because it’s the only one I know. He’s free (and welcome, because I’d like to hear it, too) to come here and write out his side if he wants to. I’m not trying to make him look bad and if I’ve done that here, then that’s one more thing I’ll feel guilty about. I have, though, presented this as I felt it, told what I thought and what I feel.

Um…. Say Something?

I am actually going to say something real soon.

It’s currently arranging itself in my head. Once that’s done, I’ll transfer it into a coherent blog post. Just a little more patience, please, if you would.

Say Something

Say something, I’m giving up on you it
I’ll be the one, if you want me to
Anywhere I would’ve followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you it

And I am feeling so small
It was over my head
I know nothing at all

And I will stumble and fall
I’m still learning to love
Just starting to crawl

Say something, I’m giving up on you it
I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you
Anywhere I would’ve followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you it

And I will swallow my pride
You’re the one that I love
And I’m (never) saying goodbye

Say something, I’m giving up on you it
And I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you
And anywhere I would’ve followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you it

Say something, I’m giving up on you it
Say something…

So. Yeah.

silent

Ethics, Shmethics.

There was a debate raging on Fet, in which I was a participating participant because, helloooo, it’s me, so now I’m going to poll you fine folks.

It was about weight, and whether or not an Owner has an obligation (morally or ethically) to force his/her slave into being thinner.

To keep them healthy, you understand.

Personally, I think the ethics angle is way off base considering all the other “unhealthy” stuff we do, and I think that’s a spin put on by someone who is too chicken to say he wants his slave to look like a porn star and not a toad. “I only care about your health, baby!”

Not that I don’t think there aren’t Owners who are genuinely concerned about their property’s health and weight is a component of that (~waves hand madly~) but to put a spin of what an owner *should* do because he/she should be an ‘ethical owner’ is so much bullshit.

Where does that leave owners who prefer larger women?

I don’t think an owner who wants his property to be bigger is any more or less unethical than on owner who lets his slave smoke, engages in ass-to-mouth, pisses down her throat, beats on her, pokes her with needles, whips her, bruises her…. or any other activity that has the possibility of unhealthy side effects.

It is much more widely accepted for an owner to control his property’s diet and exercise if the goal is to make her thinner. In fact, in certain circles it’s touted as a “should”. He most certainly should be doing that because he should be doing everything he can to make her healthy and if he isn’t, he’s weak or not really in control or unethical.

I don’t think an owner should do anything except what he wants to do. And no, you can’t use my last several posts against me, lol. Besides, he’s still doing whatever he wants to do and do I like it? No. Obviously. That doesn’t change anything, though.

I say controlling a person’s diet and exercise goes both ways, from fat to thin. It’s not the property’s place to refuse based on ethics. Or is it?

Then the conversation devolved into, well, what if an owner wants (something, anything, fill in the blank, but for the purposes of simplicity let’s stick with weight) his property to be slimmer but she makes it really difficult, complains or bitches or whatever, so ultimately the owner decides it’s not a matter of enough importance to him to keep pushing so he drops it.

In that case, apparently, even though the owner chose to drop it (or, worse, the owner never chose to implement it in the first place because, oh, lets say he didn’t want to), the idea is that the owner isn’t really in charge.

So what say you?

1. Does an Owner have an ethical obligation to keep his slave thin, because of health reasons?
2. Does an Owner have ANY ethical obligations?
3. If an Owner chooses not to do something, especially if his reason for it is because it’s too difficult, is he less in control?
4. Does an Owner have the right to make his slave unhealthy by forcing her to gain weight?
5. What *should* an Owner be doing? Are there widely accepted ‘laws of the land’?

Hey, kaya! What’s new?

Actually nobody has asked me that. Nobody but my imaginary friends. But after almost a decade of blogging, it’s hard to find a lead in, okay?

The short answer: Nuttin’, honey.

The long answer: I think I’ve passed the stressed phase of moving and slid right on into the “Meh. It’s kind of boring here” phase.

Because it’s kind of boring here. My days have gotten pretty monotonous. I keep thinking that they were monotonous before we moved, too, but for whatever reason, I didn’t seem to care then.

I’m languishing. That’s my new word.

Let’s see. Um, my car (mine as in the one that Master doesn’t take to work, that stays here in case I have to go somewhere but I rarely do so it’s been sitting and not been started or driven for… I don’t even know. 2 or 3 weeks, at least. Maybe longer.) won’t start. He thinks it’s a malfunctioning anti-theft feature which seems to be a common malfunction in Chevys and does more to keep owners from starting their own cars than stopping thieves from driving off with them. I don’t even care if/when it gets fixed. I got nowhere to go.

What else.

I’m doing terrrrrible on the diet and exercise regime. Yep, not losing a pound. I cannot even tell you how much I don’t care. Zero fucks to give.

We were going to go to a bdsm event (Beyond Vanilla, in Dallas) but now we’re not because… ~flaps hand~ …reasons.

We had dinner and games last weekend with 2 other kinky couples and had a lot of fun. We’re planning on having another couple over for dinner/movies/chat tomorrow night. Next weekend, my niece and sister are supposed to be coming for a visit (they live in Dallas). I think the next weekend after that is a Ren Faire that Master wants to go to. Sometime later in the month, the kink group we are trying to infiltrate is having a Halloween party, and then early in November is when Am is coming to visit.

I suppose I should take the butt plug off the bathroom counter.

Double Standards

If it’s bedtime and you are not tired, send me to bed anyway.

If you want to relax but there are things that need done, sit back and have me do them.

If you don’t feel like going anywhere but errands need ran, send me to do them.

If you want cake but I’m on a diet, eat it in front of me.

If you want to sleep in but the dog has to go out, make me get up.

If you are horny but you don’t want to fuck, have me pleasure you.

If I’m sleeping but you want something, wake me.

If I’m busy but you need something, stop me.

If I’m horny but you aren’t, deny me.

It is okay if we both need to exercise but I’m the only one required to use the treadmill. It is okay for me to be hungry while you eat. It is okay for me to be tired while you sleep. It is okay for me to be horny while you cum.

It is okay for you to be cruel, insensitive, and selfish.

Don’t take away the things that drew me to you in the first place.

You can strike me, bruise me, cut me.

But those things don’t touch my soul.

Don’t forget who I am, what I am.

Rub my nose in what I am. Grind my face in what I am. Shove it down my throat, make me gag on it, make me bleed for it. Rape my soul with your words, your expectations, your double standards, your hypocrisy and your selfishness.

Go ahead and love me a little, if that’s what you feel.

Just…

Don’t love me into equality.

Because in that, I’ll feel hated.

Invisible Title Here

I’m stuck on this story I’m writing. It’s shaping up to be a romance with a kinky twist, but I feel like people who read romance novels don’t want the dirty kink, and people who want dirty kink won’t be interested in the romance. What to do, what to do.

I think we’re going to a play party tonight, but it’s not set in stone yet. We didn’t play at the party we went to last week, though not because he wasn’t in the mood. We’re not quite comfortable yet, I guess. The energy wasn’t there, which had nothing to do with the people in attendance because they were great. It was just… well you know. Surely you’ve been somewhere where you just weren’t feeling it. Maybe this one will be different, though. :)

I really should get showered and shaved but lazy.

We met some new people last night. We were invited to their house for dinner and chat. We had a very good time. It’s been very surreal to meet people that I’ve “known” online for a long time. I just never thought I’d ever be here.

I’m less nervous about meeting people than I used to be, and a lot less concerned about making a bad impression because I kind of figure my ‘rep’ is trashed anyway. I’m, like, the worst slave ever so what could go wrong? lol (j/k, j/k)

Seriously though, I used to get all antsy about thinking Master and I were different in real life than I present here on the blog, but I think I’ve finally realized that 1) Of course we’re different because real life is different than blogging, and, 2) as long as we’re authentic to who we are, there’s nothing to worry about. What I present here isn’t, and cannot be, the whole picture of us, but it is truth. Therefore, nothing to worry about! Tada!

Wait… did I just solve an angsty problem all by my lonesome? Woah. Hold on, I need a moment…

Well shit.

Master wasn’t nearly as amused by that last post as I was.

Even if he did recognize the nugget of truth that permeated my friend’s situation, he still didn’t think it was funny. What can I say? He’s humorless, obviously.

At any rate, my friend did her chores because… well for lots of reason. Because she didn’t think the fall out was worth it. Because she knows her role is to obey regardless of what he’s doing. Because she was hoping to get to go somewhere and didn’t want that to be the reason he said no (she didn’t get to go anyway. boo!) Because manipulation is not really her style. Because forcing his hand doesn’t have the same satisfaction.

So, just because.

But…. bah humbug, you know?

I just don’t get some of it, though. I don’t need a list to help me keep the house clean. If it’s going to be up to me to clean the house, then let me do it my way, to my standards, on my schedule.

If it’s going to be cleaned to his standards on his schedule and his way, then enforce that. If he doesn’t care enough to see if I’m following his schedule then why make the schedule?

What am I missing here? I don’t even know.

And why do I buck so much? Jesus. I exhaust even myself. I am simply not happy giving in without a struggle of some sort. I hate hate HATE thinking I have an option so why do I keep fighting to find one? Ugh. I’d have kicked myself to the curb a long damn time ago. I’m too much WORK.

But then I don’t know why he gives me wiggle room, lol.

There was a thread on Fet the other day, loosely about reinforcing control but threads on Fet never stay on topic because first we have to argue the terminology, then we have to rush around declaring ourselves above the need for [whatever the topic is] because god forbid we indicate in any way whatsoever that we expect our doms to do ANYTHING.

I think I have more expectations than the average bear. :)

Anyway, so the thread was talking about how requests are worded, as in, commanding or asking or saying please and thank you, blah blah blah…

Leaving out his *choice* to talk to me however he wants to, I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a preference for the phrasing or the tone he uses when he does talk to me. Does he always order me around like a Billy Bad Ass? Not at all. Do I obey either way? Yes. But does one way make me feel differently than another? You betcha.

My response in the thread was to say “if I wanted to be spoken to or treated like a vanilla wife, I’d have stayed with a vanilla man. I like being told what to do, and not because I’ve warped his request into an order. Words matter, tone matters, looks matter, actions matter. I get weary of having to search out the nuances of M/s. I like blatant, I like tangible, I like real.”

Which isn’t to say that it can’t be “real M/s” if he’s the politest motherfucker on the planet. It is simply to say that FOR ME, those little things matter.

In thinking over that particular topic, how he talks to me, I had to admit to myself that he mostly always orders me rather than requests things.

Later on in the same thread, some other examples were given on how to highlight control, sort of random acts of dominance. Some of the examples given were these:

a) right in the middle of a real laughfest, just stop dead, give her the eye and say “on your knees”.

b) Like, next time you’re walking through the house and she’s vacuuming or whatever, just bend her over the back of the couch, fuck the hell outta her (WITHOUT ALLOWING HER AN ORGASM), push her onto the floor and go on about your business like it never happened.

c) Like, every so often when she asks to use the restroom, say no.

And I had to admit that he does all of those, too.

So then I’m left here thinking, well shit, woman. What the fuck is it that you’re complaining about?

And now.. now I don’t know anymore.

Am I flitting about freely, leaving the house, shopping, spending money, making plans, seeing friends, doing whatever I want?

Um, no.

Do I still have to ask permission for everything? From eating to bathroom to showering to sleeping to walking out the door to get the mail?

Yes.

During my so-called rebellion of the last few days (wherein I didn’t actually do any rebelling but just whined about it) I had the thought that I’d just turn my phone off for a day.

Because that would be some serious rebelling, y’all.

The thing about the phone is that I *know* there is no wiggle room given to me about it. None. Zip. Zero. If I miss a call and I haven’t previously texted him something like “I’m going into my appointment now so I won’t be answering the phone for a few minutes” or whatever similar reason I have, then it is a BIG DEAL. I take the phone into the bathroom with me. I take the phone on my walks with the dog. I take the phone from room to room. I text him if I’m putting it on the charger because it’s dying and I’m going to be in another room doing chores. I text him when I’m getting in the shower because I can’t answer it when I’m wet. I text him if I’m going to sleep and he isn’t home. I let him know ANY reason I might have for possibly missing a call or text because if I don’t and I DO miss one, even if I later say “Sorry Master, I was sleeping” I’ll get busted for not telling him first AND for missing the call.

No wiggle room. No options.

So when I had that fleeting thought of rebelling by way of phone, I immediately (IMMEDIATELY) knew I would never. Not going there.

Just like I no longer try going to the bathroom without asking. I would never cut or change my hair without permission. I would never make plans for us without asking. I wouldn’t say “Suck it yourself” or refuse to spread my legs or not serve him his plate or not do his laundry or not make coffee or tell him no when given order

because there is no wiggle room.

On so many things.

Where do I come away from all of this feeling like I’m flapping in the breeze? That he’s dropped the leash?

Because he’s not beating me enough. He’s not playing Santa and checking the list twice, lol.

I’m really trying to figure myself out here.

Has it just become so routine that I’m just not feeling it so I need it to be ramped up and ramped up.. and if that’s the case, where would that stop?

Needy, needy bitch. Oy.

What Would You Do

I’m asking for a friend ~cough~.

Let’s say, for example, randomly, my ‘friend’ has been feeling rather…. neglected.

And let’s say that her SO has been told this and has nodded and seemed to have been listening.

And then let’s pretend that the SO left for work this morning and said something like “Get your chores done” when, during this previously “supposed and alleged” neglected period, the chores and follow through has been hit or miss.

But mostly miss.

In fact, 100% miss.

Would you, or would you not, be tempted to test the theory of follow through based on past instances of neglect?

Because I’m.. I mean, my FRIEND… is pretty tempted.

/end totally random internet poll