On this fine, beautiful day devoted to love and sappy romantic stories about soulmates and such, I have a story to share.
At the store yesterday, had I possessed a pair of bolt cutters (or, less dramatically- the proper sized allen wrench) I’d have cut this collar off. Yep. Would have snipped it right in half.
Because I was DYING.
Oh, you heard me right. DYING. I was choking to DEATH. I was gagging, sweaty, having palpitations, dizzy, waves of nausea… all due to lack of oxygen, I was sure of it. I kept twisting and lifting and repositioning this unmovable ring of steel trying to create an extra millimeter of space between it and my neck. I pretty much figured I was going to keel over right there in the soup aisle.
Mhm. Panic attack much?
When he first put the collar on me a few years ago (and it was none too big then) I had a couple of similar ‘attacks’, most of them at night when lying down would push the unyielding collar one way or the other and I believed I was going to die in my sleep. He was as unyielding as the collar (ah, romance) and after awhile I got used to it. And then I could barely feel it. Forgot it was there most of the time.
Over the last couple of months, some valid health issues have lowered my activity level a LOT. Of course that doesn’t validate the illogical leap I made from “Oh, I can’t exercise? Well, then I might as well EAT ALL THE THINGS!”
In other words, I’ve put on some weight. Not a ton, but I still needed to lose some before my logic flew out the window. So even if it is “only” 10 pounds, I’m thinking that entire 10 pounds settled, not on my ass– and not on my tits which would have been nice– but around my neck. Like a second, roly-poly, fleshy, collar underlay.
The thing about Ring of Steel collars? They’re rings of steel. True Story.
They aren’t flexible. They don’t give AT ALL. RoS doesn’t care if you’ve gotten fat. (RoS don’t give a shit.)
The thing about Master? He doesn’t give a shit either. I KNOW! I’m as shocked as you are.
He never agreed to let me gain weight so he isn’t going to coddle me through it. He’s also not going to monitor every morsel I put in my mouth (as much as that fantasy makes me squishy, the spoilsport won’t play along.)
So. I’ve had more than one of these “OMGIMCHOKINGRIGHTFUCKINGNOW” episodes lately and he just rolls his eyes. “Obviously you’re breathing since you’re whining, cunt.” (Hate his logic. Srsly. Hmmph.)
I’m going to be the first case of a slave having an embedded collar if’n I don’t stay out of the fridge.
And because I’m a little fucked in the head? I’m seeing the romance involved in “Lose weight or die, bitch. Your choice.” After the panic attack goes away, I get the warm fuzzies cuz he’s so rotten.