Forever Is A Long Time.

Forever: continually; incessantly; always.

This is one of those times where I am not in love with being a slave; when the normally secure-feeling of restrictions feels suffocating, binding, irritating.

I want to stretch my wings. I want to talk freely without fear of repercussions. I want to do what I want to do without having to submit it in writing, in triplicate, have the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition to explain, wait for the domly stamp of approval (or denial)-

I just want to say “Hey. I’m going here and I’m doing this and I’ll be back later. Buh-bye.” and have that be enough. A peck on the cheek, a happy farewell of “Have fun, baby” or “I’ll see ya later.” and walk on out the door.

I want to come home from said outing without being nervous, without having to hand in receipts to be poured over, questioned on what’s-this and what’s-that and why’d-you-get-that. Without having to justify every purchase, every stop, every move.

I want to sit on the couch instead of cleaning if a good book has my attention. I want to feel like a contributor rather than a burden. I want to have an equal sense of ownership over possessions and have the ability to extend that to others.

I want to be able to offer criticisms that aren’t responded to in kind. I want every mistake to not ruin an entire day. I want repercussions, if there must be some, to be reasonable, sensible and pertinent to the mistake- and to not include people who had nothing to do with it.

I want to have the freedom to have my own thoughts, opinions and goals. I want the freedom to disagree- and to be heard.

I want the freedom to be wrong.

I want to shake myself free of the tools of manipulation and control that hang over my head, over my life; the things that shove me down and hold me there, trapped and squashed, every time I try and rise up. I want out from under the heavy blanket that is HIM.

I want to breathe.

The land of rainbows and unicorns seems far, far away. I feel like a permanent resident of some barren, Stephen King-esque wasteland of tumbeweeds and hot wind and hungry crows waiting to peck your eyes out should you fall.

His methods of enforcing his rights, of getting his way, of asserting his ownership can be tasteless. This is one of those times where the grass is greener on the other side and I’m pressed up against the fence of his control, having to swallow the bitter facts of my fate.

Of my life.

I am not always in love with being owned.

But I am always owned.

Now where’d that fucking unicorn go?

~cunt

Is it real or is it memorex?

There was an interesting thread on Fetlife (where else!?) that I was following before I went out of town. And since I had a total of 16 hours of driving time packed into 4 days, I had lots of time to think about it.

Here’s the question: Slavery? For real or playing?

Pretty much everyone was falling all over themselves to reassure themselves anyone reading that they were REAL. No playing for them, nuh uh, no way Jose, they are teh serious slabes!

And so, yanno, I disagreed.

Sort of. I did and I didn’t.

Here’s what I said on the thead.

It’s an illusion that only works because the two people involved believe in it enough to make it their own personal “reality”.

Nobody is really a slave, bound and held in the same manners that real-life slaves are. Nobody is owned. Nobody is property.

It’s mindgames and headfucks and brainwashing- and it works because we make it work. Because we’re dedicated to making it work and because we put equal effort into making it “real” for us. I am a slave, he is my owner and that’s how we live. That’s our reality, our day to day life and it’s how we choose to live.

But it isn’t real. None of y’all are. Stand in a police station one time and tell an officer that you’re an owned slave and your owner won’t let you leave. Face it, the only people believing in your “reality”, is the pair of you.

Well that went over like a fart in church.

One person said that in her definition of ‘real’, if it influenced how she behaved everday, then it was real.

Interestingly enough, that same person in that same comment slammed Goreans by referring to their chosen lifestyle as “gorean games”. I was amused. Even after I pointed it out she failed to see the irony. Hee.

I mean, what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk? And why are they playing games but she is A Real Boy Slave?

But to answer this question, “what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk?” even better-

I immediately thought of the bible. Religion.

Does just believing in it make it real, though? What does define ‘real’ and ‘reality’?

It’s real to them, I assume. And I’m certainly not up for barging into church and challenging their reality.

Except for when they lose sight of.. well.. of reality.

For instance, the woman whose daughter died of diabetes last year. According to her religious beliefs, prayer was going to save her child.

She is now in prison. Convicted of reckless homicide, possible 25 years.

So is it the law that defines what is real? Society? Society makes the laws, the laws dictate reality?

Later in that thread I said:

There are things that are real. I am human. I am a female. I am a mother.

I choose to live as a slave and conduct my life as closely as possibly to those ideals and practicies. But no amount of wanting it to be so is going to make me become owned property.

None of that is to say that I wake up every morning and prepare to play the game of M/s. I don’t see it that way at all, and I don’t think thats what you or anyone else does. It is a way of life and there is little thought behind it anymore. It just IS. Slavery, Mastery, ownership. It’s just there. It exists within us.

But one can’t pretend that the law and society support my lifestyle. Or yours. That is the reality.

It was argued then that society and the law aren’t what decides what can or cannot be real. That I give them too much credit.

Blacks, women, homosexuality. Examples of where society, and the law, have been wrong. Failed.

Same sex couples aren’t recognized by the law- are they not real then? An illusion?

So I’m confused. Perplexed.

What defines reality? It HAS to be something more than what one believes. There has to be something more definitive than that.

Wordnet.web defines reality in two opposing ways. It says:

reality: all of your experiences that determine how things appear to you.

And then it says:

reality: the state of the world as it really is rather than as you might want it to be.

That website didn’t help a bit.

6 or 7 months ago I decided I was going to leave this relationship. I remember still how shockingly easy it was to pull my head out of the clouds and know that I could leave. That for all the words, the scars, the brainwashing, all I had to do was open the door and-

Go.

Just. go.

He could not stop me. I was a free thinking independent adult with all of the rights and privileges offered as such.

I am not owned property outside of Master’s and my tiny little world.

I am not a slave outside of our world.

I am not a cunt – (Hush out there in the peanut gallery!)

It is not real.

Except I couldn’t go. I didn’t go. I wanted to go and I was set to go and I was ready to go and I couldn’t go.

I am still, all these months later, unsure of what is reality and what isn’t.

I know what I know.

Yet I live what I live.

Maybe I don’t know what I think I know.

Bah.

Maybe I just need beat and fucked.

*nods*

“No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.”

It seems like people still want to believe that we’re a normal family, playing at submission and dominance. That, you know, sure, it’s cute and fun to spank and order me around for a bit, but when things get serious he’s obligated somehow to treat me as an equal. That underneath it all we don’t really do this whole Boss/cunt thang, except to get our rocks off.

Someone commented awhile back, asking why it has to be all or nothing.

Because it does.

If it isn’t – it’s not good enough. Not for me and not for him. That’s not a value judgment against how anyone else does it, I only know how it works for us. It is, always has been and always will be, a matter of He says, I do. Or I leave. I either submit or I don’t, that choice is mine, of course, but to not submit means to end the relationship because our relationship is not one based on equals or on negotiation or partnership. It’s one based on dominance and submission.

But he’s not only going to be asking me to submit to a beating or to suck his dick or to shovel the driveway.

It’s not always pretty. Slavery isn’t pretty, submission isn’t pretty, and if it always has to be, if that’s the only way it sits comfortable for someone – well, I’m probably not the person to be reading.

I know that I’ve hinted around to the Big Limit that I smacked against having something to do with the kids. I know I presented it as me standing up for the noble cause of motherhood.

I’m, perhaps, not nearly as noble as I tried to be. But neither is he an ogre.

It was interesting, I thought, that when I was detailing having hit a limit, people were quick to reassure me that finding a limit where I previously thought I had none was a-okay, normal and expected. But when it came time to say that perhaps it wasn’t MY limit so much as HIM finding a limit, people were pretty quick to judge that that is not allowed on his part. I heard how he knew what he was getting into when it started and he can’t back out now and that’s not right and blah blah blah –

But why don’t those same sentiments apply to me? I knew what I was getting into with as much possible forethought as he did.

It’s common, I’ve noticed, to extend sympathy and understanding to the submissive party of a relationship in crisis, yet people condemn, without trial or even knowledge of the issues, the dominant party. Even though those same people will say that doms aren’t Gods, doms are human, doms make mistakes. Apparently those mistake only extend as far as a stray whip strike?

Could he not have realized, some 5 years later, that taking on a woman and her 3 kids was a lot more involved than he thought? Can he not then say, look, I’m in this for the long haul with you but there have to be some limitations because I’m not an endless well of money? I’m not a brick wall of support? I’m human and tired and I need to have some sort of end in sight?

Our kids can live here until they are 30 for all he cares, as long as they are making an effort to improve themselves. Go to work or go to school and the door is open for as long as it’s needed. But he’s not a free ride for anyone. That’s not a dominant stance, it’s a reasonable and healthy parental stance.

Jes quit school and has made no effort to find even a part-time job at McDonalds. And now she’s pregnant.

She can stay here and we’ll happily help her with anything she needs *as long as* she makes some effort to improve her situation.

What she wants is to have us rent her an apartment in another state where the baby’s daddy lives, give her the car and help her pay for the baby, so she can play house with her boyfriend; who, btw, has another baby on the way with a different girl.

He’s 17 and has no job with two kids on the way. Jes’ll be 17 soon, has no job and no education.

We argued and things were said that were taken out of context. I didn’t give him the chance to explain himself because I complicated the issue by reacting so quickly (taking off my collar and saying I was leaving), and once that was out there, the focus of Jes and what to do about her was lost.

I had a knee-jerk reaction to Master’s refusal to go along with Jes’s plan. I resented that because he controls the purse strings, I couldn’t decide on my own to go along with Jes’s plan. I immediately, and probably correctly, assumed that if I don’t give her what she wants, I’ll never see that baby. Jes is a good manipulator and I’m an easy target. I also thought there was no way in hell I’d not adopt that baby if Jes wants to go that route.

What Master is saying isn’t unreasonable. If she wants to stay here, we’ll support her 100%. He’ll support her child. But she has to either go back to school or look for a job (within reasonable expectations for her health and abilities). She’s going to be a mother, she’s no longer got the luxury of just being a confused teenager. Time to step up and pay the piper.

But if she wants to go, if she wants to play grown-up, then she’s on her own. I will “abandon” her to the bed she made. And I (probably) cannot adopt it. I am struggling, still, with knowing that. Even though I know there are a hundred factors that could change it, accepting that no matter what, it’s not a decision I’ll get to make is hard.

~sigh~

It’s far more complicated and detailed than this, but you’d all have to come live here to get the whole of it. You’d have to know Jes to even come close to understanding most of it.

……

I’m getting off track.

If I am allowed, with open-arm acceptance, to have my limits, then so is he. If I’m cheered when I draw a line in the sand, let’s not boo him when he does the same.

It’s just not nice. It’s not fair.

Well. I keep thinking I should say more, try some other way of wording it to pretty it up or something, but this is it. These are the curveballs that life throws you and you do the best you can with them. Not beautiful, not always.

“Learn everything you can, anytime you can, from anyone you can – there will always come a time when you will be grateful you did.”

Lots of things don’t make sense at first, Tess, when only the physical senses are used.

Boom,
The Universe

I’m starting to think there just may be a higher power out there. Too often these messages are spot on. Though I guess it’s a lot like horoscopes in that one can make almost any non-specific message fit your life.

Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about higher powers or horoscopes. I swear I have ADD.

I wanted to reply to the comments left on the last several post.

I wish, as always, that I had the time to reply to each one individually as it’s certainly deserved. I don’t, though, and so I can only hope that a mass reply will sufficiently express my gratitude for the time and effort you’ve given to me.

Ocassionally in a comment someone will ask or hint around at wondering if I’m even reading them. That’s a fair enough observation given there is no evidence to show that I am. All I can do is assure anyone who may be wondering the same thing that I do. I read every word with as much interest and thoughtfulness as you all give my words.

The last couple of posts have brought forth some of the most heartfelt, supportive, constructive, helpful comments of my blogging experience. And it’s those that I want to address.

Some of you have been so astute that I’ve searched the house for hidden cameras. Here I sometimes think I’m being obtuse and yet, apparently, you’re more intuitive than I thought. Because you were able to “guess” so correctly and relate your own experiences, thoughts and advice, I was better able to apply some of it to my own situation. Thank you for sharing so openly that which I’m struggling to share myself.

Some of you made me smile, so readily you showed support that it can do nothing but warm my heart. Some of you made me cry, baring your own soul in an effort to soothe mine. Some of you made me laugh out loud (I lol’ed), something I sorely needed to do now and then.

But all of you made me think. You made me examine and dig down deep and question myself. You made me stop and ask myself what am I doing and why? What do I think to gain and what do I stand to lose? What does my heart say?

Swan, Zille, morningstar, Dave, june – so many others, far too many to name – thank you. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

I know I haven’t laid out the details. As often as I air my dirty laundry here, some things I also hold close for reasons that make sense probably only to me.

But to answer one question; no, oh weird one, I did not take advantage of being “unowned” to shave my sas-crotch. I came close. I hovered. I even got close enough once that I lathered up with shaving cream. I also contemplated cutting my hair down to the scalp, and buying a pack of cigarettes to smoke. I had urges to flaunt my so-called freedom. But I was able to recognize the vindictive spirit in which it would have been done.

I did none of those things, or any other blatantly disrespectful, disobedient act, because I couldn’t help but believe that any of those things would have been ever so much more *final* than the act of handing back my collar. Isn’t that strange? I guess I don’t put as much importance on a collar as I do on my actions. Occasionally, I take my wedding ring off, too, yet I feel no less married and don’t behave in a manner that portrays me as single. Likewise, even without the collar I behaved as I always have. Other than an emotional distance, and a sexual impasse, I’ve continued to serve and obey, and, just as I said would happen, he slid right back into issuing orders that I just get up and do, pretty much without notice until after I’ve done it.

Though I don’t want to downplay the significance, or the ramifications of having taken my collar off either. It certainly wasn’t as innoncent as removing my wedding ring to lotion my hands. I do not have it back and I won’t take it back until I’m positive that this little mutinous moment of mine is not only ended, but dead and buried and not likely to reappear (for a while anyway). I don’t take my submission lightly, stopping and starting it as casually as walking away from a movie that I thought I would like but that bored me to tears (Wall-E anyone?), and I do try to commit myself to the long haul.

I also don’t think he will give it back until it’s time. What that “time” is, how it’s proven or shown or earned or whatever, I have no idea. Maybe it’s something he has to feel, maybe it’s something I have to feel, or something he has to see in me or.. fuck, I don’t know. I guess we’ll know when it’s right and that is not right now.

He said yesterday, or the day before, that he might just weld one on. It’s given me pause, I have to admit. On the rare occasion that I’ve removed my collar it’s been for one single purpose and one purpose only. It’s an extreme way for me to express my extreme reluctance to submit. I cannot quite bring myself to NOT submit, I can’t stop obeying or stop serving or stop being. All I can do is unhook that simple chain and give it to him.

If I didn’t have that option anymore? Would I just find another way to express it or would I stop expressing it? And should I.

~me

Keepin’ it real.

13 days of temporary insanity. Of thinking that I could ever be anything other than His.

Whatever else is says about me, when it came time to walk out, I couldn’t do it.

I had a house, I had a car, I had a secure financial source – all of the things, the stuff, the excuses that I was using for trying to explain not leaving “just yet”.

He wouldn’t have stopped me. He never would. He doesn’t want me if I don’t want to be his. There won’t be negotiating or bargaining or ultimatums or anything of the sort.

Maybe he’s just that confident, or arrogant, or.. something. Either his “training” worked or it didn’t. Either I believe I am his or I don’t. And if I don’t, then good-bye and (probably) good riddance. But if I do, then I’d stand there with my hand on the doorknob (or sit at the table with my purse) and -

And do nothing. Not be able to take that next step. Turn around and resume my place, physically and metaphorically.

So what about that thing that he asked me to do, that huge thing that was the catalyst for this most recent crisis of slavery? Will I do it?

Yes.

I’ll just have to have faith that what he wants and how he wants it done is a decision made, not to destroy me, but to preserve us.  I should have had trust enough in him to begin with, before the squeal of the brakes in my head drowned out everything else.

Illusion or reality. Whatever. I’m his - nothing more, nothing less.

That’s fucked up.

I used to think letting go of myself to become his slave was too hard. Impossible even.

Now I’m finding that letting go of being his slave to become anything else is even harder.

Maybe it wasn’t as illusionary as I thought.