I reject your reality...

...and substitute... what the fuck?

I find Master’s habit of remembering things that never happened as the most difficult of all the things I must adjust to.  Before committing to be his slave, I would just roll my eyes, say he was crazy, or remembering some other woman, or dreamed it… I would stubbornly hold onto my reality.  Now I cannot do it.  Now I must accept his reality and forget my own.

It is the always the most mundane of things… This weekend it was where I bought my first pair of hiking boots… somehow he injects himself into that story… he “remembers” that he was there.  He says he bought the boots for me.  And I know he was not there… I know exactly when I bought those boots.  It was an impulse buy… an unexpected snowy day… a cold wet evening with the knowledge that I was going to be standing, waiting for the bus home.  I walked into an upscale department store in downtown Portland and paid what was at that time an extravagant amount of money… $92.00, I even remember buying a pair of gloves too.  It was in the bleak years… when then husband was relegated to the role of ex-husband and I was temporarily single.  Master was not there.  He could not have been there. 

Now, years and years later, now when the boots wore out long ago… somehow the conversation turns to boots and he has this memory of something that never happened.  It is ridiculous.  It is a nothing thing, where a pair of shoes were bought so long ago… but the hard thing is to have ones memories attacked, modified, Master artificially injected into scenes and situations that he was nowhere near.

Master asserts that I am the one that “does not remember”… that I am forgetful… even though my lapses in memory are minor compared to his… and usually specific in nature.  I own my numerical challenges… I can do math… I am a whiz at algebra and geometry and equations… but raw numbers… how many of something, or a phone number or a date or price or a time or weight… there is no file drawer in my head for such things… abstract numbers blur and slip away within minutes… I can barely remember important things like my phone number or SSN… I still cannot remember Master’s birthday from one year to the next.  So when Master quizzes me about something numerical, I just screw up my face and plea… “you are asking me about numbers again.  I can look it up for you if you want.”  Because if it is important, I will write it down… I save receipts and have a duplicate checkbook.  I know my limitations.    

But anyway… Master holds up this forgetfulness for numbers and generalizes it for forgetfulness for places and experiences.  He points at me and perhaps projects his own forgetfulness upon me.  And part of his forgetfulness is this disturbing habit of fabricating elaborate memories and then insisting I was there and I must “remember” it too… and when I don’t… and it held up as one more piece of evidence of my poor memory… it is a self perpetuating cycle of crazy making.  

So I am charged with the task of swallowing down my protests, my better knowledge, of swallowing down my urge to argue and swallowing down that Rubic’s Cube of submission.  I can do it.  I blink, I know I must look like it hurts all the way down, but all I can do is say, “Really?  I don’t remember that”… WHEN I DO. 

But I do not know if I can really substitute his reality for my own, forget what I know as fact and edit him into a impulse shopping trip so long ago on a dark, wet, snowy afternoon, where I wore the boots out of the Meir and Frank and stopped and pulled on the gloves before stepping out into the wet driving snow to catch that bus home.  I wonder why he would ride the bus… when I never have seen him ride the bus???  Maybe I will have to edit out the bus… but then why would I have wanted the boots… if I was riding home in a warm dry car???  

Great Dominants

According to D - The sign of a great dominant is "being able to want something, and convince you that you want it, that you need it and crave it and that you are being spoiled and treated like a princess when he gives it to you..."

SFP's D, Bachelor #1 made this statement to her... she did qualify that he did not necessarily claim that he was a "great dominant" but this statement did resonate with me.  I started to comment on her blog but it got to be so long and started to sound a bit whiny that I ended  up deleting it and deciding to think about this for a while before I went off the deep end.

I started out wondering if it was also a sign of a "great dominant" if he discovers something you want, and cultivated this want in you... teased you with the prospect of maybe, possibly, eventually getting this want.  Like all your life dreaming of that little red convertible sports car and having him take you to the show room, letting you walk around it a few times but going home in the old station wagon in the end... with the hint that maybe... or maybe not.  Finding pictures of little red sports cars in magazines and showing them to you.  Making you want and want more and fucking dream and salivate... and never exactly say yes or no.

Is that the sign of a "great dominant"?

In all fairness, my Master has never aspired to be a great dominant... unless you define a great dominant as a man that just wants things his way without any concession to what other people think or want or say.  He has always lived his life this way, strong, independent, not necessarily right but stubborn and fiercely focused on doing things his way.  I was married to this man for nearly ten years before I learned to stop fighting with him about this.  And it has only been in the last four years that I really have put energy in believing in him, accepting him, embracing him exactly as he is, wrong or right.

I know that along the way, I made a habit of saying, that there is not right way or wrong way, there is only Master's way.  I know I have repeated this to myself over and over, choking down the raging protests that filled my heart when I knew, just knew, that his way was crazy, wrong, more difficult, time consuming... and then laughing and finding peace when it does or does not work out exactly as planned, but worked out none the less, worked out better than fighting ever had.

He might not be right all the time, but he is brilliant.  I know that more and more I do share his vision because if he alters something, changes what is "Master's way" I bristle and defend the older, original and not necessarily correct or most efficient way.  And looking back, I remember how hard it had been when I had to learn to do it that way and now I own it like it was my own.  He has wormed his way deep inside my head and heart.

And yes, because he finds it amusing to play with my longings, to see me yearning and wanting without the promise of fulfillment, he will continue to dangle that forbidden fruit just out of my reach.  The chances of me actually ever having that "red sports car"... (metaphor people... metaphor) is between slim and none.  And because I see the amusement in his eyes, the pleasure he takes in my frustration, I will continue to want what I cannot have... if for no other reason than to see the pleasure reflected in his eyes.

And that willingness on my part, to suffer for his enjoyment, that cultivation of my emotional masochism, I guess that is a kind of greatness.  I just have to be careful for what I wish for.

  

Jebus....

Friday was like many of the Fridays we have been having... a low key day of recovery.

My oldest son and Livie were here to get some more punkins when I got home and we had a nice long talk. There has been some infighting among the other branch of the family and son #1 wanted to talk about it. It seemed pretty trivial to me, the issues are ones that frequently raise their heads among family, religion, sensitivity, tolerance... someone got a little vociferous with opinions, someone else got a little butt hurt. I am sure that there probably was some alcohol to lubricate and fuel the whole thing. None of it had anything to do with me. Thank gawd (not God... chill out... jebus... not Jesus... oh heck... NOT HELL... for Christ's sake can't you peoples just calm down?)

Anyway son #1 was asking me about what to do. I just shrugged and said I would not take any of it very seriously. Act like it was a joke... apologize even if you don't think you did anything wrong... love people for what you can... try to tolerate those parts of them that are not so nice. Move on... be nice... stop sweating the small shit. Bottom line no one can control how others think, feel or act... the only person you can do that for is yourself.

But there was this thing, this message on my machine... (yes, I am sort of retro like that... no cell... no voice mail... just an old dusty machine)... anyway... the message was from son #2 saying that he and wife wanted to come over for dinner on Saturday to chat about something. DIL is a dear girl, I love her to death, but jebus... she can be oversensitive, can create a mountain out of the smallest of molehills, and lubs the drama.

When Master got home I played the message... his first response was "no tea party"... now this requires some explanation. A group of submissive types had been planning an outing to the local Japanese garden and were going to learn about formal Japanese Tea service. I had wrangled permission from Master to be gone... gone on a Saturday afternoon. That was huge. I could tell that he had been chewing on that bone for a few days, trying to find someway to retract that decision and this was the perfect excuse. No company for dinner AND getting to run off for tea parties.

I squalled a bit, did a small stompy dance on the floor right in front of son #1 which made him laugh. I tried a little "but... but... but..." but all that got me was an "AH! AH! AH!" from Master. He was having none of it.

So no tea party...

Saturday dawned clear, bright blue sky, a snap of fall chill in the morning air. Master gave me the option of choosing going for a walk or cycling... I chose a walk. We walked for a long ways..l through neighborhoods we have not gone through before. We talked about this "coming over for dinner and a chat"... talked about what the fuck this is about. Are they in financial trouble again.. need money? Heaven forbid... need a place to live again. Are they going to try and drag us into the little family drama? ...or most horrible to contemplate... are they pregnant?

Not that I don't like grandchildren... I just hope that when people make babies they have a strong family, strong economically and emotionally.

But anyway... Master and I have no idea what this is and our imaginations have been running on overdrive all day.

I got lots of yard work done... chasing the lawn mower around... cleaning out the garden and mulching for next year. Made a nice enchilada dinner with rice, refried beans, salad and cantaloupe. Took a shower and was getting dressed when Master walked and informed me he wanted me to dress intimidating. I had a a cute little sweater dress and he made me put on a pair of black tall boots and other black "intimidating" stuff. So I was all doom and gloom, power suit.

..... cut to two hours later.

Dinner finished, and I am more than a little drunk. They weren't pregnant... so there is a gawd. They wanted "advice" as to how to handle the "other people's" insensitive remarks. I said the same things, that you can't control what other people think, feel or say. That you need to take responsibility for your own feelings and accept people for what they are and not try to change them... about half way through the speech, DIL got her panties in a bunch and walked out.

She threw a comment over her shoulder about how "his family" never liked her, never wanted her around. I threw back that that was a thinking error and crazy fucking bullshit.

So much for my diplomatic skills.

But I am not too upset about it. Master who watched the whole thing said I did not do anything wrong. I drank three glasses of wine with dinner. Four plates... but just Master and I sitting at the table. Master said it was a good dinner.

And you know I am not too worried about the whole thing. I told son #2 that the door is always open but I am not going to mince words or pretend that I don't think she is just a little crazy, but owned the fact that we all gots our own kind of crazy to deal with... welcome to the monkey house. He was pretty sad and worried that we are not accepting her. I told him we accepted her, we just weren't going to change how we act because she don't like what we got to say.

I looked at Master, thinking about how having him there made all the difference for me. He gave me confidence and just the knowledge that I have him... or maybe I ought to say... he has me... makes all the difference in the world. It does not matter if DIL thinks I am the bitch mother-in-law... all I need is his approval. I leaned over and said, "You know what is the most important thing?"

He shook his head.

I said, "I love you very much."

He said, "That is good."

I think I will change into something a little more comfortable and ask for him to put my collar on.

You guys have a good night. Family... jebus.

Master's Way

If you have been reading my blog for long, you would have gathered that my Master is a bit of a control freak. He is always watching me, getting all up in my grill, telling how to do even the most simple and mundane of tasks... loading the dishwasher, sweeping, brushing my teeth... whatever I am busy with, pretty soon he is there, watching and perfecting.

It isn't always easy... sometimes I interpret it as "you are doing that wrong", as criticism. I do not take criticism gracefully. I have to stop myself and blink, to look at it again, to see if for something different...

I have so see the faces instead of the vases...

I had to learn to change the word 'criticism' in my head to the the word 'correction'. I can accept correction gracefully, gratefully.

I have also learned to say to myself, "There is not right way. There is no wrong way. There is only Master's way." I say it over and over some days. It is not about if I was doing it wrong, or if one of us is right... it is about who ultimately in control.

But today, I realized how much I have internalized Master's way. I was talking to someone about a little thing, and I realized how much I was reflecting Master's wishes, rules and ways in my comments to her. I realized how much they had become my own. I have not said the right way, wrong way mantra in months and months.

Quack....

Mannnn....

I have been tired when I get home. I am totally zonked. I have not really been working all that hard, I just have been so stressed. When things start to go wrong, things put away in the wrong place, other people not doing their job right... things left undone... I start to stress. I way over react. I try to fix everything. I want predictability... I want CONTROL. I get biiiiiiitchy. I irritate people. I don't even like me at times like that. So I have decided that I am a duck.



I am not in control. I am not the queen of the whole fucking school. I can't fix things. I sure as hell can't control things. I am a duck. Stress is the water that rolls off my back. I can keep busy, do my job the best I can, help and support people when they ask... and not BEFORE they ask.

I can be a busy duck...



See the busy feet... yet serene... all blue water and happy feet. Yes I am a duck. In fact just about any time during the school day, you will see me going "quack" quietly, serenely or even frantically. Quack.

So speaking of cheese... You regular readers may remember me commenting once about poisoning the ants that have been eating my house.



Look what those little fuckers did to my house... MY HOUSE!!!!



Now Master has to fix it.



I know, not the most flattering of angles, but I am a little mad at him... well, a LOT mad at him.

I was in the kitchen, making cornbread to go along with the delicious left over vegetable beef soup we were having for dinner. He was walking back and forth, up and down the stairs. I was not paying a whole lot of attention to him. MISTAKE!!! BIG MISTAKE... BANG!!!



He hit me with this.

It was like a bomb going off in the kitchen. It lifted me right up off the ground. I peed my pants. It scared the holy living fuck out of me. It hurt, but it was not the pain, it was the complete, total, absolute shock and subsequent terror. I cried. He laughed. I cried some more, blubbering in incoherent outrage. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I got MAD. There is nothing that shakes my resolve to be good than being scared and then mocked.

I was shooting daggers at him. I lifted my hand to hit him. And he lifted a brow, shut the front door and bent me over and caned my pissy ass. If I was allowed gratuitous ass pictures I could put up the rosy red result. And I am still mad and if I don't watch out...



...my goose will be cooked.

I really ought to do this more often...

I need to just sit down and reflect on all the little things that fill up my life. Perspective may help the understanding but distance blurs the edges. Just one day passes and all the thoughts, the sudden surprises, the explosions of laughter and rushes of rage mute and fade. After a day, or two... or three... I just can't seem to remember why I was standing in the middle of the kitchen laughing my ass off. I remember thinking that I ought to write about it in my blog but now... now it is gone.

It was probably a small thing, totally forgettable. I know it had everything to do with Master... he had exerted some level of control that had gone beyond the realm of reasonable or rational (as far as I understand reasonable and rational) and I had boggled and blinked, I had choked down the "you can't be fucking serious". It is like when you get a swallow of something just not quite right in your throat. A large chunk of something not quite adequately chewed. You have some choices, you can gag and vomit, you can choke and die or you can just force it down... exert mind over convulsing throat muscles and swallow... it hurts all the way down... it feels like you have swallowed a Rubiks Cube and even after it gets to your guts you can sense the angular lump in your digestive system. Sometimes accepting Master's control can be like that... swallowing a Rubiks Cube.

***

Once a lonnnngggg time ago I knew someone who when they wanted to change the subject, when whim or thought takes an abrupt left turn... they would say this thing. They would say, "Speaking of cheese." Now you must realize no one had been discussing dairy products or this person really had anything to say about cheese. It was just a way of announcing that this person was well aware that the next thing they were going to talk about had absolutely nothing to do with anything mentioned up to that time.

So... speaking of cheese... During our weekly... yes you perves... us old people have sex once a week. ONCE A FUCKING WEEK. Master's choice... if it was up to me I would have probably fucked him to death years ago. Swallowing that Rubik's Cube was and continues to be extremely difficult. Back on track...

So... speaking of cheese and back door shenanigans... During our weekly shower sex this Saturday Master's fascination with spelunking... prising open my bung with both thumbs... (I have no idea what he is looking for.) ...stretched me a bit further than reasonable or rational. I think the tones of my squawks changed from enthusiasm to a "What the fuck chuck!" howl of outrage. Master instantly got the message and lightened up a notch.

Master says it makes my pussy tighten up on his cock while he does that. And he also admits it is a turn on to mess around with my ass while he has me bent over in the shower and without a question his messing about with my ass turns me on. It is all good... very, very good... but now, my poor ass does not so much hurt as much as itch. I am going crazy, I want to scratch... scratch hard... scratch deep... I have fantasies about bottle brushes. It gets so bad that not scratching my ass is just not an option... I squirm, clench, grind my teeth... and finally give in. I sneak off to indulge this urge (just scratch, you perves... Master would never allow me to soil a good bottle brush and one just cannot really root around in their butt around other people so I sneak off to hide in the bathroom or bedroom) it feels sooooo good that it is hard to stop. I am just a little worried that I may be at risk of literally scratching my ass off... rubbing my little butthole right off and leaving a crater behind. But the multiple buttgasms are irresistible.

Okay... that was cheesy.

***

Master and I actually went out around other people this weekend. We got all duded up and went to a wedding of one of his coworkers. People seemed happy to see him, strangers calling his name, approaching him, introductions, names I will not remember, hands shaking. People like him. (well of course... I like him too.) He must talk with them when he is at work. We sat through the ceremony and then he hustled me off like a thief in the night before the reception even started. It kind of made me sad... this is the closest he comes to having any kind of social circle.

He had said to me... "Well, pretty girl" (yes, that is what he calls me... and he can say "pretty girl" in a tone that makes your heart sing or sink... he can use it like a whip or a goad, like a warm soothing caress.) "well, Pretty Girl, I really did not want to stay very long. Do you want to go?"

I answered a good slave answer... which was... "You are my Master... if you want to go, I want to go." (and honestly... I am not totally comfortable with strangers but I could have done it... and if we had found a table and sat down, I could have had a witty, entertaining conversation with just about anyone.) But with that we were gone... before the hand shaking, before the cake and toasts and good wishes. He asked me later if I had "really" wanted to go and I answered again... "that I don't have wants beyond wanting to please him"... he called bullshit... he insisted that when he asks what I want I am required to really have wants... my own wants... I do know I want him to have friends... to get out more... to be less isolated. I worry that he spends so much time with only me.

***

Chapter 20 of Demon Child just posted on Literotica. I have put up the first couple thousand words of Chapter 21 on the "What's she writing now?" page of this blog.

Have a nice day... x

Stepford Slave

Someone asked “Have you ever lost your place? Or lost your submissive way? i want to know what makes other submissives out there forget their place as a submissive? What makes you 'lose your head' and all of its unquestionable devotion??”

And I answered her, “What makes me lose my place, wish I wasn't his or at least was his equal so I could make him???”

“It is this house and fixing things. He is a control freak... he will not allow anyone else... me, a friend or a professional do what needs to be done, but he just doesn't have the time or the energy to do it himself. I am not allowed to discuss these things with him.”

“I get totally farking crazy about it. I want to tear my hair out... I want to tear his hair out... I want to scream... lie... disobey... manipulate... I want to fucking do SOMETHING!!!!”

“(Thank you for listening. Rant over. Pant. Pant.)”

“Okay... most of the time I can just look the other way... forget about it, tell myself that my relationship with him is more important than the roof over my head... and a lot of the time I manage to succeed.”

But this admission had loosened something inside me… reminded me of this very tender issue.

So I had come at him… with all these pieces of information… talking fast in a tense voice… that the insecticide does not seem to be working… can I look into hiring an exterminator??? …that I had researched cleaning up spilled fuel oil and all the experts say that the only way to get it out of concrete is to demolish the concrete and haul it away… and that I had talked with someone at work and they had suggested listing the oil tank on Craig’s list with a “at your own risk”, “as is” clause… and magically someone would just appear and carry it away and we would not have to worry about how to get it out of the basement. (That mother fucker is HEAVY… and Master has some really inflated ideas about how strong I am exactly. I have these disturbing images of me ending up on the floor with about four hundred pounds of dirty leaky oil tank on top of me.)

He just stood there looking at me with this pursed up lips, something tastes bad, look on his face and I ran down and looked at him expectantly… slowly coming to the realization that he did not think any of my ideas were good. I blinked and said, “um… you are pursing up your lips.”

He just said… “You talk too much.”

I sucked it up… (fucking monkey balls!)… and went into the house and slammed dishes around a while.

And it was true… I was talking about a bunch of things all at once, flooding him with information.

And it is also true that Master cannot ‘let’ anyone else do anything. He cannot even let anyone help other than me. He can’t work with other people… he can only do it if he is complete control. I mean COMPLETE control… where you hold your hands… where your feet are… the fact that you are not allowed to speak a single word while he is thinking (or even make large distracting movements)… each step carefully choreographed and directed. And it sometimes seems he can only work with someone he can scream obscenities at.

And that is how it is… the house seems to be decaying… a slow, imperceptible decent. Little things… the gutters leaking… making the sill damp… inviting insect infestations… the smell of a slow leak from the old, unused oil tank slowly getting worse and worse… now clearly detectable in the laundry room… and it about knocks you over if you go into the store room. The internet says the only way to get the smell of fuel oil out of concrete is to demolish the concrete… and carry it out of the house… the branches of the big oak tree grow further over the roof each year… the floor here… the wall there… a hundred little things that add up until you open your eyes and blink and stare about in shock.

But he can only think about one thing at a time… and if I push or nag or even just plaintively mention that I worry… all I get is instant stubborn resistance. And instead of working on one thing, all that happens is he is working on none things.

And now this afternoon, he came home… And I approached and greeted and as I knelt at his feet and asked him how his day was… I got an earful… and earful of how my worry and mistrust had impacted his day… how he is trying to save us money by doing these things himself and I had to choke down the protest that he hasn’t done them, isn’t doing them.

Oh, yes, of course… the fucking oil tank. He is working on the fucking oil tank. And it is something that needs to be done. And hopefully we will eventually get it out of the house… but what to do about the smell… the fumes. People say they are hazardous. I don’t know, maybe they are… he just makes PFFFTTT sounds and rolls his eyes, like I am talking to nuts on the street corner.

He saw me doing some research, reading about cleaning up fuel oil spills in your house and now reading about stuff like that is “counter productive. So I am not allowed to do that. I guess what I do not know, won’t make me sick… or think… or worry. All that does is send all that stuff deep inward… and I feel hopeless. He has even said no pouting… fuck me with a sharp stick. I am now expected to act different than I feel.

He sat and watched me… making sure that I really had stopped reading EPA oil spill recommendations… and saw me go back to writing… spewing all those angst ridden doubts into my journal… and he said no more writing.

So here I am… forbidden to talk about it… told to stop thinking about it… ordered to stop worrying about it… to stop moping and pouting… HOW THE FUCK IS SOMEONE SUPPOSED TO STOP THINKING????? Okay… okay… what I can do is act like I am obeying. Fake it… it can’t be any harder than faking an orgasm. Big Stepford Wife smile pasted onto my face.

I went about my chores… grinning like a scary clown doll. I can only imagine how ghastly I must have looked… eyes brimming with tears and frustration… a corpselike rictus grin fixed permanently to my face. He grabbed me and wanted to hold me, probably to snuggle, to somehow soothe me and I stood there absolutely still, not rigid, not pulling back but not engaged. Every minute or two I would ask permission to continue to work on making his dinner. He kept saying no.

Finally he started to talk about the ants in the foundation… and I gave him this glassy eyed look… and mechanically said… “I am not allowed to think about that. Perhaps you would prefer a baked potato with your dinner?” (oh so passive aggressive… but it is where I retreat to when given no other outlets.)

He just said… “I want to talk about this now.”

I said, “Oh I am sure it will be fine. My Master will fix it. I don’t need to worry about that. In fact there are no ants.” I turned and walked down the stairs to find a potato. The next thing I know he has a vice grip on the back of my pants and I am being propelled backwards at breakneck speed. He threw me down on the bed and I very cooperatively arched my back, shoving my ass up high. And when the cane hit me I just yelped and then in my best sweet submissive voice said, “Thank you Master. That was nice.” He yanked my pants down and hit me a lot of times and you know… I felt so centered and calm… and strangely aroused… and I said thank you every time.

I got dinner all ready to put on the grill and he barked through the kitchen door that when I got that all done I was to come out and ask what he wants me to do next. So while the salmon grilled I was running and fetching lumber and sawhorses, sharpening pencils and finding tape measures. He did not tell me what he was doing and I chose not to ask.

We worked on this mystery project until the salmon was done and had a fucking fantastic dinner… (even in Stepford wife mode I am an awesome cook.)

After dinner it was finally revealed that we were building a ramp and a cradle to hold that monster oil tank. And we did manage to do it… to lever that huge heavy thing up… slide it down in a hair raising semi-controlled rush down the ramp onto a wheeled dolly (…as opposed to the inflatable kind… yuck, yuck… joke brought to you by my Master.) It took another hour or so of fighting and levering and shifting and lifting and fighting some more but that fucking horrible giant stink monster is OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!! And you know Master did listen to me now and then when I had a good idea. And he did need me to do it. And I think the Stepford wife slave was a hell of a lot easier to work with than the doubtful, worry wart I had been.

And you know, I did manage to stop worrying about it… even though I did think about it a lot. I find it amazing that he could conceive of that level of control that he wants to control even my thoughts… I find that daunting and yet at the same time very exciting.

Tonight he asked me if I wanted to go to the hardware store with him… I said no, unless of course he ordered me to go with him, then of course I would love to go.

He snorted and said, “You are sooo funny. But he went to the hardware store alone.

Communication sucks

Communication… transparency… everybody talks about it like it is the key to everything. Like if you don’t got it, things are doomed, can never work… just are generally fubarred.

Well, it don’t work like that around here. He does not tell me how he is feeling… and he definitely isn’t really interested in hearing about anything other than what he wants to hear about what the fuck is going on in my head.

I am still trying to figure out exactly what happened, where I fucked up. Because he certainly did not do anything different than he always has. He has remained perfectly consistent. He has not changed one iota from the same rigid, controlling, critical, emotionally distant, monkish, mind fucking bastard he was when I decided I needed him to be my Master. It was all me. Maybe I bought into the idea… that I needed to be “transparent”, to puke up all my angst, my doubts and questions like he would listen, have the perfect “Master” answer or even care.

So he had done the same things he has always done. And he jumped all over me for getting involved in some unimportant thread on Fetlife talking about sadism. I was sitting here on the couch, laptop in lap, and he idly asked what I was writing on. I just as idly mumbled something about a discussion about sadism. The next question out of his lips was, “Why are you talking to a SADIST?”

I have to admit being a little off balance, blinking, staring at him like he had suddenly grown horns. My voice may have taken on a patient, explaining tone… “I am not talking with a Sadist. I am just writing a comment to a thread she posted. It is a forum. Would you like me to read it to you?” (Master has dyslexia. He can read but it is not effortless and he avoids it if he can.)

Well long story long, about half way through the original post, he interrupted me, told me I should not be talking to people “like that” and it was end of discussion. I know better than to argue. I sucked it up. I said, “Yes Sir.” I just sat there with this sort of shocked and disbelieving look on my face.

But I have to confess that I had about a billion questions bouncing around in my head. I could not help but think, that this general type of statement made it almost impossible to continue to read, post or comment on threads on Fetlife. Everybody there was “like that”. Crazy bitch in the back of my head muttered, “And face it you stupid bitch. You are “like that” too. He probably thinks you are crazy and gross and dangerous too.”

He tried to explain, making general statements about how this person sounded imbalanced and like someone that should be left alone. But every single thing he said just emphasized what he didn’t know about this ‘sadist’ person. I tried to say that she has made lots of posts and said lots of different things and she seemed like a pretty reasonable and, in a lot of ways, a very intelligent person… but he interrupted and said, “You can’t tell that from just what people write on the internet.” Arghhhh!!!! But that was what he did!!! He listened to half of one thing, jumped to some conclusions and just decided.

Again I sucked it up, stiff lipped and obedient I conceded his victory. I swallowed down all the protests and mumbled, “Okay, I will not talk to her. I will leave that group.”

But it really wasn’t over. All my lonely, self loathing, isolated, ‘I don’t have any friends’ issues were rapidly flooding my thinking and it was all black and white. It was all or nothing. This general statement made it impossible to read other people’s blogs, to go to any of the local support groups (which, by the way seem to have stopped meeting for the summer of maybe forever but that is a separate issue) and I don’t have anybody in the whole fucking world to talk to about this. (My apologies to Stephen, ‘chelle and Kevin, I wanted to feel fucking sorry for myself and if I remembered you guys were there for me… I wouldn’t have felt quite so miserable, could I?)

So there I was… wallowing in my not quite rational place and I do not have a poker face. I probably looked like I had a pickle up my butt. And he got all up in my grill, demanding to know what was happening, what I was thinking or feeling.

And in hindsight, the first words out of my mouth weren’t entirely rational. “I don’t have any friends…”

And again he interrupted. This time it was a loud mocking, jeering hoot. The same “waaaa, waaaa, waaaa that kids yell on the playground to harass the cry babies.

I totally imploded. I was yelling at the top of my voice, “YOU ASKED!!!! YOU ASKED!!!!” And then there was a lot more, things about trust and communication, about him not wanting to really hear, about how much that hurt and how I just fucking wasn’t going to talk with him ever fucking, ever, ever, ever again. I got pretty inarticulate by the end but I sucked it up again and crossed my arms and shut down totally. He sat there, staring at me for a long time and I finally sobbed out in a broken voice… “and if I can’t talk to you… I don’t have anybody to talk to.”

I left the group. I answer in my best sweet submissive voice, “fine” whenever he asks how I am, how my day was. I am totally talking to him about nothing. He knows I am pretty blue. He even said he was sorry.

And when I looked at him and said, “What are you sorry about?”

He answered, “…about you being blue.”

And I am sort of stuck here… I know he does not want or like to talk about things except on his terms. I know he has the right to limit who I interact with and what I do. And this is one Master/slave or Owner/property… or what the fuck label fits best in your head… that does not run on communication and transparency. It runs on commitment and acceptance. I am committed to him and to my being his slave. I accept his ownership, however he chooses to express it.

It sometimes sucks monkey balls but I have to accept that as well. You have no idea how hard it can be to suck up monkey balls.

Post script, the original poster, the so called “sadist” sent me a private message, asking me why I left the group and talking about how I was valued as a member and had a lot of good things to say. I read it to Master and he changed his mind about talking to her or reading her posts and I got permission to rejoin the group. But he said no to me accepting her friends request.