Sunday, October 23, 2016

More from the Early Years

Well for some reason I seem to snap out of writer's block whenever I share something horribly embarrassing from my past... so here goes...

I wrote a bit about my play habits in my youth in my reflections posts and a few others.  Something I tend to keep as a buried secret but falls important into my D/s development is closely tied to the G.I. Joe toys I played with as a child.

This is my fourth attempt at writing this so I will try to skip the history lesson but I will provide a
quick summary of the two sides.

The good guys: G.I. Joe.  The heroes of the line.  All unique and highly skilled individuals capable of great things against overwhelming odds.  Diverse in race and gender. 

The bad guys: Cobra.  The villains of the line.  With the exception of a few leadership characters they are all nameless rank and file with covered faces.  While superior in numbers they are always defeated.

While this was a toy line, comic book, and cartoon series in my youth, it has haunted me a lot over the years.  I mostly played as the Cobras since I thought they "looked cooler," but deep down I know that my own sense of being treated differently for my physical appearance made the idea of having a face hidden from the world was actually appealing.

In addition to her normal bondage games, M would occasionally play with me with my G.I. figures.  She would choose to be the good guys and state openly that "the good guys always win."  She would then proceed to defeat and capture my characters and then lead them around as her prisoners.  M would tire of this (it usually took about 5 minutes to reduce things to this state) and would frequently return to the others at this point.  On a handful of occasions she would decide she wanted to play it "for real" and she would tie a scarf over my face like a mask and bind my hands so I could be her prisoner. 

As I continued to secretly crave attention from M, the play style that she started became common for me in private.  The female characters in the toy line were all badasses.  While I had to keep it secret to avoid ridicule from my friends, my Cobras were all commanded by the Baroness:

It's probably no secret that this ended up developing part of my Femdom allure as I grew up... being commanded by a powerful woman in a black leather catsuit.  She would command absolute obedience but then sacrifice the others to escape when things went south. 

What complicates matters even more is another character.  I'm unable to pinpoint just exactly when the whole fur thing came in and made things even more complicated for me, but this didn't help:

I'm not really sure but this uniform just doesn't seem all that imposing.  When I would play in private, this character was me.  I would be bossed around by the Baroness until I would be captured by M:

This made me feel severely screwed up for a long, long time.  I continued to secretly play with these for several years after "I quit playing with toys."   It was a huge source of shame for me.  To make things worse, it bled in as I continued to fantasize about M over the years. 

I believe this is the source of my inner-henchman.

Friday, October 21, 2016


I'm really trying to break down this barrier that is blocking my writing.  Unfortunately my head is extremely cloudy... and I feel disconnected from my heart at this time.  I'm going to keep trying rather than just avoiding my blog.  I apologize in advance if I make a string of shitty posts in that process as my thoughts don't seem to really get anywhere.  I'd rather write badly than not write.  Hopefully this will help.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

A Sea of Thoughts The Blurry Lines of Arousal

Sometimes it seems as a submissive that we are supposed to feel guilty if we have desires of our own.  The idea of us selflessly giving and serving is the ideal.  If you wish for things beyond the privilege of being allowed to submit... it's often seen as bad.  That makes you a "do me" sub.  etc.

All in all that is part of the game.  There are enough terrible sub-wannabes out there that make Dommes jaded and bring about this hard-line stance. 

I'm not going to really debate the merits of the game.  As I've stated in the past I believe that submission provides "something more" for a sub... usually some mix of emotional and sexual fulfillment that makes submission worth doing. 

Fairy tales are full of sympathetic protagonists, living destitute lives of abuse and labor and carrying hopes and dreams of a better life.  It is only the submissive that longs for the reverse... they are usually in a functional life with too much freedom.  It is the submissive that longs to be taken from their free life and driven back to the beginning of the fairy tale. 

Blurred lines upon lines... convoluted ideas... where does the boundary between submission and "do me" fall?

When you look at the sexuality of a submissive I think it is important to remember that subs tend to be heavily fueled by the psychological side of things.  While they will surely respond to direct physical stimulation, they are also very likely to respond to dynamics and environment.  If we consider an erection (or attempted erection) to be the most basic form of arousal, I believe the answer to the question may fall in with the depth of arousal.

To look at the extreme end first, I believe the tipping point for a sub happens when they reach the state you could describe as "horny."  At this point they have been aroused to the point where they desire physical stimulus in order to ejaculate.  Their brain no longer functions rationally as they seek physical gratification, despite their beliefs or best intentions.  I classify this state as overstimulated.

It is in this overstimulated state where a sub can become "do me."

I tend to strongly equate the depth of my own subspace with my level of arousal.  I must be aroused to reach subspace, and "sufficiently" aroused to reach deep subspace.  This becomes a bit trickier as it relies heavily on the idea of sexual frustration.  The sweet spot is then to be stimulated enough to where the chemicals and hormones allow for my psychological submission but not stimulated enough to where I become horny. 

Thus it becomes a game of tease & denial, keeping a sub aroused enough to feel submissive but never permitting enough stimulation to push them into their base mental state. 

I do have to say that a Domme that is able to keep their sub off-balance and wanting in such a way truly has a fearsome skill. 

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

A Sea of Thoughts: The henchman

I'll be the first to admit that this post might be a bit odd.  Just some thoughts swirling around.

Lifestyle D/s is often described with comparison to known relationships throughout history.  The Queen and the Knight.  The Goddess and the devotee.  The Mistress and the slave, etc.  Each of these seems to describe an idealized relationship that loosely describes the dynamics of the situation.

Something odd about these comparisons are that the Domme's role is rooted in an established status.  The elevated status generally implies a level of responsibility and type of conduct that is befitting of the role.  While this works in some ways, it can be an adjustment for woman that do not regularly view themselves in this way.

Over the years I've thought about something new... that is a bit different.

I'm not sure when exactly, but early on in my life, but in most fiction (TV/Cartoons, Comics/novels, etc.) I often found myself more fascinated by villains than by heroes.  Although there are a handful of exceptions, in many cases it is the villains who are complicated and interesting... that have good in them but have life experiences that have shaped their view of the world... and are driven by their own ambitions in light of those experiences.

If I envision myself in such a world, I do not relate with hero... nor with villain.  If anything, I see myself as a henchman.  If you take the average villain, they often have a cadre of henchmen, but one of them usually stands above the rest... the "alpha" so to speak.

The alpha henchman is rather fascinating.  They are usually trustworthy, very capable/resourceful, and have a fanatical devotion to the one they serve.  Basically, in terms of their raw capacities, they are often on par with the hero/villain, but they are missing something important:  self-ambition.

If you have been exposed to a good amount of media you have probably encountered at least one situation where someone in power made a statement like, "I don't care what you have to do, just make it happen!" The henchman looks up with a fearful glance and leaves the room and through their own creativity they manage to make it happen without the assistance of a master plan or unlimited resources.

The story of the henchman is rarely told so much of the relationship between villain and henchman must be inferred.  I see the henchman as a flawed individual.  They do not have a clear-cut vision.  They view right and wrong as the will of the one they serve.  They are loyal to a fault.  They devote themselves totally to someone else's dream, often without recognition, appreciation, or praise.  They are motivated partly by fear but also by love, loyalty, and the desire not to disappoint.  They willingly sacrifice themselves to protect the one they serve.  Another important aspect is that they serve by choice.

In most fiction the alpha henchman is leaned upon heavily.  The villain takes them for granted but has the utmost faith in their abilities.  You get the feeling that failure is punished severely.  The villain does not see the henchman as an equal, even if the henchman's greatest wish is to be special to them.  In regards to pecking order, the lesser pawns are sacrificed first, but the villain will throw the alpha henchman to the wolves without hesitation if it will be of benefit.

For some reason this seems to resonate with me more than the other common D/s comparisons.  I think part of it is that core of the Domme's status is not determined by divine birth, royal lineage, or wealth.  The Domme villain only requires a strong will and ambition.  She may be a bit volatile.  Her demands may be unreasonable.  The rules may not be fair or just.  Her desires drive her to be strong.

This might seem strange but I find myself able to relate to this.  I am loyal and capable.  I will move the Earth if that is what she desires.  I bind myself to her dreams. 

I know that this isn't the most romantic ideal, but for some reason it speaks to me.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Forgot to mention this...

I will be going back and replying to comments soon*. 

*Hoping soon means actual soon and not sometime next spring soon after ignoring my blog all fall/winter. 

Definition of a submissive

In my bottom vs. submissive post, Uxorious Mate asked about my definition of a submissive.

I don't plan to write anything long here... but I do wish it to be asterisk free, without the need for special cases, conditionals, additional terms, or things of that nature.

On its most basic level, I believe a submissive is someone that willingly accepts a recognized role of inferior status in a personal relationship.  Inversely, I believe on its most basic level that a Dominant is someone that willingly accepts a recognized role of superior status in a personal relationship.

I hope this is enough to work from.  I think this tends to cover most specialized relationship types as well as separates it from non-consensual abusive relationships as well. 

Standing on the edge

I have a lot that I want to say.  There are a lot of things I want to feel.  I want to write more.  I want to continue my fiction.

Right now I am in a bad place.  I can feel the demons gnawing away.  I feel a little bit frustrated.  I mostly feel numb.  I lost my footing in the place that feels dear to my heart and I've watched myself slowly backslide into a bad place.

Some recent dialogue with someone has given me a bit of insight on where this process is breaking down.  Writing my reflections posts earlier this year and a few of the follow up posts have allowed me to see just how this is happening.

The best I can really describe it is that at my core... I just do not feel like I have any worth.

I am good at things.  I am smart.  I have tremendous work ethic and focus.  I am competent and responsible.  I am loving and caring. 

I can tell when depression is rearing its head because when I look back upon every positive thing I have done on a given day... it doesn't bring about any positive feelings.  All that echoes in me is, "what's next?"

I can't help but see how this dates back to my childhood.  The home runs... scoring goals... the 100%'s... A after A... what's next?  I feel judgement being passed on whatever it is that I am doing.  Once I am done there is no time to rest... no time to relax... no time to enjoy... no time to feel good.  Move onto what's next.  A constant state of being judged.  While success may breed confidence, never experiencing the joys of the fruits of my labor... doesn't bring about self-esteem or self-worth. 

When I look back at a completed task or a completed project any joy is squashed under the weight of the ever-changing present.  "What I just did is so 5 minutes ago... that has nothing to do with right now."

The drive... push myself harder... keep pushing... never stop.  It will never be enough.  It will never feel right.  This is just what I do.  This is how I am.  I do not know if it can be changed... and if so... I don't know how.  I don't know how to mend what is broken.

There's that pivotal scene in the movie "Good Will Hunting" where Robin Williams 'fixes' Matt Damon by giving him a hug and telling him repeatedly that it wasn't his fault.  I wish.  I wish it was that easy.  I wish that the magic words would change who I am at my core... purge me of my demons.  Maybe I'm just jaded but that scene ends up feeling like fantasy on par with Game of Thrones. 

I believe this is why I crave such a strict set of D/s dynamics.  Judge me.  Trap me in the moment.  Keep me busy.  Keep me doing.  No reward... just focus on what I'm doing... knowing there is always what's next.  Punish me for slipping.  Expect too much of me... more than is humanly possible.  Treat me like I'm not good enough (I will never believe that I am). 

I can't help feeling a bit fucked up knowing that will make me feel normal... that is where I find peace.  Being "all in" all the time... trying harder... needing to be perfect.  Judge me.  It is impossible to be harsher than the demons that reside in my soul. 

Strip me of my sense of self.  Take away my dignity.  Crush my ego.  Step on my pride.  Deny me pleasure.  Those are unnecessary; they merely cloud my judgement.  Hit me when I've been bad... or whenever you feel like it.  Please... keep me.  I promise I'll be good.  I promise I'll be perfect. 

Nothing can hurt me beyond what already hurts.  Please... keep me. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Bottom vs. Submissive

I apologize for the delay in replying to blog comments.  I will try to get to those soon.  I haven't been in a very good mental space but had someone ask a question to me as a possible blog topic and I will write about it.

The request was to get my thoughts on a bottom vs. a submissive.

In many ways the two are similar, especially when it comes to styles of play/sex but I believe the differences make the distinction rather crucial.

I believe that most males that associate themselves with being submissive are actually bottoms.  There are a good number that are submissive, but this term often gets used loosely in regards to a "requested role during ______" vs. "lifestyle."

To start out with a basic definition, I consider the role of being a bottom is someone who likes to be in the submissive/passive/bottom role during sexual or kink-related activities.  They are the receiver.  The catcher to the top's pitcher.  They react to the top's lead.

I always hate trying to describe a bottom in a sentence or two because there are always words/terms used that aren't adequate descriptors (e.g. I hate the use of the word "passive" in regards to being a bottom/submissive).

If you are reading here you probably have some idea of all this so I probably don't need to beat it into the ground.

To start the next part I should probably say that "All submissives are bottoms, not all bottoms are submissives."

In my opinion a handful of factors push a bottom into the realm of submission:
1. Control
2. Freedom
3. Pleasure

1. The first factor that changes the dynamics is relinquishing control. A non-submissive bottom may wish to have certain control over what is going on.  A submissive understands they have given up this control and they can hope that they will enjoy what is going on.

2. The second factor is freedom.  I believe that a non-submissive bottom sees their actions as free.  While they may temporarily give up some of this freedom in the heat of the moment, they still see themselves as someone with full freedom.  A submissive loses at least part of their freedom when they submit, the extent of which is determined by the Domme.

3. While ideally, kink-overlap will lead to mutual pleasure, there is a fundamentally different view here.  A non-submissive bottom will expect the experience to be mutually pleasurable.  A submissive gains satisfaction from submission, but whether an activity is pleasurable to them is up to the Domme.  For a submissive there are cases where pleasure will be purposefully withheld, times when pleasure may be used as a reward, and times when the sub's pleasure is a byproduct of the activity and not the focal point.  To state it more simply, I believe a non-submissive bottom's pleasure is more physical, while a submissive's pleasure is heavily rooted in the mental realm.

I guess I see these things as being the key differentiating characteristics.

Any thoughts?

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


I hate this feeling... like I'm trapped between states.  I'm blocked from subspace and having to turn to hobby obsession to fill the void... which makes the daily grind bearable but also keeps me distant from where I would like to be in  my head. 

I crave the feelings that fuel my writing.  I crave to write since it means I have those feelings.  The knot in my chest is starting to build. 

Sorry for this pointless ramble.

I have the rest of Arc 7 and the start of Arc 8 in my head... I just can't seem to get into actually writing it.

A Sea of Thoughts: Self-consciousness

The thoughts swirl...

The idea of self-consciousness is fascinating to me.  I think this is because self-consciousness can be both extremely positive and extremely negative things depending upon how you look at it.

From a positive standpoint, self-consciousness can often resemble thoughtfulness.  If you are aware of your own behavior and how it affects others there are certain ways you might adapt your behavior to maintain harmony with others.  This is often the "be on your best behavior" thing... or simply trying to avoid swearing around children and the like.  You know how you would like to present yourself and what kind of an impact that might have.  I tend to file these under self-awareness... but I believe it becomes self-consciousness as soon as we attempt to modify our behavior because of it.  I don't think this is a bad thing and you probably find yourself obeying "better judgement" on a regular basis.

Unfortunately there seem to be more cases where self-consciousness can be viewed negatively than positively. 

There are tons of ways that self-consciousness motivates people to deceive, behave selfishly, display arrogance, and the like.  This tends to happen when we believe ourselves to matter more to others than we actually do.  In some cases, it is rational to believe this, such as courting/dating, job interviews, and the like.  We want to present a special and idealized form of ourselves... exaggerate the good, hide the bad.  I think this is rational in many ways, but it's also often far from our "true selves." 

In many cases where people are ruled by their self-consciousness it's because people decide that how others perceive them is more important than how they would choose to be in their absence.  That is to say, the motivation is external.

In other cases, self-consciousness comes from a more internal cause.  A lack of confidence... fear... a shaky sense of worth... these feelings can derail a person on the inside. 

D/s often uses self-consciousness as a weapon and I believe that how it is wielded affects the outcome.  A sub can reach a rather peaceful mental state where they simply thrive as they please their Domme.  They know what is expected of them and they can perform with confidence, knowing full well that good service will most likely be met with a positive reaction.  It seems fairly common for a Domme to willingly disturb this peace, pushing the sub into a state of emotional disarray.  Making them feel self-conscious is an easy means of doing this, taking a sub who isn't thinking of themselves... and forcing a sense of self in an unpleasant way.

I believe humiliation is the end result of forcing self-consciousness about external factors.  Exposing the sub to another, threatening to have them do something embarrassing in public, or looking at their set of kinks can lead the sub to fear the eyes of the outside world.

Looking internally, I feel that shame is what results from self-consciousness rooted from internal fears.  If a sub feels unworthy or worried about the quality of their service this forces them to view themselves from the outside looking in as their own harsh critic.  This can also happen each time the sub is ordered to do something they do not wish to do and they acknowledge their own helplessness.

As I finish this I'm feeling my own self-consciousness as I'm not sure if I should post it... but I know that writing is my best way of getting back to writing... so here goes.

Saturday, September 10, 2016

In my Downtime

EDIT: added another streaming source

A few weeks ago I wrote a bit about my means of coping.  As I've felt my mood crash lately and pulled away from writing a bit I thought I would share a bit more in my process.

When the demons begin to surface it always starts small.  Little negative ticks that seem to make me feel like I'm slowly being pulled under.  This is usually accompanied by a breakdown in my normal quest of experiencing joy daily.

The past couple of weeks I have changed up my entire life schedule and been working a lot more.  In combination with T's recent schedule change I have basically lost 95% of my private time to think and to write. When I get home from work I'm exhausted mentally and that's the only time I have to myself.  After that I'm really dependent upon feeling numb or distracting myself.

Distraction is another way I seek joy but it really takes me out of my writing mindset.  My mind space shifts from feelings to whatever I have chosen to focus on and it removes me from the vulnerable state.  While I know this is part of my coping process, I still seek to have strong and meaningful feelings.

Where media steps in is that I shift into a state of experiencing feelings vicariously.  I seek out things that will affect me deeply and feel like my life is being enriched by exposing myself to it.  I do this with music, literature, movies, and TV series.  It is an endless process of seeking.  It is rare that something is good enough to where it can reach me on a deep level... less than 1%.  It does, however, make finding those rarities very special in both internal and external ways.  While the feelings manage to touch me deeply, my natural instinct is then to share it with the people that are close to me.

This past fall an anime series aired and I watched it on one of my streaming programs.  I have seen a lot of anime.  If you count series (and not movies) I have seen in their entirety over 500 shows and another 500 that I have watched but didn't care to finish.  When I watched this show over the winter I knew immediately that it was one of the strongest shows I had ever seen.  I was able to share it with a couple of friends then.  Last week I was able to convince T to watch it and while she was resistant at first it ended up drawing her in and we watched it in two sittings and it reminded me just how much I enjoy this show.  I know that anime is a bit of a niche genre but I wanted to share a bit about this show here (I will do my best to talk about it without spoilers).

The title of the show is "Erased."  The main character is a 29 year old failed manga artist that has shut down emotionally.  When he was in 5th grade, three children from his grade (two of whom were in his class) were abducted and murdered.  He saw the first child alone in a park ~30 minutes before they were abducted and thought about reaching out to them but chose to just walk on by.  In the aftermath of the murders, one of his good friends, an awkward but friendly young adult was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to death for the crimes even though he claimed to be innocent (in Japan most people confess after being convicted).  Over time he has put a block on his heart since he's constantly haunted by the regret of not reaching out to his classmate to save them and being unable to prevent his good friend from being convicted.

Through his regret he has developed a special power.  When something bad is about to happen around him he has a deja vu moment where he jumps back in time (usually 1-5 minutes).  Since he knows this means something bad will happen, he frantically assesses what is going on around him in order to prevent the unknown negative event that will occur if he doesn't act.  This doesn't always put him in a good situation.

After foiling a would-be crime, it sets into play a series of events that leads him to being framed for something terrible.  While fleeing from the police his power kicks in and he jumps back in time 19 years to his 5th grade self, a few days before the first kidnapping occurred.  He realizes that the present day events all stem back to those events and if he wishes to prevent that future from happening he has to change the terrible events of the past.

Erased is 12 episodes long.  If you fast-forward through the intro and skip the outro it pulls in at ~20 minutes per episode (~4 hours total) which is a quick little jaunt that can be easily taken down in a day or two.  The show puts you through the entire gambit of emotions... sweetness, despair, hope, pain, desperation, etc.  It is strong enough to where even people who are not anime fans but enjoy a good drama should be able to appreciate.  It is very rare for any media to touch me on a deep emotional level but this one definitely does.

It can be streamed for free with commercials at:

Crunchyroll has apps for tablet, Roku, Xbox, and Playstation.  They also have a free 2-week trial that will get rid of commercials.  Otherwise their standard rate for commercial-free is $7 a month or $60 a year.

Funimation has apps for tablets, Xbox, and Playstation. They just launched a new app and I'm not sure if you need an account to use it.  It can stream through a tablet web-browser though.   I believe they just dropped their premium rate to $4 a month.

It is also available on Hulu (subscription required):

This is one of my ways of handling my downtime.  If anyone decides to check out Erased please let me know.  I would be curious of your thoughts on it. 

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Is submission a gift?

I am writing to try and break myself out of this rut...

A couple of weeks ago Misty was kind enough to share with me some ideas for blog topics when I had asked for ideas on a post.  I can't seem to come up with any other ideas that motivate me to write so here goes. 

One potential topic that was brought up is:  Is submission a gift?

When I first read this topic idea my initial reaction was, "holy shit this is a huge can of worms."  There are so many ways to approach this, so many points of view that come into play, and also the great gap between what I actually feel vs. how I would want others to see it.

If I look at this with my "truest voice," I do not view my submission as a gift.  A gift can be given lightly.  A gift can be presented to someone that doesn't wish to receive it.  A gift feels like an exchange between equals.  People often use the term charity to describe a gift from the affluent to the poor.  Can the inferior give a gift to a superior?

If I had to choose a term to describe my submission, I would say it as an offering.  She does not need it.  She chooses to lay claim to it.  Part of it involves what I give.  The other part involves what she takes.

She does not claim my submission as a rigid form.  She shapes it and molds its form.  She may take more from it than originally offered.  I see this as being far more interactive than the idea of a gift may imply. 

Offering submission is a choice performed out of our free will.  That choice carries with it the idea of willingly giving up that freedom. 

I think my view is heavily shaped in that I feel so grateful that she claims my offering.  I see that act as being far more important than presenting my offering in the first place.  The glorious feeling of being chosen... I can't imagine that my offering of submission could make her feel as wonderful as that. 

I am very aware that my own views on this are biased.  I could easily be mistaken and it is likely that a Domme may see submission as a gift.  I tend to skew my own views to always feel like the lucky one; it tends to keep me more focused when I feel like what I offer is less important than what she chooses to provide.

Current Reflections

I've been in a bit of a rut for a couple of weeks now and far removed from the mind-space that I usually write from.  I've been thinking about why this is and what about it has caused me to tumble.

It was my birthday recently and it really shifted my life around a bit.  I used to buy a lot of things.  Over the past few years I've limited my consumerism to very basic things... food, daily use items such as deodorant, shampoo, tooth paste, gasoline, etc.  Any time I have to start thinking about actually wanting something that is the first step in pulling me out of my more submissive self.  Basically, I think I've trained myself to want very little... then when I have to want something it derails everything.

I've also noticed that I tend to get really down around my birthday most years.  When looking back as to why... I think I'm finally starting to understand just why this tends to push me into a little bit of a depression.  It's closely linked to why the D/s side of my relationship with T didn't work out as well as with K or F. 

"Most years," my birthday leaves me feeling empty.  I enjoy the company and attention it brings... but it seems to mostly reinforce that most of the time I feel pretty much unappreciated.

I do not need constant affirmation of each and every thing that I do.  I do need to feel like... my existence... my body of work as a whole... the fact that I am there... is important and valued by someone.  At some point in our relationship those feelings went away. 

I know this is a bit selfish and probably undervalues the one day a year when I am told that I am special and appreciated.  It just hurts that it makes the other 364 days stand out so much in contrast.

It is also odd that as a submissive, I completely enjoy celebrating a birthday for my Mistress.  While each and every day I seek to make her feel like the world, it requires a significant amount of planning and effort to make her birthday a day that is more special and "worthy" of her.  I would usually spend weeks working out gifts, guests, meals, and special activities centered around a 3-4 days span around her birthday. 

I know in my role that I do not ever really feel worthy of anything like that... I guess I just miss feeling valued.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Milestone: 1,000,000 hits

I sort of hate that I limped through the gate without a new post over the past few days but I finally hit 1,000,000 page views today.

I'm in a little bit of a writing rut but hopefully I'll be back up with the next chapter of fs01 soon.

Thank you everyone that reads here, especially those that comment.

Take care.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Random Morning Ramblings

It's been about a month since T had a major schedule change that has changed up my sleeping hours and available privacy.  I've also been working more lately by going in a couple of hours early. 
The end result is that I've been getting up a lot earlier and going to be significantly earlier than I have over the past few years.  I'm exhausted a lot earlier in the day and if I wait until my previous "normal" times to write (11pm-2am), I'm too tired to write anything.

I'm definitely getting more sleep.  I have a lot less time to reflect and write.  I have far fewer thoughts.  I can't tell if this is a good thing or not.  On the upside, I'm not up during the normal times where I feel my emotions peak... these are the times when the bad feelings can rise up but they are also when I really feel and understand the joy of the day.  It feels a bit like I've stopped feeling as sad but the byproduct is that I'm no longer feeling as happy either. 

When my thoughts don't swirl around over various topics my mind doesn't really seem to reach the places that were the source of my analytical writing.  When I don't reach the depth of my emotions I don't resonate with the feeling that are at the root of my personal writing. 

I won't comment as to whether this is good or bad.  I'm sure to the outside world it seems healthier to get normal hours of sleep and not think about what swirls in my heart.  Inside things feel a bit strange. 

In case you were wondering why I've cut the majority of my writing to fiction with the occasional emotional outburst (such as early last week)... the thoughts and feelings behind it all just aren't there for me to draw from.  The Sea of Thoughts isn't calling to me. 

I know that many care not for fiction or fantasy but that currently is what drives me in my writing and this past arc has REALLY challenged me to explore my thoughts and feelings in regards to the content. 

On a side note, it only took blogger 12+ hours for my last 2 posts to show up in the reader...

I wouldn't mind going back to making other types of posts... but I will probably need some inspiration to do so.  e.g. if anyone has any ideas they would like me to write about feel free to leave a comment or drop me a line. 

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Fiction: fs01 - Arc 7 Bonus Chapter - Christmas Past

Author’s note:  This takes place 15-20 years in the past and accompanies parts 50 and 54.

Arc 7 Bonus Chapter - Christmas Past

My eyes open to the blare of the alarm above my head.  I flail my arm and slap its top until the beeping stops.  I sit up and feel the circulation flow through my body.  My head throbs.  I can’t believe I am waking up so early on Christmas morning.  Mother is out of town with her boyfriend.  I stayed up too late watching TV.  My tired eyes spot the pager lying on the dresser.  I am up because I have no idea when ‘she’ will contact me and I should be ready or I’ll face ‘her’ wrath. 

I get myself ready quickly with a brief shower, shave, and tooth brushing.  A quick peek out the window tells me all I need to know.  I hunt for layers but I don’t have many to speak of and make do with what I have.  After dressing I clip the pager onto my belt and head downstairs.

I eat a bowl of cereal and drink a glass of juice while sitting at the table.  It snowed again last night.  Mother’s words echo through my head. 
“Make sure to keep the walkway and driveway shoveled.  I don’t want the neighbors to think we’re lazy.  I’m going to ask them about it when I get back and I’ll cut off your allowance if you don’t keep up with it.  If you got off your ass and got a job to chip in we could get the snow blower fixed but for now the shovel will have to do.”

My thoughts twitch with a bit of resentment.  Yes, what the neighbors think is important enough to threaten my $5 a week.  I want to get a job but ‘she’ won’t allow it.  I have to be on call 24-7.  I have no choice. 

I finish eating and walk over toward the sad looking plastic tree adorned with a string of half-functioning lights.  I retrieve the two packages from under the tree.  I mouth the words out loud to no one.
“Yes, I promise not to open them until Christmas day.”

I take a seat on the couch with the presents stacked on my lap. 
“To: F
From: Mother”

I love that she writes herself as Mother but can’t even take the time to write out my name.  Before tearing open the paper I secretly hope for a new pair of gloves and a hat.  To my disappointment the box houses a pair of brown corduroy pants that I will never wear or I would probably get my ass-kicked.  The small package is a pair of black socks.  I know it’s the thought that counts… but is that why it hurts so much when the only thought that comes to mind is, “you really don’t know me at all”?

I crumple up the paper and throw it in the trash. 
“Merry Christmas.”

I take a deep breath.  The snow won’t shovel itself.  As I pull on my coat I scour the closet for gloves or a hat.  It’s bursting with mother’s coats that manage to slide off their hangers and frustrate me as I attempt to hang them back up.  All these coats but I asked for a second pair of gloves and a hat and she unloaded on me about how she’s not made of money.  Everything I find is mother’s and she would kill me if I got anything dirty or sweaty that matches with her outfits.  Finally in the back corner of the closet, wedged under a pair of her boots sits an old pink hat, a pair of pink earmuffs, and a pair of purple mittens.  I pick them up and stare at them in quiet contemplation.  A second later I toss them back in.  Someone might see me.  It’s not worth it.  I’ll be a man and tough it out. 

The shovel is a piece of shit but I make do.  The wind bites with a bitter cold so the easiest way to stay warm is to keep moving.  There is a lot of snow but it’s light and moves easily.  I manage to finish the driveway and walkway without exhausting myself. 

I feel the pager vibrate on my belt.  I hurry inside, struggling with the door that sticks whenever it gets cold.  I quickly discard my shoes, sprint to the phone and dial ‘her’ number.

‘She’ answers on the first ring. 

“57 seconds, gayboy.  Cutting it close, are we?”
“Hello, Miss Brittany.”
“Get over here and make me breakfast.  You have 20 minutes.”
“But, Miss…”
The dial tone interrupts me before I can finish.

I put down the phone, grab the small box on the counter, and step into my shoes in a flash.  I will never make it 6 miles in 20 minutes, especially in the snow.  I trudge through the snow with difficulty.  The sidewalks are full and no one is in a hurry to clear them.  I blow on my hands, the warm air reducing their sting before I hold them over my frozen ears.  It’s nearly an hour and a half before I arrive at her door.  I ring twice and shove the snow away with my shoes.  Once exposed, I lift the mat and use the hidden key to unlock the door before entering. 

I discard my shoes and head up the stairs to her room, rubbing my hands together as I go to warm them up.  I knock at her door.  She waits to answer me.
“You’re late, gayboy.”

I slowly open the door and walk inside with my head down.
“I’m sorry I am late, Miss Brittany.”
“What pathetic excuse do you have this time?”
“I was late because I am worthless, useless, and stupid, Miss Brittany.”

I look up after she doesn’t respond.  She sprawls on her bed in her nightgown and a large fur coat as she reads a fashion magazine.  She closes the magazine and tosses it on the floor.
“You’ll need to be punished, gayboy.  Strip.”

My face burns red in embarrassment.
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

I slowly remove my clothes, unable to look in her direction due to the shame.  She laughs as I slide off my boxers.  The cold doesn’t bode well for my shrinkage. 
“Come here.”

I slowly approach the bed as she rolls over and pulls something out of a drawer.  A click and the familiar fumes of the marker soon enter my nose.  I place my hands behind my back as I feel its cold wet touch on my naval.  “Tiny Penis” soon appears with an arrow pointing down. 
“Against the wall.”

I take a few steps back and keep my eyes on the floor.  My eyes shut with the flash that accompanies the click and the whir of the Polaroid camera.  She shakes the ejected photo and watches as its image appears.  Another flash pops with a click and a whir.  I want to cry.  The mechanical sound of dignity being stripped away is always painful.  I’m sure these will end up in her locked safe with the others by the end of the night. 

“Put your clothes on and get started on my food.  I’m starving to death here.”

She slides back upon the bed, sitting upright against the headboard.  I get dressed in front of her.  We make eye contact once and her lips form a smirk.  She notices my erection before I can get my pants all the way on. 

“So do you like my new coat, gayboy?”  I swallow and feel my temperature rise.
“You look very pretty in it, Miss Brittany.” 
“It is sexy.  I’m guessing my Mom picked this one out.  My step-dad has awful taste.”

My hand feels the box that I hastily jammed in my pocket before I left the house.  I swallow and take a deep breath as I build up my courage.
“I have a Christmas present for you, Miss Brittany.”
“Oh, really?  That’s sweet of you, gayboy.”

I retrieve the wrapped box from my pocket and approach the bed.  I kneel before her and extend my hands to her.  She takes it from me and wastes no time tearing off the paper.  I watch as she opens the box and lifts the chain and the silver heart pendant, holding it up in front of her face.

I lower my head and I crack a small smile.  It quickly shifts to a frown as her laughter fills the room.
“Really, gayboy?  Did you really think I would wear something so cheap?”

Tears well up in my eyes as I watch her toss it across the room into the corner by the bed. 

“Food.  Now.”

I quickly turn away so that she cannot see me.  I contain the tears until I’m out of her room.  My feelings spiral in a glorious mess.  11 weeks worth of allowance to buy a gift for the girl that has terrorized me for 3 years all because of a snide remark made about me on her 18th birthday.  I can’t tell if I’m fucked up or just a loser. 

I cook her a large breakfast; their well-stocked kitchen always has an abundance of food.  I make her French toast, eggs, and bacon with a small dish of strawberries and bananas and a glass of juice.  I pull a rose from the bouquet on the counter and place it on the serving tray with her dishes. 

I don’t know why I do what I do.  I know that she can ruin my life but do I really have a life to ruin? 

As I pass through the entryway I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.  My eyes are red and puffy.  The shame washes over me, I don’t want her to know that she made me cry. 

I enter her room and find her seated and dressed.  In the time I cooked breakfast she had time to get ready and do her make-up.  Her new coat sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Took you long enough, gayboy.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Brittany.  I’m useless.”

I lower the legs on the edges of the serving tray so that she can eat while sitting in bed.  I lean over her and place the tray in its position.  Her perfume enters my nose… that sweet smell… my eyes quickly dart to her cleavage before looking down.  I blush, realizing I have another erection.

She takes the first bite of her food.

“Quit looking at me.  I hate it when people watch me eat.  Go make yourself useful and shovel the driveway and walking paths.  You’re an eyesore.”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.” 

I lower my head and depart the room. 
“Don’t forget to clean the snow off my car.”
Her words reach me as I walk away.

Why am I here?  Why does she have to fuck with me on Christmas of all days?  The questions circle in my head as I push the large shovel across the long driveway.  The labor clears my head.  The ugly answers soon start rolling in.  I have no place better to be.  There is no one waiting for me at home.  The only person that talks to me also hates me.  I feel a pain build in my chest. 

Their house is huge.  The driveway is huge.  The walkways are needlessly elaborate.  My hands, nose, and ears devolve into two feelings: stinging or numb.  Relief fills me as I finally finish the job. 

As I return into the house, Brittany stands near the door.  She wraps her new fur coat around her as she looks in the mirror.  I watch her hands in their lavender leather gloves adjust the purple beanie on her head. 

She clears her throat and extends her foot.  I kneel in front of her and lace up her boots.  So many eyelets, the stinging in my fingers makes this a difficult task. 

“Why were you out shoveling without gloves or a hat?”
“I don’t have those, Miss Brittany.”  She lets out a giggle.
“Why not, gayboy?”
“Don’t you remember, Miss Brittany?  You took them from me in November and told me to ‘man-up.’  You never gave them back.”
“Oh!  So that’s what those gloves and hat were on the floor in the back.  I threw those out, they were disgusting and covered in slush after a few weeks back there.  Why didn’t you just buy another set?”
“I didn’t have any money, Miss Brittany.  I was saving it for something.”
“Hah.  Don’t tell me that instead of buying new gloves and a hat you spent your money on that pathetic little necklace for me?”

A frown covers my face and I shut my eyes while facing the floor.
She lets out a hearty laugh. 
“That decision must really sting just about now.  You really are stupid, gayboy.  Besides, you’re 18, you could have just sold plasma.”

I look up and our eyes meet as I fight back the tears.  As they well up she scoffs and is the first to look away.  She walks to the front closet and begins to dig around.  She retrieves an intricately adorned cardboard box and sets it on the table next to the door. 

“I can’t believe my step-dad got this for me last year.  How old does he think I am, 5?  Put these on.” 

She passes me a set of pink knit mittens with a red heart design on the back of the hand and fur trim at the cuff and fur pom poms dangling on a short elastic cord.  I remain motionless.  She waves her hand around in disapproval.

“Did gayboy grow a spine?  Take them and put them on, NOW.”

I accept them from her hand and slowly pull them on.  My face burns red with shame.  The next item is a matching pink hat with a Red heart design on the front and a fur pom pom on the top.  I slowly pull it onto my head.  The scarf has a series of hearts and pom poms and it finds its way around my neck.  Last is a pair of fur earmuffs with the heart designs on the headband.  I swallow as my pulse sky rockets.  If I was going to do this, I should have just worn the ones that I found at home.

She approaches me and with her eyes piercing mine she smirks while adjusting the hat and earmuffs on my head.  The Polaroid makes its way from her purse like she’s some sort of quick draw export.  The pop, click, and whirr leave my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach as she shakes the photo before stashing it in her purse.

“I’m bored and want to go for a drive.  You’ll be coming with me.  It’s hilarious, but I think this will be the first time in my car.”  
“I need to finish the dishes and pans first or else they’ll…”
“Or else the food will stick and you’ll have to scrub them extra hard to get them clean?  I don’t see how this is any of my concern.”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

The familiar feeling of defeat sets in.  I start to unwrap the scarf from my neck.
“What do you think you’re doing, gayboy?  Did I give you permission to take that off?”

I stop in my tracks and feed it back around my neck.
“That color makes your name even more fitting, doesn’t it, gayboy?”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

We head out to her SUV.  Brittany is right, this is my first time riding with her.  I slump low in the front seat, trying to be as small as possible and nearly invisible from the outside.  Neither of us speaks as she handles the car around familiar parts of town before turning onto a road that leads to its outskirts.  I watch the familiar scenery fade away as the lights and buildings thing out.  Trees and fields sprawl as far as I can see. 

Brittany makes a turn onto a small side road and after a short ride she pulls the vehicle to a stop.  She departs and I follow after her.  I watch as she takes a few steps before raising her arms and twirling in circles with her face looking up at the gray sky.  A few light flakes descend upon her as the sun sags low in the horizon.  This place… is like a well-kept secret.  A small clearing in the woods… nothing but this little open patch surrounded by trees for as far as the eye can see. 

She walks a ways in and clears the snow off of a stump before sitting and crossing her legs.  She closes her eyes and lifts her face like she’s listening to something that only she can hear.  I guess that it must be solitude.  I stand at a distance admiring her.  She is still so beautiful… just like I remember her from our youth.  She’s different now but I still long for her in my heart.  Her voice breaks the silence.

“Why do you do what I tell you to do?”  My face blushes red with her abrupt question.
“Because, Miss Brittany, you are blackmailing me.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

I lie.  I want to tell her that I love her… that I have always loved her.  I want to tell her how lonely I am and how much I missed her.  I want to tell her that I will be there for her no matter what, even if she abuses me.  I lie because it’s too pathetic to admit the truth.  I lie because I don’t want to believe that I’m this sad or desperate.  I lie because I don’t know what else to do… if I tell her the truth, I feel like my heart will explode and I will die with it.

She stands and walks back toward me.  She doesn’t make eye contact as she heads straight for the car.  As she passes me her voice cuts into my heart.
“I only talk to you because you do what I tell you to do.  If I couldn’t use you I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to a loser like you.”

I am slow returning to the car.  She is already inside with the engine running by the time I make it back.  I open the passenger door.  She cuts me down.
“Get in the back, gayboy.” 

I shut the door and get in the back seat.  We do not speak on the ride home.  She speeds.  My head races around in confusion, battling with the pangs in my heart.  I don’t understand her.  I don’t understand myself. 

We arrive back at her house.  She kicks off her boots in the entryway and runs up the stairs into her room.  I collect them and place them neatly by the door, brushing off any residual snow onto the mat.  I calmly remove my shoes and follow her.  She stands in front of her bed, her hands hidden from view.  I watch her lip quiver but I cannot read her expression.  I begin to unzip my coat.

“Did I tell you to take your coat off?”  I zip it back up.
“No, Miss Brittany.”
“Put your hands on the wall.”  

I take a breath and comply, knowing what will happen next.  She takes my wrist in her hand and pulls my arm behind me. I feel the metal cuff close and lock around my wrist.  It clicks several times as it tightens, she continues until there is no give around my wrist.  The other hand follows.  She does it police-style, palms out.  I’m sure the keyholes are facing the elbow.  The cuffs are on over the mittens, preventing me from removing them. 

In a quick motion she pulls the hat down over my eyes and nose.  I open my mouth and the pantyhose stretches and pulls tight gagging me uncomfortably as she ties it behind my head. 

“Face down in the closet.” 

I can still see some faint outlines through the knit hat over my eyes.  I make my way clumsily, bumping things outside of my view. 

“Why do you have a fucking erection, you pervert?  You’re so fucked up.”
I lay down in the closet like so many times before.  I feel her wrap another pair of pantyhose around my ankles and knot them.  A set around my knees follows.  Lastly I feel her fiddle with my ankles and she pulls them, forcing my knees to bend before she secures me into a hog-tie position with my ankles tied to the handcuff chain.  The closet door closes behind me. 

What did I do?  I hear the television in her room turn on and the volume blares.  I’m sorry, Miss Brittany.  I sob gently before retreating into nothingness. 

The abrupt silencing of the television stirs me into a conscious state.  The closet door opens, peeking a ray of light into the darkness.  I hear the pop, click, and whir of the camera.  Moments later the pantyhose binding my ankles to my wrists loosens and I can finally relax my legs.  Her knee digs into my thigh as she removes them one by one.  The handcuffs and gag follow.  She pulls the hat and earmuffs off my head.  My eyes blink rapidly as they adjust to the light. 

“Take off your winter clothes and lay on the bed.”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

I pull off the mittens I rub my wrists as circulation returns to my hands before removing my coat and the scarf.  I place my coat neatly on the floor and place her items on the dresser.  I walk over to the bed and lay down on my back.  She opens the fastener on her coat, letting it fall open.  Underneath she wears black panties with a matching bra and stockings.  I swallow and feel my pulse rise.  I pitch a tent in my pants.  She notices, scoffs, and rolls her eyes. 

“Keep it in your pants, gayboy,” she snarls as she approaches the same side of the bed. 

She takes my wrist and handcuffs it to the bedpost.  I watch as she retrieves her lavender hat from the nightstand.  To my dismay she pulls it onto my head, covering my eyes and nose.  It smells of her shampoo and perfume, the sweet scent fills my nose.  I feel her climb over me and she sprawls out on the bed, next to me. 

She takes my hand in hers and she shapes it so that my index and middle fingers are together.  I feel them enter her mouth.  She guides my hand as I feel the base of my palm glide across her naked flesh.  My tent stiffens.  She pulls it over her body.  I feel it creep below the silky touch of her panties.  Her hands guide it from outside of the soft fabric, guiding my fingers in gentle circles over her clit. 

I hear her take a deep breath as her body squirms under my touch.  Her hands continue to lead me until I find a motion that yields positive results.  She moans and her hands leave mine.  I continue the motion and gradually speed up.  Before long her breaths heave while she grinds her crotch against my touch.  I feel her body squirming around against mine.  This is the closest I’ve been to sex.  The excitement in my heart keeps my body in a state of hyper-awareness. 

I continue rubbing, gradually moving faster.  Small circles.  Firm but gentle.  Around and around.  I feel her knee against my thigh.  Her hand grips my shirt and makes a fist.  She moans and writhes as my fingers continue their work.  Around and around… faster… the pace of her breathing increases.  Her moans become cries.  Her body thrashes on the bed.  I keep moving, faster, firmer. 

“Oh Fuck!”

She cries out, her arms shakes against my body.  I feel her hips pulse once… twice… again.  She yanks my hand out of her panties and her body slumps limp on the bed. 

My head continues to spin with the reality of what just happened.  I just gave the girl that I love an orgasm.  She speaks and interrupts my euphoria.  The tone of her voice soothes me.  The contents of her words tear at my heart.

“You know… gayboy… if it weren’t for me you would be completely worthless.  If I didn’t use you, you would be completely useless.  You’re invisible unless I choose to see you… and no one cares about you.”

I begin to sniffle as the ache in my heart takes over.  My face contorts under the cover of the hat.  The pain of acceptance… I know that everything she said to me is completely true. 

“I’ll ask you again.  Why do you do what I tell you to do?”

I bury the truth in my heart and spit out lies.
“Because you are blackmailing me, Miss Brittany.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”

She scoffs and grits her teeth, pulling the hat from my face as she rises to her knees on the bed. 

“I fucking hate you.  You tell anyone about what we just did and I will ruin your life.  They wouldn’t believe you anyways.  No one gives a shit about you.  You are nothing.”

She reaches out and quickly unlocks my wrist from the bedpost. 

“Make me a pizza, finish the dishes, and get out.”

I use all of my strength to fight back the tears.  I’m such a coward.
“Yes, Miss Brittany.”
I leave the room and go downstairs.  As the pizza cooks I finish scrubbing the pans and cleaning the dishes from earlier.  I’m so confused. 

I prep the serving tray with her pizza, a soda, and a side of carrots and celery with some ranch dressing.  I place another rose from the bouquet onto the tray.  I don’t know what I’m feeling… this mix of warmth and pain eats me from the inside.

At her bedroom door my coat sits outside with a note:
“Leave the food and get the fuck out!”

I set the tray down carefully and give a couple of gentle knocks on the door.  I lean my face close.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Brittany.”

I don’t expect a response nor does she provide one.  The walk home feels colder than the walk there.  I can’t make sense of what happened, her tone, or what we shared today.  I think I must have hurt her but I don’t understand what she wanted from me today.  She hurts me all the time.

My stomach growls as I enter my empty house.  I open the fridge and grab a cold piece of fried chicken that I eat alone at the table.  Out the window the snow starts to fall again.  More shoveling tomorrow. 

In my room I lie on my bed and close my eyes, replaying the events of today.  An erection soon follows.  I slide out of my pants and relieve myself with a few pumps.  I’m so fucked up.  Her words echo through my heart.  I’m worthless without her.  I’m useless unless she uses me.  No one cares. 

I curl up into a ball and weep quietly.  I’m sorry, Miss Brittany.  Merry Christmas. 


Fiction: fs01 - Part 54

Author’s Note:  This takes place about a half an hour after Part 53.


After Dinner we reconvene in the living room.  Mistress sits on the throne in the middle of the semi-circle.  She has me kneel on the bearskin rug a few feet in front of her, well in view of everyone.  One chair remains open.  Sammy and Gordon continue serving wine.  Based upon their mannerisms, tones of voice, and excitement level it’s clear to me that all of the women are at least a little drunk. 

My nerves have been on edge since dinner.  My head tracks back and forth across the room like it’s on a swivel.  I have no idea what to expect.  Lisa breaks the silence.  Her bright red cheeks tell that me she’s quite intoxicated.

“fur… I just wanted to clarify something.”  She lets out a small burp, which brings an additional blush to her already red face.
“I feel bad saying that you aren’t a real person back there.  I wanted to make sure you know that I do think you are a person… I just don’t… ya know… see you as an equal or anything like that.  I know that I just see you more as what you do than actually having feelings… or something.  Shit, that came out wrong.  What’s a nice way of saying that I don’t care about your feelings but care that you exist?”

“I thought you were trying to apologize, not make him feel worse, Lisa.”  Theresa’s words hit her with maximum impact.

Lisa covers her face with her hands. 
“Damn it, leave me alone!  What I’m trying to say is that… like… I care about your feelings but that they just aren’t as important as a normal person’s.  I think of you more like a faithful servant than a human being.”

I smile at Lisa.  She’s adorable when she’s flustered.  I understand what she says and it makes me happy that she cares.   Sometimes I feel like I’m only tolerated because I’m with Mistress.  I don’t mind being of lesser status as long as I’m appreciated. 

“Cass, you told us to lay it on thick but now I feel guilty.”
Lisa chugs her wine.

“What is she talking about, Cass?”  Barb’s curiosity rises.
“I may have asked them to be a little bit harder on fs today, Barbie.”
“But you didn’t tell that to me.”
“In due time my Dear…”

Mistress smiles at Barb and takes her hand. 

The doorbell rings.  Mistress pops to her feet.
“Our special guest has finally arrived.”

Mistress makes a motion with her hand.  She wants me to stay put.  The others rise and head to the door as Sammy and Gordon open it.  I can only make out a faint outline in the dim lighting.  I watch Mistress escort the new guest along the outer wall of the cabin to the room next to Lisa’s.  Sammy and Gordon follow with the luggage. 

The others slowly return to their seats as Sammy and Gordon float refilling their wine.  I overhear them speaking in lowered voices.  Most are curious about the guest; apparently this was a surprise to most. 

A few minutes later everyone is back in their seats.  The click of heels on the hardwood floors approaches from the direction of the room.  All eyes focus in on the figure emerging from the shadows.  The woman is a blonde.  She wears a magenta robe that matches the others, the tips of her boots peek out from the front as her long strides carry her gracefully out of the shadows.  She takes a seat in the open throne.  I trace over the contours of her face… she’s familiar but I cannot place her.  She flashes a grin as she takes a full glass of wine from Sammy.

“I’ve worn some kinky stuff in my day but this really does it.  I do love this robe though, where can I get one?”
“That one is yours to keep, of course.  Once you put it on you are a part of our little club if you choose to be.  If you would like a different color we make them at my shop.  I have to say though… it’s so good to finally meet you in person, Brittany.”

My eyes go wide as I feel my chest knot up.  She’s older but her cheekbones… the way her nose is angled up every so slightly… the full lips… I’m ashamed that I didn’t recognize her.   A feeling of uneasiness creeps its way into my heart.

“It is great to meet you, Cassandra.  We’ve known each other on social media for what, almost 5 years now?  I was surprised to get this invite on such short notice.”
“I’m very happy you could make it.  You ended up being part of a conversation we had a few days ago.  Barbie here asked me if I knew you and when I said yes, she thought it would be fun to invite you.”
“I was part of the conversation?  I doubt it was anything good.”  She lets out a small laugh.  Barb whispers across to Brittany while Mistress continues.
“Please call me Barb, and not Barbie.”

“It was fine.  Barbie was just curious as to how my slave came to be the way that he is.  I’m pretty sure he’s freaking out inside right about now.  It’s more fun to let him stew.  I saw that you got divorced last year?”
“Yes, Cassandra.  I’m finally free of that asshole.  On the upside, I married up and we had no pre-nup so I got quite the settlement as well as a monthly stipend as long as I don’t remarry or get a high paying job.  I feel guilty admitting it but I’m actually better off not working as things are.  Things are quite comfortable right now.”

Theresa chimes in.
“I hoped you raked him over the coals.”

Light laughter ensues as Brittany continues.
“So what all did you talk about that I was a part of?”
“We mostly reminisced about my slave in his younger days.  Why don’t you share some stories with us, I’m sure everyone would love to hear a first-hand account rather than my brief little rehash.  Tell us some of your favorites.”

Brittany’s face blushes bright red.
“Oh my God… I was such a bitch back then.  Give me a minute.”
Brittany chugs down her glass of wine.  Sammy is quick with a refill.  She takes a few more sips off of the glass before fanning her face with the glass.  Her eyes meet mine and she responds with a wicked grin.

“I totally used to terrorize him back then.  When I transferred back into public high school I noticed him right away but by then I cared more about being popular than being nice and he was anything but popular.  I noticed that he would always stare at me.  I was just going to ignore him until my friends Chloe and Courtney noticed as well.  Over a few weeks they told me to teach him a lesson for looking at someone that was ‘out of his league.’” 

She pauses and takes another drink.  My heart hurts a little, knowing that she noticed me the entire time but chose to ignore me. 

“Anyways, we got drunk one night and came up with a plan.  I remembered that he was always smart, so I figured we could benefit from it as well.  I had Chloe and Courtney lure him to the girl’s bathroom after school and a group of us duct taped him to the stall frame so that his wrists and ankles were secured and put a piece of tape over his mouth.  I took a pair of scissors and cut off his shirt, dropped his pants to his knees and cut off his underwear.  By then he was crying but I tuned it out.  We took out some permanent markers and wrote and drew all over his body.  After Chloe wrote ‘gayboy’ on his forehead that nickname just sort of stuck.”

The memories rush back… deeper than before.  A wave of shame crashes upon my heart.  I lower my eyes and let my arms go limp at my sides.  The others listen to her words intently.

“After that we took pictures of him.  Courtney shoved a marker up his butt.  He thrashed around and bawled while we all just laughed at him.  It was then that I got really nasty.  I told him that if he didn’t do exactly what I said that I would enlarge the photos and post them all over the school.  He was so freaked out that I don’t think he realized that you can’t order enlarged prints of Polaroids.  He completely bought it and was my personal servant from then on.”

My knot tightens.  This story makes me feel stupid.  Brittany downs the second glass of wine.  Her cheeks grow rosy and I can tell she’s loosening up.  Sammy refills her glass.

“What else did you do?” asks Theresa.
“Well let’s see… oh yeah, I used to make him walk to my house every day after school even though I had room for him in my car.  Rain, snow, it didn’t matter.  If he didn’t get to my house I was going to spread the pictures.  My parents were always gone so we’d make him do our homework and wait on us.  One day when we were trying on outfits for a party Courtney noticed he had a boner.  We made him put on a pair of panties and tied his hands behind his back and took more pictures with his little cock poking out the top.  It was hilarious.  After that I somehow ended up with a pair of police-grade handcuffs and whenever he got an erection we would handcuff his hands behind his back and lock him in the closet.  Oh, we were sooooo mean.  I still can’t believe we did that.  I swear it must have happened almost every day.” 

“What do you think the meanest thing you ever did was?”

Brittany blows her hair from the side of her face and arches her eyebrows for a few seconds.

“I’m not sure if I can think of any one thing that was the meanest but there was a time when we wanted to go shopping at the mall.  It was a very cold winter that year.  We put him in a tight pink t-shirt and made him walk.  The mall was like 8 miles away.  The mall was packed and we went shopping all over the place and made him carry our bags.  We spent a lot of time in lingerie stores, too.  His face was so red.  He was so easy to tease.”

”He still is.” Mistress chides bringing about a round of laughter.

I feel very small.  Hearing Brittany tell stories causes each memory to rush back in vivid detail.  My heart aches.  I want to disappear. 

“Cass says you’re the reason that he likes women in fur, is that true?”

Brittany rolls her eyes in a joking manner.
“Probably?  I’m not sure.  After my parents divorced my Mom was kind of a gold digger.  She married this rich doctor and they traveled all the time.  She felt that gifts equated your value so even though they were gone, there were always gifts.  Mom was a big fan of furs so when I turned 13 I started receiving them every year on my birthday and Christmas.  Expensive furs.  When I wore them I they made me feel loved and as I matured they made me feel sexy as well.  At school I wore cheaper furs that were more practical but at home I would wear the real furs whenever I wanted to feel good about myself… which was almost every day.  I never really wondered what gayboy thought of them, but he must have liked them if what you’re saying is true.  Does he still have an erection problem around women?”

Mistress laughs.  I blush.
“Oh he definitely used to.  I’ve put a stop to it since then.  His penis stays locked up in a steel chastity belt pretty much 24-7.  I do let him out once a week for cleaning but I doubt he even remembers what it feels like to play with himself.”

“I still can’t believe that, Cassandra.  That a man would let you lock up their junk like that.” 

Dominique lets out a small laugh.  She wasn’t present for the conversation earlier in the week so this is all new to her.
“Really, Brittany?  It sounds like you were quite the little dominatrix when you were younger.  I’m surprised you turned out vanilla.”

“Is everyone else here into like that BDSM stuff or whatever?”

All voices sound in unison.

Brittany leans her head back and guzzles more of her wine.  Her face flushes red.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I just feel really na├»ve all of a sudden.”
“Don’t.  It takes some getting used to.”  Mistress smiles at her.
“So I’ve been worried that I would tell all these stories and you would all think I’m some kind of terrible person… but why do I get the feeling that no one actually feels that way?”

Lisa blurts out.
“Don’t be silly.  We want to hear more.”
Theresa steps in.
“I think what my drunk friend here means to say is that all of us are very familiar with fur and we’ve all at some point had a hand in doing things like that to him, if not worse.  Hearing you tell these stories is actually quite sweet and we’re enjoying it a lot.”

“fur?  Is that what you call gayboy?”  Mistress responds to her question.
“My slave’s name is fs01.  Or fs.  The girls have taken to calling him ‘fur sissy’ ever since I started dressing him like that.  You can call him whatever you would like.”
“Hah.  fur sissy… that’s classic.”

Barb leans forward.
“Please continue.  Do you have any stories that are dear to you?”
Brittany sighs.
“Yes.  I do have one.  Senior year of high school both of our parents left us home alone over Christmas.  This was somewhat common for my parents but I usually would do Christmas with a friend or a relative.  This year I was home by myself.  fur sissy’s parents left him home by himself too.  I made him walk over every day in the cold and snow and he was so poor, he didn’t have boots, gloves, or a hat.  I made him come wait on me every day.  Over break I started feeling lonely.  I did some soul searching and realized that he had become important to me.  While I loved tormenting him I began to count on his company… always having someone there whenever I needed them.  I think I was in love with him.”

“Oh, wow.” 
“Yeah, it was kind of crazy.  Here was this poor unpopular boy with no friends that I was horrible to… and I just started to care for him.  I remember he brought me a Christmas present that year and I just blasted him over it being cheap or something like that.  That was a weird day.  I took him for a drive and basically begged him to tell me he cared for me but instead he broke my heart.  I punished him when we got back and made a more aggressive and sexual move.  It was awkward but special.  I baited him again and he broke my heart.  From that day on I was even worse to him and that continued until we graduated.”

Tears fill my eyes as I remember that day.  I hear B’s words clear as day.
“I’m disappointed in you, fur sissy.”

I’m disappointed in me, too. 
“I don’t blame him, B.  If he was even half as confused as I was back then I’m sure he didn’t know how the hell to react.  Cassandra, is it okay if I talk to him now?”
“Go right ahead.”

Brittany gets up from her throne and approaches me slowly.  I keep my head down as the tears in my eyes finally reach their limit and the first one streams down my cheek.  She sprawls out on the bearskin rug next to me, her face displays a pleasant smile.  The sweet scent of her perfume invokes some deeply buried feelings within me.  My sex strains against the belt.  She speaks to me I a gentle tone.

“Hi, gayboy.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”  I nod slowly in response.
“I’ve missed you so much.” 
She reaches out and embraces me, pulling my face into her chest.  My eyes catch a flash of something shiny buried in the fur trim of the robe.  She rocks me back and forth and it frees itself, toppling end over end before dangling from its chain.  I recognize it immediately.  The silver pendant I bought her for Christmas. 

The gates of my heart burst open and the emotions flow freely outward.  I sob into her chest, unleashing all of the pain and confusion of my teens and 20’s.  She continues to hold me as she rocks me back and forth… she speaks to me from her heart.
“I’m so sorry.  You were always there for me.  You were the one I could count on.  I didn’t realize it until it was too late.  I took you for granted.”

Brittany begins to sniffle but continues to talk.
“In college Chloe and Courtney bailed on me as soon as they got boyfriends.  I thought about you a lot but I didn’t think I could ever show my face to you after what I did.  I was so worried that I ruined your life.  I ended up following in Mom’s footsteps.  I married a rich boy.”

I raise my arms and embrace her around her waist and squeeze. 
“Are you happy, gayboy?”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.  Very happy.”
“Do you have a good life?”
“Yes, Miss Brittany.  I love my life.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No, Miss Brittany.  I could never hate my first love.”

She sobs and places her head on mine. 
“Thank you, Miss Brittany.”
“For what?”
“For making me the person that Mistress would choose.  Without you, I would never have found her.”

We cry out our tears together.  After a few moments we release each other.  I take the pendant in my fingers and give it a kiss.  My body feels lighter.   I’m sure Brittany’s does as well.  I watch as she stands and teeters and makes her way back to her throne. 
“Cass, your husband is a wonderful man.”
“Thank you, Brittany, he definitely is.”

Barb stands up from her throne.
“Husband?  You’re married?  Seriously?”
She runs her fingers through her hair and sits back down.

“I swear I told you, Barbie.”
“No, you just said you had a slave that lived with you.  Oh my God, I’m a home-wrecker.  Fuck.”

She covers her face with her hands.  Mistress motions to me with a motion of her head.  I shuffle on my knees over to Barb’s chair.  I place my head on her knee and rub my face against her thigh.  I reach my arms out and embrace her as best I can.  Barb looks down at me.

“You’re really okay with this?”
“Yes, Miss Barb.”
“You make Mistress happy, Miss Barb.  Also, you’re a very special woman: Mistress chose you.”

She pets me and shakes her head. 
“At some point I might get used to this crazy world… please… tell me that I will.”

Laughter ensues.  I smile. 
“You know, pet, it was Barbie’s idea to invite Brittany.  She asked if I knew her and when I said yes, Barbie thought you could use some closure.”
I squeeze tighter. 
“Thank you, Miss Barb.  You’re a very special woman.”

Dominique springs to her feet.
“Enough of these Hallmark moments, I demand cake!”
Her demands are met with unanimous agreement.  Sammy and Gordon bring out some large serving trays and pass out slices of cake.  From my vantage point it appears to be some very rich chocolate.  I watch as they dig in.  Sammy and Gordon stand on either side of Dominique and eat as well. 

I glance up and make eye contact with Mistress.  I read her expression like a book.
“pet, would you like a piece of birthday cake?”

My insides twist knowing full well what is happening.  Her lips part into a wicked grin.  She knows that I know.  I accept my role as their amusement.  I place the ball on the tee and wait for them to swing.
“Yes, Mistress, I would love a piece of cake.”

Barb takes a deep breath and locks her eyes on mine.  A smile forms on her face.
“A slave wants cake.  That’s so cute.”

Laughter ensues.