Ok, so I actually had a blog I was going to post. But then everything from the waist down decided to revolt at once, and now I can't think well enough to post anything of any substance. Fucking PCOS. I would like to die now, please. Quickly and painlessly.
I'm a bad slave girl. But...I'm not always like this. I'm not really sure who hijacked my body and replaced me with this whiny, needy, clingy person prone to tears at the least provocation.
B. and J. are probably going to drown me and hide my body. Not that I'd blame them.
I have so much to do and no inclination to do it. I also want to die. I may have mentioned that before. And I miss them. *Wails*
OMG, wtf is wrong with me?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The "I Love Mattress" Blog
J. is the most wonderful, beautiful, awesome Mistress in the whole world! Even if she is at the beach this weekend while I'm stuck here. *Grumble*
I'm about to veer off on a minor tangent that's not going to make sense for a minute, but I promise to bring it back around and make it make sense. Insofar as any of my ramblings make sense, that is.
I've been in a sadistic mood the last few days. If I get a lot of one side, I start craving the other. It's odd. Problem is, the only even remotely masochistic sub boy in my list of boys I call when I need them and ignore the rest of the time (yes, I'm a bad person, leave me alone) has vanished off the face of the earth again (he does it semi-regularly). Sooo...it's back to the drawing board for slave-girl to find a painslut to beat on. My riding crop is screaming my name at this point.
Oh, well, whatever. I get tons of email every day. I'll find one soon enough.
A large part of me really, really wants J. to see me when I'm not all stupidly submissive. I mean, other than the fact that I've been told it's pretty impressive to watch me go from shy, unassuming person in the corner to super-sadistic bitch, and I think she'll find it amusing.
I want her to see that devoted slave-girl is not my default setting. I'd say I'm pretty damned accommodating most of the time, but I'm not particularly submissive to...oh, anyone, really.
It's not that I'm ashamed of what I am when I'm with B. and J. Quite the contrary. I just want J. to see how special she is to bring that out in me. She makes exactly the second person I've ever met who's ever been able to. (The first, of course, being B.) Not to mention how special she is to even give me the chance to be theirs in the first damned place.
I miss and love them both very much. Only four more days until I get snuggle with both of them again!
I'm about to veer off on a minor tangent that's not going to make sense for a minute, but I promise to bring it back around and make it make sense. Insofar as any of my ramblings make sense, that is.
I've been in a sadistic mood the last few days. If I get a lot of one side, I start craving the other. It's odd. Problem is, the only even remotely masochistic sub boy in my list of boys I call when I need them and ignore the rest of the time (yes, I'm a bad person, leave me alone) has vanished off the face of the earth again (he does it semi-regularly). Sooo...it's back to the drawing board for slave-girl to find a painslut to beat on. My riding crop is screaming my name at this point.
Oh, well, whatever. I get tons of email every day. I'll find one soon enough.
A large part of me really, really wants J. to see me when I'm not all stupidly submissive. I mean, other than the fact that I've been told it's pretty impressive to watch me go from shy, unassuming person in the corner to super-sadistic bitch, and I think she'll find it amusing.
I want her to see that devoted slave-girl is not my default setting. I'd say I'm pretty damned accommodating most of the time, but I'm not particularly submissive to...oh, anyone, really.
It's not that I'm ashamed of what I am when I'm with B. and J. Quite the contrary. I just want J. to see how special she is to bring that out in me. She makes exactly the second person I've ever met who's ever been able to. (The first, of course, being B.) Not to mention how special she is to even give me the chance to be theirs in the first damned place.
I miss and love them both very much. Only four more days until I get snuggle with both of them again!
Self-Pity
Well, it's not exactly self-pity.
Oh, what the hell, maybe it is.
It's raining. I got an interview for a REAL, non-adult writing position, and my mother bitched at me because it wasn't a "real" job. And told me I needed to go back to school. Can I point out that at this point in my life, I've basically been in school non-stop for TWENTY YEARS? I mean, I plan on finishing my master's, but after that, I'm taking a damned break for awhile. And then, she told me I need to get out of the house and meet people and have a real life.
WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Seriously, sometimes I wonder how I was born in this family.
Then, not only that, but I have a zillion things I have to do in the next few days. Write up a resume for myself that doesn't scream ADULT! Go to my interview. Clean my apartment (which is a never-ending uphill battle because I hate cleaning and am prone to getting overwhelmed and not knowing where to start and ending up in a big teary pile in the middle of my house, bawling my eyes out for no apparent reason). Work and make enough money to pay rent (which is looking like an uphill battle as well). Go to a damned wedding back at home on Saturday. Set up my NF accounts again. Try not to lose my mind. Etc.
I'm moody and irrational for no apparent reason. I miss B. and J. like mad. I can't find my goddamned collar, and I cried for nearly an hour last night because I don't know where it went. Then I proceeded to almost slice my damned finger off by accident. I thought I never would stop bleeding. I slept with my stuffed lamb that J. bought me last night. He smells like their house.
I miss them so much.
All this crying and lying in bed and feeling sorry for myself is so not me. I'm weirdly hormonal or something, I guess.
Oh, well. It's gotta get better, right?
Oh, what the hell, maybe it is.
It's raining. I got an interview for a REAL, non-adult writing position, and my mother bitched at me because it wasn't a "real" job. And told me I needed to go back to school. Can I point out that at this point in my life, I've basically been in school non-stop for TWENTY YEARS? I mean, I plan on finishing my master's, but after that, I'm taking a damned break for awhile. And then, she told me I need to get out of the house and meet people and have a real life.
WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Seriously, sometimes I wonder how I was born in this family.
Then, not only that, but I have a zillion things I have to do in the next few days. Write up a resume for myself that doesn't scream ADULT! Go to my interview. Clean my apartment (which is a never-ending uphill battle because I hate cleaning and am prone to getting overwhelmed and not knowing where to start and ending up in a big teary pile in the middle of my house, bawling my eyes out for no apparent reason). Work and make enough money to pay rent (which is looking like an uphill battle as well). Go to a damned wedding back at home on Saturday. Set up my NF accounts again. Try not to lose my mind. Etc.
I'm moody and irrational for no apparent reason. I miss B. and J. like mad. I can't find my goddamned collar, and I cried for nearly an hour last night because I don't know where it went. Then I proceeded to almost slice my damned finger off by accident. I thought I never would stop bleeding. I slept with my stuffed lamb that J. bought me last night. He smells like their house.
I miss them so much.
All this crying and lying in bed and feeling sorry for myself is so not me. I'm weirdly hormonal or something, I guess.
Oh, well. It's gotta get better, right?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Ok, I Admit It
I read J.'s blog at random times, even though I've probably read all her entries so many times I could recite them from memory now. *Blush* I just like to see the nice things she's said about me.
For someone who blogs as much as I do, I'm not really into reading them. Of course, that could be because I DO blog all the time, so reading them isn't generally appealing. I only read J.'s and Cake Wrecks because it's hilarious and makes me feel sooooo much better about my own pitiful attempts at decorating cakes. (Don't ask. Seriously.)
Since I finally finished a bunch of crap for work and the cover letter for the job B. is applying for, I can actually blog now.
People ask me a lot of times what I want to do if I ever finish my freaking master's. My normal reply is something along the lines of "I haven't made up my mind yet." I'm lying, of course. I know exactly what I want to do, but telling the truth either gets strange looks from people who don't know me well or lectures about how "that's not a real job" from people who do (i.e., my mother).
I want to write.
There are other things that have passed through my mind, of course. At one time, before I got old and fat and out-of-shape and all beat up from falling off so many horses through the years, I wanted to be a professional horse trainer. There might've been a time when I could've done it, but that time has long since passed.
But ever since I was about 12 or so, I've wanted to write. It's all I'm really remotely good at, and why waste a God-given talent, right? And, too, everything else I've ever thought I've wanted to do has basically been a way to make a whole bunch of horses so I could do what? Retire young, live on a farm out in the country with my horses, and, well...write.
It doesn't have to be the Great American Novel, either. I mean, it'd be great if I could one day produce that, but everything fictional I've ever tried to do comes out as some kind of two-bit Southern Gothic that's been soooo overdone. (I'm not Faulkner and never will be, despite the fact that I write long, rambling, yet still totally grammatically correct sentences just like he did.) I'd just be happy doing freelance shit like blogs and web content (or cover letters and resumes *wink*) and maybe the occasional article or short story and getting paid for it.
They say the hardest thing about such a job is disciplining yourself. I never claimed to have a whole bunch of self-discipline, but I HAVE been self-employed for over a year, and I'm still not living in a cardboard box on the side of the road somewhere, so I must not be doing too badly, you know what I mean? I definitely don't want to do phone sex for the rest of my life, but it's definitely taught me a lot about being an independent contractor. And, if I decided to try to write for a living, it'd be a good way to fill in the income gaps between writing gigs.
I don't know. I keep telling myself I don't have time to do it, but I actually do. It's just that when I sit down to actually look on the sites where people are advertising for writing and/or editing jobs they need done, I get all intimidated because I don't really know what's going on and overwhelmed, so I just say, "Screw it, I can't do this."
I really need to get off my ass, do some research, and seriously try to do this if it's what I want to do. I'm kind of tired of just drifting around and waiting to see what happens next. I feel like I've done that most of my life, and I've kind of outgrown it by now.
Yes, I know this blog has nothing to do with being a slave, but J. always wants to know what's on my mind, and this is what's on my mind today. ;)
I would LOVE to never have a "real" job by most people's standards. I'd love to make enough money doing something I a.) loved and b.) was good at that I could have all the things I needed and most of the things I wanted and never have to worry about being a burden on someone ever again. I'd love to be able to make a career out of writing and be able to make time for B. and J., my friends, my horses (both the ones I own now and the ones I'm going to own in the future), and the family members I can tolerate.
I just have a godawful time focusing on anything for any length of time, and that drives me nuts about myself.
For someone who blogs as much as I do, I'm not really into reading them. Of course, that could be because I DO blog all the time, so reading them isn't generally appealing. I only read J.'s and Cake Wrecks because it's hilarious and makes me feel sooooo much better about my own pitiful attempts at decorating cakes. (Don't ask. Seriously.)
Since I finally finished a bunch of crap for work and the cover letter for the job B. is applying for, I can actually blog now.
People ask me a lot of times what I want to do if I ever finish my freaking master's. My normal reply is something along the lines of "I haven't made up my mind yet." I'm lying, of course. I know exactly what I want to do, but telling the truth either gets strange looks from people who don't know me well or lectures about how "that's not a real job" from people who do (i.e., my mother).
I want to write.
There are other things that have passed through my mind, of course. At one time, before I got old and fat and out-of-shape and all beat up from falling off so many horses through the years, I wanted to be a professional horse trainer. There might've been a time when I could've done it, but that time has long since passed.
But ever since I was about 12 or so, I've wanted to write. It's all I'm really remotely good at, and why waste a God-given talent, right? And, too, everything else I've ever thought I've wanted to do has basically been a way to make a whole bunch of horses so I could do what? Retire young, live on a farm out in the country with my horses, and, well...write.
It doesn't have to be the Great American Novel, either. I mean, it'd be great if I could one day produce that, but everything fictional I've ever tried to do comes out as some kind of two-bit Southern Gothic that's been soooo overdone. (I'm not Faulkner and never will be, despite the fact that I write long, rambling, yet still totally grammatically correct sentences just like he did.) I'd just be happy doing freelance shit like blogs and web content (or cover letters and resumes *wink*) and maybe the occasional article or short story and getting paid for it.
They say the hardest thing about such a job is disciplining yourself. I never claimed to have a whole bunch of self-discipline, but I HAVE been self-employed for over a year, and I'm still not living in a cardboard box on the side of the road somewhere, so I must not be doing too badly, you know what I mean? I definitely don't want to do phone sex for the rest of my life, but it's definitely taught me a lot about being an independent contractor. And, if I decided to try to write for a living, it'd be a good way to fill in the income gaps between writing gigs.
I don't know. I keep telling myself I don't have time to do it, but I actually do. It's just that when I sit down to actually look on the sites where people are advertising for writing and/or editing jobs they need done, I get all intimidated because I don't really know what's going on and overwhelmed, so I just say, "Screw it, I can't do this."
I really need to get off my ass, do some research, and seriously try to do this if it's what I want to do. I'm kind of tired of just drifting around and waiting to see what happens next. I feel like I've done that most of my life, and I've kind of outgrown it by now.
Yes, I know this blog has nothing to do with being a slave, but J. always wants to know what's on my mind, and this is what's on my mind today. ;)
I would LOVE to never have a "real" job by most people's standards. I'd love to make enough money doing something I a.) loved and b.) was good at that I could have all the things I needed and most of the things I wanted and never have to worry about being a burden on someone ever again. I'd love to be able to make a career out of writing and be able to make time for B. and J., my friends, my horses (both the ones I own now and the ones I'm going to own in the future), and the family members I can tolerate.
I just have a godawful time focusing on anything for any length of time, and that drives me nuts about myself.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Random Ramblings
I have good news. My "accountant" did my taxes for me today because my last 1099 FINALLY showed up. So I paid absolutely nothing in income taxes this year, not state, not federal, not Social Security, nothing. But through some sheer stroke of dumb luck and a good bit of creative accounting, I'm getting back a $43 refund, LOL!
I'm also filing a return I didn't file a couple of years ago because it got lost in one of the hundred times I moved, so I'm going to get a wee bit more than that back. Not enough to amount to anything, really, but at least I don't have to worry about how I'm going to come up with the money to PAY taxes, which I was worried sick about. Give me about three or four $500+ weeks, and I shouldn't have any worries. I might even be able to take classes this summer after all! (Maybe.)
I think I'm going to fire up my old NF accounts again. Might as well. They're all approved, and all my bank information on them is approved, so I can start getting daily deposits for whatever I make. I make enough money with my company to pay my bills, but sometimes it gets hard to buy food or gas or just a little something I actually want, for once. So maybe I can pay bills from my company and get extras from NF. Or something. *Crosses fingers*
That's the good news. The bad news is, I'm probably going to have to hide a body soon.
My friend K. is married to quite possibly the biggest jackass on the planet. (My friends have this habit of marrying idiots. I've never quite understood it. They could all do MUCH better.) He pissed me off the other night when I was over at their house with a couple of his comments about B. Apparently, Mr. Jealous thinks B. is trying to steal K. away from him because he talks to her on Yahoo sometimes....I don't know. It's a bunch of childish drama shit that I was doing my best not to be pulled into. I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself.
Until today. Apparently, last night, Mr. Jealous picked this huge fight with K. about MY Master. Whom, by the way, neither of them have ever fucking met before, just for the record. How he doesn't want K. talking to B. anymore and how it's "inappropriate," blah, blah, blah. He said some ugly things about both B. and me and reduced K. to a crying mess. Then, bless her heart, K. didn't even have anyone to talk to about it because none of her friends understood, and she didn't want to call me because she didn't want to upset me.
Fuck that. Of course, I'm going to be upset. Not for the reasons that she thought I'd be upset, but because, while I'll let people go really, really far in fucking with me, I'm a mite touchy about my friends. He's being an irrational asshole and hurt K. over something that really isn't important, honestly. I mean, damn, if B. were trying to do some shit, don't you think I'd be concerned, too? The man has his hands full with J. and me!
I've half a mind to go over there and just smile sweetly in his face and ask in my most polite voice if he has anything he'd like to discuss with me. He wouldn't have the balls to say anything, of course. I hate bastards like that. Either man up or shut the fuck up about it.
I'm ranting now, and I know it. But it's bullshit drama that's totally unnecessary. I don't do drama. I told K. to feel free to come over anytime she needed to to get away from that shit and that if he followed her, he could confront the business end of my shotgun. That was all I knew to do. But it's still all bullshit, and it upsets me that she's upset, and I kind of feel like I'm responsible in a way.
Yay for carrying responsibility for everything on my shoulders.
Ugh. Ok. Back to work.
* * * *
On a more upbeat note...my friend R.'s slave (one of them; he has two) posted this on a message board we all frequent.
I thought about it for awhile, and then I replied back with this. I don't know why, but I thought B. and J. might like to read it.
I don't think I can ever know the real answers to those questions for myself. I know what I have to believe in order to preserve my own sanity sometimes. I don't expect anyone else to believe as I do.
I'm not prone to fits of romanticism. Anyone who knows me knows that. But I do not believe my being a slave was a coincidence or some happy accident of brain chemistry. I believe it was my destiny, chosen for me before my birth, whether by me, God in one or more of His various forms, or some combination thereof. (We won't go into my weird spiritual beliefs here.)
I was born to be a slave. My destiny is to serve, in some capacity or other. But not to serve everyone or most or even a handful of people. I think I'm here for a specific purpose. Master and Mistress, of course, are the specific purpose, and they are the ones who are the operators of the tool that is me.
I never had any idea about what I was until I met Master. None. I knew I was kinky, knew I had serious masochistic leanings, but one can have those things without having a submissive bone in one's body. I believed I was too intelligent, too independent, too capable, and had too much to do with my life to ever surrender myself like that.
I have never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.
And, then, when I met Mistress, it all fell into place. Even when I had Master, there was still a hole inside me. It took both of them to fill it. Maybe I am too intelligent, too independent, too capable, and have too much to do with my life to surrender myself to one person. So the Universe gave me to both of them and wished them the best of luck in dealing with me.
The people who say that submission is a process...well, I think they're wrong. It's a process in that it's an ongoing internal struggle, but I think when one who is meant to be a slave finds his/her Owner(s), there is no escaping that destiny. I think that no matter what happens, no matter how hard you try to run from it, you'll always be pulled back to it by some strange sort of gravity that's stronger than you are.
This is more than me. This is more than Master. This is more than Mistress. This is something that was decided a long time ago. They are the ones who use me for whatever good they're going to use me for. We just have to shut up and comply with destiny at this point.
I'm not a slave. I'm their slave. I always have been. The problem was, I haven't always known it. Now I know. And in spite of how hard it might be for me at times, I'll never escape this destiny. Nor will I ever truly want to.
Also, happy 5,000th post to me.
I'm also filing a return I didn't file a couple of years ago because it got lost in one of the hundred times I moved, so I'm going to get a wee bit more than that back. Not enough to amount to anything, really, but at least I don't have to worry about how I'm going to come up with the money to PAY taxes, which I was worried sick about. Give me about three or four $500+ weeks, and I shouldn't have any worries. I might even be able to take classes this summer after all! (Maybe.)
I think I'm going to fire up my old NF accounts again. Might as well. They're all approved, and all my bank information on them is approved, so I can start getting daily deposits for whatever I make. I make enough money with my company to pay my bills, but sometimes it gets hard to buy food or gas or just a little something I actually want, for once. So maybe I can pay bills from my company and get extras from NF. Or something. *Crosses fingers*
That's the good news. The bad news is, I'm probably going to have to hide a body soon.
My friend K. is married to quite possibly the biggest jackass on the planet. (My friends have this habit of marrying idiots. I've never quite understood it. They could all do MUCH better.) He pissed me off the other night when I was over at their house with a couple of his comments about B. Apparently, Mr. Jealous thinks B. is trying to steal K. away from him because he talks to her on Yahoo sometimes....I don't know. It's a bunch of childish drama shit that I was doing my best not to be pulled into. I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself.
Until today. Apparently, last night, Mr. Jealous picked this huge fight with K. about MY Master. Whom, by the way, neither of them have ever fucking met before, just for the record. How he doesn't want K. talking to B. anymore and how it's "inappropriate," blah, blah, blah. He said some ugly things about both B. and me and reduced K. to a crying mess. Then, bless her heart, K. didn't even have anyone to talk to about it because none of her friends understood, and she didn't want to call me because she didn't want to upset me.
Fuck that. Of course, I'm going to be upset. Not for the reasons that she thought I'd be upset, but because, while I'll let people go really, really far in fucking with me, I'm a mite touchy about my friends. He's being an irrational asshole and hurt K. over something that really isn't important, honestly. I mean, damn, if B. were trying to do some shit, don't you think I'd be concerned, too? The man has his hands full with J. and me!
I've half a mind to go over there and just smile sweetly in his face and ask in my most polite voice if he has anything he'd like to discuss with me. He wouldn't have the balls to say anything, of course. I hate bastards like that. Either man up or shut the fuck up about it.
I'm ranting now, and I know it. But it's bullshit drama that's totally unnecessary. I don't do drama. I told K. to feel free to come over anytime she needed to to get away from that shit and that if he followed her, he could confront the business end of my shotgun. That was all I knew to do. But it's still all bullshit, and it upsets me that she's upset, and I kind of feel like I'm responsible in a way.
Yay for carrying responsibility for everything on my shoulders.
Ugh. Ok. Back to work.
* * * *
On a more upbeat note...my friend R.'s slave (one of them; he has two) posted this on a message board we all frequent.
how is one a "slave"?
are you born a slave? do you become a slave? are you made into a slave?
did somebody train you, teach you, mold you? or was it always there inside of you?
is there an on/off switch? you werent, until suddenly something clicked and you were? once the switch flips, is it stuck in on, or can it slide back?
can you be a slave without a master?
can you decide you are a slave no longer, or is that as useless as "deciding" not to be short anymore?
is it who you are no matter what, or who you are in the situation you are in?
how is one a "slave"?
are you born a slave? do you become a slave? are you made into a slave?
did somebody train you, teach you, mold you? or was it always there inside of you?
is there an on/off switch? you werent, until suddenly something clicked and you were? once the switch flips, is it stuck in on, or can it slide back?
can you be a slave without a master?
can you decide you are a slave no longer, or is that as useless as "deciding" not to be short anymore?
is it who you are no matter what, or who you are in the situation you are in?
how is one a "slave"?
I thought about it for awhile, and then I replied back with this. I don't know why, but I thought B. and J. might like to read it.
I don't think I can ever know the real answers to those questions for myself. I know what I have to believe in order to preserve my own sanity sometimes. I don't expect anyone else to believe as I do.
I'm not prone to fits of romanticism. Anyone who knows me knows that. But I do not believe my being a slave was a coincidence or some happy accident of brain chemistry. I believe it was my destiny, chosen for me before my birth, whether by me, God in one or more of His various forms, or some combination thereof. (We won't go into my weird spiritual beliefs here.)
I was born to be a slave. My destiny is to serve, in some capacity or other. But not to serve everyone or most or even a handful of people. I think I'm here for a specific purpose. Master and Mistress, of course, are the specific purpose, and they are the ones who are the operators of the tool that is me.
I never had any idea about what I was until I met Master. None. I knew I was kinky, knew I had serious masochistic leanings, but one can have those things without having a submissive bone in one's body. I believed I was too intelligent, too independent, too capable, and had too much to do with my life to ever surrender myself like that.
I have never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.
And, then, when I met Mistress, it all fell into place. Even when I had Master, there was still a hole inside me. It took both of them to fill it. Maybe I am too intelligent, too independent, too capable, and have too much to do with my life to surrender myself to one person. So the Universe gave me to both of them and wished them the best of luck in dealing with me.
The people who say that submission is a process...well, I think they're wrong. It's a process in that it's an ongoing internal struggle, but I think when one who is meant to be a slave finds his/her Owner(s), there is no escaping that destiny. I think that no matter what happens, no matter how hard you try to run from it, you'll always be pulled back to it by some strange sort of gravity that's stronger than you are.
This is more than me. This is more than Master. This is more than Mistress. This is something that was decided a long time ago. They are the ones who use me for whatever good they're going to use me for. We just have to shut up and comply with destiny at this point.
I'm not a slave. I'm their slave. I always have been. The problem was, I haven't always known it. Now I know. And in spite of how hard it might be for me at times, I'll never escape this destiny. Nor will I ever truly want to.
Also, happy 5,000th post to me.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Soooo...Why Am I Seven?
I know J. doesn't believe it, but the little girl thing really does come and go. I'm not ALWAYS little. Really. I swear. No, seriously.
I just kind of can't get rid of it lately for some reason. I'm the perpetual seven-year-old. *Pouts*
Lucky for me, B. and J. think it's kind of cute.
I keep fantasizing about being tied up. But, no, not for kinky sex. (OMG, write it down. Slave-girl's not fantasizing about kinky sex!!!!!!!!!!) I just want to be tied up between the two of them, securely, but comfortably, so I can lie that way for a long time without whining that I can't feel my arms anymore or whatever. Then, I just want to be snuggled and petted and kissed and talked to. Kinky sex, of course, is optional. :D
B. mentioned tying me up and spoon-feeding me and talking to me like a little girl again, like they did one night. Well, J.'s the one who fed me, but they both talked to me like I was little. Yeah, that should not have made me as happy as it did.
I'm not sure why, when I'm feeling insecure, being seven makes me feel safer and more secure, but it does. Master and Mistress have the only seven-year-old service pet on the planet. I really do live to please them, even if I do sort of have a few bumps along the way every now and then.
I wonder what a collar for a seven-year-old would look like? *Giggles stupidly*
I just kind of can't get rid of it lately for some reason. I'm the perpetual seven-year-old. *Pouts*
Lucky for me, B. and J. think it's kind of cute.
I keep fantasizing about being tied up. But, no, not for kinky sex. (OMG, write it down. Slave-girl's not fantasizing about kinky sex!!!!!!!!!!) I just want to be tied up between the two of them, securely, but comfortably, so I can lie that way for a long time without whining that I can't feel my arms anymore or whatever. Then, I just want to be snuggled and petted and kissed and talked to. Kinky sex, of course, is optional. :D
B. mentioned tying me up and spoon-feeding me and talking to me like a little girl again, like they did one night. Well, J.'s the one who fed me, but they both talked to me like I was little. Yeah, that should not have made me as happy as it did.
I'm not sure why, when I'm feeling insecure, being seven makes me feel safer and more secure, but it does. Master and Mistress have the only seven-year-old service pet on the planet. I really do live to please them, even if I do sort of have a few bumps along the way every now and then.
I wonder what a collar for a seven-year-old would look like? *Giggles stupidly*
Saturday, March 21, 2009
This Is A Fantastic Procrastination Tool
I should be doing things for work, but I'm not. So here I am.
Let me first and foremost say that I'm very happy. I don't want whatever rambling I may do in this blog to make anyone think otherwise.
It's a constant struggle for me not to give in to the old fears and just run as far and as fast as my feet will carry me. Even if I know it'd be the stupidest thing ever. By now, it's instinct, and it's hard not to just give in to it.
Seriously. My longest "relationship" ever was only a year and a half. And that was only because about half of it was spent with him far enough away to be out of my hair most of the time. I think the longest time I ever spent with someone within shooting distance was about 8 months or so. I get antsy. My feet start itching. I don't understand it. But I can't help it.
So over the last four or five years or so, I've gone for the dysfunctional in order to avoid any sort of mess. Well, at least any sort of mess on my side, anyway. Star of my own one-woman soap opera, I always say.
I sort of have this habit of having everything I touch turn to shit. The exact opposite of the Midas touch. No matter how well something's going, if you get me involved, it's probably going to go straight to hell, with or without the handbasket.
I sort of have this compulsion to protect people from me. I've (accidentally) hurt enough people to last a lifetime, and I have no desire to do it again. Of course, if you warn people, it's not like they take you seriously. So I just sort of try to stay a safe distance away and cut ties when it starts getting to be too much.
The desire to do so right now is overwhelming. I'd rather slit my own throat than hurt Master or Mistress.
The thing is, I know that leaving will hurt them, too. In the past, I've been able to justify that by telling myself it'd hurt the other person less if I went ahead and did the noble thing and walked away than to stay and ride it 'til its inevitable and far messier end.
The very first day I met J., we were talking about music, country music to be specific. Of course, like every good redneck, I love country music. We started talking about Kenny Chesney, and she brought up his song, "Better as a Memory." All I could think was how ironic that was because I'd always thought that song may as well have been about me, only with the need to make the male pronouns females and vice-versa.
My biggest fear is that no matter what I'll do, I'll hurt B. and J. It's kind of what I do to people, even though I don't mean to.
Let me first and foremost say that I'm very happy. I don't want whatever rambling I may do in this blog to make anyone think otherwise.
It's a constant struggle for me not to give in to the old fears and just run as far and as fast as my feet will carry me. Even if I know it'd be the stupidest thing ever. By now, it's instinct, and it's hard not to just give in to it.
Seriously. My longest "relationship" ever was only a year and a half. And that was only because about half of it was spent with him far enough away to be out of my hair most of the time. I think the longest time I ever spent with someone within shooting distance was about 8 months or so. I get antsy. My feet start itching. I don't understand it. But I can't help it.
So over the last four or five years or so, I've gone for the dysfunctional in order to avoid any sort of mess. Well, at least any sort of mess on my side, anyway. Star of my own one-woman soap opera, I always say.
I sort of have this habit of having everything I touch turn to shit. The exact opposite of the Midas touch. No matter how well something's going, if you get me involved, it's probably going to go straight to hell, with or without the handbasket.
I sort of have this compulsion to protect people from me. I've (accidentally) hurt enough people to last a lifetime, and I have no desire to do it again. Of course, if you warn people, it's not like they take you seriously. So I just sort of try to stay a safe distance away and cut ties when it starts getting to be too much.
The desire to do so right now is overwhelming. I'd rather slit my own throat than hurt Master or Mistress.
The thing is, I know that leaving will hurt them, too. In the past, I've been able to justify that by telling myself it'd hurt the other person less if I went ahead and did the noble thing and walked away than to stay and ride it 'til its inevitable and far messier end.
The very first day I met J., we were talking about music, country music to be specific. Of course, like every good redneck, I love country music. We started talking about Kenny Chesney, and she brought up his song, "Better as a Memory." All I could think was how ironic that was because I'd always thought that song may as well have been about me, only with the need to make the male pronouns females and vice-versa.
My biggest fear is that no matter what I'll do, I'll hurt B. and J. It's kind of what I do to people, even though I don't mean to.
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