a day in the life

copied from my response to a thread on fetlife ('cause i know you're wondering how we're doing):

typical day: alarm rings at 7:15 - mostly to get kids on the bus in time. i usually set the coffee to go off at 7:00 so it's ready when we get up. if i haven't, i'm expected to get up and make it before anything else, including going to the bathroom. if he's awake, i have to ask permission to go to the bathroom - if not, i have standing orders to let him sleep and do what i gotta do on my own.

my owner works out of his home, so sometimes he'll get up later than that, sometimes earlier, but usually around the same time. early morning activities are mostly a joint effort - getting breakfast, kids' stuff together, fires lit. we've usually discussed the night before what needs to happen that day, so by the time the kids are out of the house we're onto that plan. more often than not he'll make breakfast for both of us while i'm doing other stuff, and we'll eat together while finishing up the final plans for the day.

i rattle off my list of chores/duties/errands i'm planning on getting done, and he'll either nod or nix as needed. he tries to keep my time away from home to a minimum, so if i can coordinate errands to keep the time down, i do. i usually get a to-do list to add to my own at that point. then the morning's business begins. i usually ask him if he's hungry mid-morning and then again at lunch time, prepare the meal, and then clean up all the detritus from the morning/lunch. if i've been out, i'm expected to get it done sometime in the afternoon.

afternoons usually include some sort of outdoor activity - working on firewood, shoveling, gardening, whatever's seasonally necessary. kids are home around 4, so i'm back to the business of that until dinner time. very occasionally he'll take a break from work at that point and join in the food preparation (it's fun - not an obligation for him), and then we'll sit down to dinner around 6:30. if he's still working, i try to give him a heads up so he can join us.

our bedtime varies hugely - sometimes very early, sometimes very late - usually dependent upon his workload. i do not go to bed without permission, and that usually doesn't happen until he's ready to go himself. in warmer weather i'll curl up at his feet while he's working, in colder weather, he lets me stay on the couch by the fire. sometimes i'm instructed to handle the firewood before bed, sometimes he's kind enough to do it himself.

our out-of-the-ordinary time is usually mid-week when there's a small lull in his workload. i do try to ask to plan it if possible - i love spending time with him. sometimes just a drive through the hills, sometimes something more kinky at home.

boring. nice. works for us.

choices

there are threads flying around on fetlife about what choices are possible for slaves. and threads about control, and how much control a slave can have. and threads, also, about definitions, labels, communities, and wrongness.

some notes about how it works for me. so that i don't have to say it again, i can just link to this later. and because i like lists.

1. i do not live with my owner, and there are no current plans to change this. this does not make me any less dedicated, owned, or enslaved. all it means is that i live somewhere else and miss him more. while i am ambivalent at best about this situation, i feel there are both positive and negative reprecussions. but the decision is not up to me.

2. i don't like to use the word slave, although arguably the word "property" isn't a hell of a lot different. i believe that a slave is a person who is actually enslaved - either physically or emotionally. sometimes i feel it, sometimes i don't. but what i am called is not up to me.

3. there are issues in our world that require decisions that are not sexual. they are not about who i fuck or don't fuck, not about how many orgasms i have, or about how i wear my hair, even. voting, career choice, weight loss, are all significant issues that have very little to do with sex as we usually know it. these issues are often designated to me to decide, but the final choices are still not up to me.

are you getting a general theme here?

i never said everyone had to be TPE, or that it was "better" than anything else. but it's "total". not "part". or "mostly". or "except for...".

let me explain why you were uncomfortable

the event played out unexpectedly for me. i was distracted with other thoughts and worries when he picked me up, and when i asked in the car "should i be nervous?" before we met, he said "yes." and then my world tipped sideways as i slid my panties down my legs and over my boots. we went in.

it's not that i don't like girls; i do. i love having girlfriends, i love the way they look, the things they say, the frank discussions and tight clothes. i love the comraderie and the understanding that our bodies work (mostly) the same way, and not like those aliens we call "men".

i've never been a toucher, and i've never been a good touchee. i don't like it when people touch me in general, and i don't like it any more when it's a woman. i could not look at you, i could only look at my owner, indignant that he was allowing it, encouraging it. wanting it. i did not hate him, and i did not hate you, but i did not want what was happening.

i did it because i am owned and because i did not have a choice. not because i was happy or comfortable or wanted it or turned on. because i saw the look on his face when he knew i did not like it and it solidified there as lust.

the finer details

in response to my earlier post all the time, i got some lovely dialog going (on my other blog, mostly identical to this one). to clarify one of the responses, which said (and i'm taking out of context, but...) "Essentially you could say, 'I'm sick of this shit' and walk away. "

"when D and i ended our contract, there was a strange nebulous time when we didn't know what was going to happen next. i was no longer his formally contracted submissive, and technically i had the option of not being that, or anything else, again. for me, there is one huge primary difference between being a submissive and being a slave, and that is that as a slave i cannot say "i'm sick of this shit" and leave.

i mean, i could try.

but i have agreed to give him the right to not allow that to happen.

he might allow it to happen, if he was sick of it, too. or if he saw that it simply wasn't healthy for me and he wanted me to be healthy. or he himself might end it if he was sick of it, even if i wasn't. all of those things are possible (and currently undesireable, i believe, by both of us), and i don't think i'd have entered into a M/s relationship with him if i didn't believe he could make intelligent decisions about all that. (yah - the "trust" thing).

but ultimately, it is not up to me. and that's what makes me a slave, and that's what makes this an absolute relationship. which is what allows me to trust him, which is what makes the sex hot, which is what gratifies me on a spiritual level. it's that simple fact."

all the time

"I never worry
Now that is a lie..."

- rhcp, under the bridge

i've been thinking a lot about this whole 24/7 concept. i'm not all that interested in changing anyone's mind about their own definition of it. i'm also not that interested in making changes to my own relationship because of what someone else thinks it means. recently i was reading a blogger who i respect a great deal, and their (what i consider to be) rigid opinion of this disappointed me. i'm just not one to argue the point, but it's made me think about it.

so here's the thing. conceptually, a "24/7" arrangement is one where there is no break. there's no time out, there's no re-negotiation, there's no aftercare (in the sense that there is no "after"). but the challenge becomes how we think about obedience, service, and control.

there are vanilla relationships that are 24/7. those people are never *not* in the relationship because they aren't living together. parenting is 24/7. but when your kid is, say, at overnight camp, or visiting their other parent for a visit, you're not not a parent. why is it any different with M/s relationships? the assumption seems to be that unless you are directly under someone's use and control you are not in a 24/7 arrangement.

i think that's crap. unless you have your slave literally in your line of vision or otherwise chained up while they are not.

my point is, that i am not doing my owner's bidding every.single.second. because (surprise! shocker!) he doesn't have the freakin' time to direct when i take a breath, eat a cracker, sigh, or sit. sometimes his directions are simply to take care of it myself. i am 24-hours-a-day, 7-days-a-week, doing what he wants. and sometimes that's to just leave him in peace.

isn't that the point of being a slave? a slave is what i am, not what i do, or where i live.

other voices other lives

in another life, i would have become a farmer. i swear this is true, despite the misgivings of everyone i've ever known, and the fact that i have what is commonly known as a "black thumb".

it's not so much that i'm interested in dawn-to-dusk physical toil, or that i enjoy being outside in all kinds of weather. it's that it's a ritualistic way of life. there are things to do at dawn that must be done, ablutions and salutations and sacrifices. i'm down with that. there are things that must be done at dusk, too - closings, endings, and yet more sacrifices.

it takes bravery to really live your life. i was going to write about how it takes bravery to be a slave, or a dominant, or a mother, or an artist.

but really, whatever form it takes, you need to be brave to get through it. what this life has handed me has made me brave and courageous and proud.

something came up today that i am ashamed of. for no obvious reason - it's an aspect of myself i am still coming to terms with, and my owner has challenged me to determine where the shame comes from, because it is incongruous with the rest of me.

i don't know yet. i'm working on it.

(photo credit to Chris Johnson, "Mirror")

annhilation nation

"it's not 'your' world, any more than it is 'your' orgasm."

it's not my world, it's yours, and i just live here.

i am nothing, (no)thing, and really, there is no "i". speaking in third person seems appropriate when the self vaporizes, only captured by a wish and your will. today a day when this-thing-that-is-yours is fluttering and waiting to have substance again at your feet.

(pic credit from blog observantbystander)

priceless

formula for satisfaction:

1x250 year old farmhouse + 5 days of vacation x 95% humidity factor / 1xshop vac = very happy service slave

how did i ever live without a shop vac?

the multiple hats of luna

i'm having a hard time writing about this issue, and i kinda know the reason. i'm having a hard time because writing a blog is like writing on a circular stage, with the audience ever changing. the "characters" in the blog, including myself, my owner, the him's, and the her's, have their own identities somewhat separate from the realities of who we all are. i'm a writer, and i can't help but try to present consistency in the characters i'm presenting.

so i don't like to present issues that fuck with that consistency. that's kinda vague, but for better or worse, this blog ain't so much interactive about that.

i wear a lot of hats in my relationship with my owner, not just the one i call slave. i think i really do prefer the label property, if i get to choose, because that implies so much more, i think, than the restrictive "slave" label. no, i never get to choose, i don't have any privacy, and the only things that remain under my control in my life are the things my owner has decided are best that way, with the understanding that said issues are under my control are a privilege, not a right.

one of the hardest hats i wear is idea-bouncer. it's not the most disliked (that's my hat called "official floor cleaner"), but it's the hardest. i know my owner trusts me to present not only the truth at all times, but to be proactive about it when necessary. every time i speak out of turn i'm taking a risk that it will not be acceptable or appreciated. if he didn't ask me for my opinion, i'd better have a damned good reason for saying it.

i am always aware of this.

don't get me wrong - i talk a lot. a *lot*. and often proactively.

so yeah, i take a lot of risks, even when i speak.

that's me, risk taking owned bitch. livin' on the edge.

(image author unknown, found on the blog "the tempest files".pretty, though, ain't it?).

driven insane by food rules

i want sugar. not yoga. i want:

oreo cookies
lemon meringue pie
key lime pie
chocolate mousse
creme brulee
a hershey bar, with almonds
mocha latte
non-diet coke
brownies
cheesecake
strawberry shortcake
mudslide sundae
goobers
jelly beans
birthday cake
pancakes

some days, i feel like i'm just going to snap.

you'd think after all this time i'd either just give in a realize it ain't gonna happen and find some fucking peace about it, or give in and take the consequences.

somehow i can't seem to do either. this isn't a whine, this is a helpless, sweating-it-out in a daily basis kind of thing. i rarely get angry at my owner, and when i do, it's almost inevitably about food.

the other day, i asked and received permission to eat an english muffin with cheese. this was a moment to note because bread is on the "my eyebrow is raised you'd better watch it" list. not completely forbidden, but it's not exactly high on the "wonderful!" list, either. but before i could run off and take full advantage of the permission as given (as i'm wont to do these days - i no longer stand around hemming and hawing and looking gift horses in the mouth) he added "with an egg." not a big deal, no?

but i didn't want an egg.

what i wanted was freedom to pick my own goddamned breakfast the way i wanted it. i was so incredibly pissed off that i sat my ass down on the couch in the other room and fumed about it. to the point where i resentfully thought to myself, "fine. i won't eat anything, then."

which doesn't work, now, does it. especially when you're hungry.

so i got up, cooked the goddamned stupid egg, stuck it on my now-tasteless english muffin, and ate it.

yeah, slavery is so glamorous i can't stand it. the extra-sad thing about all this is that i know my owner is going to read this and laugh hysterically, and then eliminate english muffins. sigh.

**edit** yeah, we're all shocked. indeed, hysterical laughter and a new addition to the forbidden list: english muffins.

This house is a broken palace

"As a slave, without choices, rights or anything to my name, the only thing I thought I have is my pride. Without it, I'm nothing. But is it his plan to take that away from me as well?

Is a slave nothing without pride or should a slave have nothing including pride?"

- a subtle slavegirl


a tension-filled weekend. not bad, actually, a lot of fun. but so many things and pieces of our lives turned into confetti and co-mingling and i'm not very good at filtering through it all on-the-spot like a grown-up should, so it all gets prioritized and can make one crazy with too many things to think about at once. i'm a grown-up, yes, but your girl, your little girl, too.

i mis-read something over your shoulder and thought i'd read instead a title - This house is a broken palace.

no i never needed to be broken but i break into pieces like confetti at the slightest word from you.

you close me off from air, from orgasm, from pride and from shame simultaneously. somehow you manage this without turning me into an empty husk but instead full to the brim with thoughts and thinking and a tightly closed mouth.

photo credit to AsIFearTomorrow on deviantart.com

i am. kung fu panda.

as much as i've always hoped i'd come across as something more akin to angelina jolie, i am instead uplifted by and have found my true hero in Po, the Kung Fu Panda. please view a clip below, which is hysterically similar to my own life.

quietly

quiet quiet there are people that could be listening and may not be but it's no matter because what it is for us isn't any different if they're listening. sometimes when you don't want me to have a voice i turn inside-out and every sound and color is as sharp as your teeth biting my skin. quietly quietly

yes i cling to your arm yes i do that i touch it and stroke it and i pay attention because i may not get another chance because i am grateful for just the small moment of sweetness when you let me show you that i am not just owned because i can't not be but because i.chose.you.

marked and again

your name carved into me. you traced the lines with your finger, rubbing, and the echo of that touch later when i'm touching myself and thinking about it. sharp splinter pain from your knife and it wasn't that that made me cry.

nothing i could have said would have stopped you, then.

color me humiliated.

i talk a good game. i talk a lot about objectification, humiliation, extreme edge play, the down-n'-dirty stuff. since the age of - what - 8? - i've clung to these fantasies, and they're not leaving any time soon. i clamped them down like bile for many years and it's only recently that i've not only acknowledged the breadth of them, but have walked through my own rings of fire to live them out. i've said it before, and i'll say it again - it's not an easy path, but it's mine.

anyway.

it's one thing to fantasize about things, imagine them happening, the nuances of the voices involved and the imagined positions and results. i'd become used to the habit of getting to sleep by letting my "fingers do the walking", the easiest way to a good night's sleep as far as i was concerned.

but this last thing just takes me down. down. it came at me sideways, unexpectedly, and it seems like such a minor thing compared to so many others i've lived out (through). my owner has taken to reaping (raping) the benefits of my brand-spankin'-new cell phone with digital camera application. all day i've been snapping away at my private parts in embarassing positions. i'm a horrible photographer, and after the first one tried to add some footnotes about how it's a bad picture and i'm sorry for that, the aesthetics suck, but at least there's the humiliation side benefit. he said,

"that's the point, cunt, not the side benefit."

everyday erotic

i was trapped behind the stove. on my butt, wrangling my feet around the ancient claw feet of the old-fashioned gas burning monster he insists is the right way to go, swatting at the dust mountains stuck back there. there was no way in hell i was going to be allowed to get out until it was cleaned out, and to his satisfaction. which was no easy task.

it was, dare i say, immensely gratifying.

we were also having a halfway conversation about "the olden days" [of slavery], and how the olden days Master was most likely out toiling in the fields with his property, or getting shooed out of his own kitchen by the same. most owners during legalized slavery in the united states sure as hell didn't have ginormous estates on which they sat sipping mint juleps on the veranda all day. the fantasy version of Master/slave relationships, the ones that involve chains and ball gags and vibrators, while certainly valid in their own personal way, are in no way similar to the daily functioning of a Master/slave relationship of the civil-war era. nope.

but there we were, re-enacting a scene that was probably happening right around then: property assigned kitchen duties involving a nasty cleanout of old-farmhouse grime in the kitchen while owner chops and hauls wood so neither of us freezes that night in said farmhouse.

and it was hot.

knowing that it's his choice, that i am serving him, that no matter how gross i find the gunk stuck to the floor, i will be finishing this task to his satisfaction. eroticizing the every day, the mundane, makes all of the minutia seem - worthwhile. pointed. and - erotic. that's what makes all of this different from the "olden days". i can't say it's something i "consent" to - because how do you consent to something that is in your very nature? it's like saying - oh, i suppose i'll be blonde. i suppose i'll be submissive now.


(photo credit: i have no idea. but wow - i didn't realize there even *is* a kitchen fetish. is she fucking the faucet? i can't tell.)

the weight

the weight of your arm snug around my neck when you sleep. if i'm awake and wondering if you are i know better than to ask outright - the smell of the leather leash next to my head reminds me where i am tonight. even if i push my body closer to yours i can't tell if you are awake, your arm tightens down either way, as if even in your sleep you confirm where i am.

you are sudden in the night sometimes, a different kind of reminder. you pull me from deep asleep into a tiny space that only belongs to you, and to the words that define us - the hurt, the force, the weight of it. you make me tell you what i think about, describe it in lurid detail, the graphic motions and sounds of skin. sometimes i think about the weight of your limbs, and just that makes me catch my breath.

ocean

i had a sudden moment of missing the ocean. i missed the smell so badly all of a sudden i could taste the tang inside my nose despite seeing only birch trees and tadpoles in the small stream. i suddenly missed the moment when you sit there on the beach and realize the world is as big as it is and there is no controlling it or anything in your life so just let it happen.

sometimes you hear words over and over again and they mean only one thing. the fact that this is not about what i want, and that it somehow *is* what i want gets mixed up until it's the same thing - what i want and what i don't, in a big tangled ball of need. but then in a small tiny second or two it means something else entirely. it means i will always have what i want, and i never will.

being a slave means that i will always have what i want, and i never will have what i want.

can i ride the tides of that?

i don't have a choice in this, any more than anything else. i'm helpless and overwhelmed by too many facts of life, too many observations.

"Love and a dress that you made
long to hide your knees
love to say this to your face,
"I'll love you only"
for your days and excitement,
what will you keep for to wear?
someday drawing you different,
may I be weaved in your hair?

Love and some verses you hear
say what you can't say
love to say this in your ear,
"I'll love you that way"
from your changing contentments,
what will you choose for to share?
someday drawing you different,
may I be weaved in your hair?..."

-iron and wine

limited

yes, i want to bleed for you.

no, i do not want the pain. i'm not wired that way, i can't just find pleasure in pain. pleasure in suffering, yes. pleasure that turns into a white hot wire from my brain to my cunt and you know it, you just know that i cannot refuse because of the way i am made. why, why, why would you make me say a choice?

"because it doesn't really matter what you want anyway."

and there it is.

decisions, decisions

bitchwhore4 says "I owe my Master everything. He insists that I take responsibility for myself."

of course. of course. part of our obligations to our owners/Dominants/Masters/Mistresses is to take care of ourselves. take responsibility, make wise choices. that's sometimes easier said than done - sometimes as someone else's property it's easier to prioritize what's best for them, instead, and to be forced to choose between one obligation (care for self) and the other (prioritizing their needs over one's own), you end up with conflicting obligations. it happens all the time, i think. daily.

if the slave/property/submissive ultimately has to make a choice that prioritizes their own needs, i don't know that that's a bad thing - it's something we're obligated to do when push comes to shove. unhappy robots are not attractive slaves, i don't think (although i suppose that's an overgeneralization, i have no idea what everyone wants...)

it's not the decision to prioritize differently that bothers me. it's the choice-making, sometimes in a vacuum of input from the owner that's hard. necessary, but hard.