The Life of a Slave - Day 14

Busy day today, as normal.

This morning I saw a bit of a documentary on the history of American puppetry. It’s a particular interest of mine for various reasons. I’ve loved puppets all my life, and I have probably a couple of dozen, mostly the realistically furry Folkmanis animal puppets, but I also have a couple of marionettes. One of the marionettes in particular is special to me. A wooden female puppet with a peasant outfit and yellow-yarn hair. Her name is Wilma, named after a SecondLife avatar I had. I was a marionette for months in SecondLife. Out of hundreds of thousands of people in SL, I was one of the handful of full-time marionettes. I truly lived as one, and even dreamed I was one. I was made of wood, I wore a lovely pink ballerina outfit, I had strings that would make me move, and I had a repertoire of beautiful ballet dances. More importantly, it was what I was at heart for awhile. It was a strange and wonderful time. In an area dedicated to people who like to pretend to be dolls, I met a man who talked with me for a long time. He was a master toymaker, and during the course of several hours, he slowly reached into my soul and found a wooden marionette, which he pulled out from my heart to live. At times the Master Toymaker would turn me into other toys, primarily a china doll or a windup tin soldierette (which was his favorite – he actually had a fetish about them). I was madly in love with him, and, to me, being a marionette was a dream come true. I wanted so very, very much to become one for real and … I still do. And that’s what Wilma is. She’s me, in a way. It’s hard to explain to other people why I want that so much but I’ve met more than a few who share my deep longing.

Along with the normal chores, today was spent preparing for tomorrow’s job interview. If I get the job, I’ll be writing software for a weather satellite system over the polar icecap. If I had my choice, my only job would be to be Mistress’s slave. There’s an important truth that seems bizarre but it can’t be denied: it’s a luxury in our society to be a slave. Heck, it’s a luxury to be a stay-at-home wife these days.

I got called about another programming job today which sounds much more to my liking. The company said it’s pretty unusual in that software development would only be about a third of the job, and the rest would be everything from documentation to working with customers. The company sounds like it would have a relaxed atmosphere where my desire to serve and help others might shine. The woman who called me said to expect to talk for only a quarter hour, and she wound up talking to me for 45 minutes, scheduling an interview and asking for references. All good things. We’ll see.

Today I got hit with a reality of being a slave … the fact that one’s Owner may not always be right. I needed to study this afternoon, and I needed to get some documents and references to the woman regarding the new programming job. Mistress, however, told me to put it all on hold and go with her to get some personal items out of her car, which had been repossessed last week (she’s been able to use her former stepson’s truck after getting it licensed and set up with insurance). I didn’t want to go, and I knew it was a bad idea, but I obeyed and went with her … and felt tense from the moment we started driving. Traffic was bad, it took longer than we thought, and the guy wasn’t there to let us in the impound lot.

After sitting on the tailgate of Mistress’s truck for a half hour, not able to do anything but stare at the sky and the fence around the lot, I was a bit of a mess from frustration, and I was blaming myself for not telling my Mistress I needed to stay at home. I realized that by allowing Mistress to make all my decisions, sometimes something would go wrong that I could have prevented. Seeing how distraught I was becoming, Mistress eventually decided to give up on waiting and take me back home, and I remained basically wrapped up in a ball in my seat, my brain all screwed over as we drove along … that is, until somebody slammed into us on the highway. Some idiot crashed into the side of the truck as they were changing lanes and, instead of pulling over, they sped up and wove in and out of traffic to get away from the accident. Fortunately, neither of us was hurt, and the truck is still operational, and we got the license plate and reported it to the police. And it turned out that the guy never showed up to open the impound lot (he apparently got so stuck in traffic he just didn’t bother to fulfill his appointment), and so Mistress was right in leaving, and she’s rescheduled for tomorrow. And I was able to get the documentation sent out in time, and I got plenty of studying tonight. So it all worked out in the end.

Still, though … the reality is a reality. As a slave, I’m giving up the decision making process to somebody else. Is that truly a good thing? I believe it is. It’s what I want to do with my life. It’s what I am. I want to be a slave. I want to be a puppet. I want to give up my self will for the pleasure of another. Does that make me crazy? I don’t know, but I know this … I was happier yesterday morning than I’ve been in a long, long time. And Mistress and I both feel that was definitely a good thing.