Showing posts with label SecondLife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SecondLife. Show all posts
Friday, October 23, 2009
Day 75 - On My First Full Day as Master's Slave, On Reflecting On Why Mistress and I Didn't Work Out, On the Possibility of Being Master's Slave Forever, On Getting Electrocuted for Fun with a Violet Wand, On Winning First Place at the Steampunk Party, On My Daughter Being a Cat in a Human Body, and On Reading a Fantastic Online Comic Called SPQR Blues and Becoming Queen Guinereve's Virtual Slave in SecondLife
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Saturday, October 3, 2009
Day 55 - On Writing a New Short Story, Not Writing My Novel, Wasting My Life in SecondLife, Having a Great Time with My Daughter at an Old West Celebration, Having a Nervous Breakdown After My Divorce, and Reading a Disturbing Erotic Tale
Two days ago I wrote a new short story, a transformational tale which anybody who’s read my previous blogs will recognize because basically I took some recent events in my life and turned them into a slice-of-life work of fantasy.
If you want to read it (and I hope you do) you can find it at: "An Untangling of Threads"
Yes, it’s not the longest story in the world, nor the most complex. But I had fun with it. I stayed up late and wrote it in one setting, and I’m rather pleased with it for what it is, no more and no less.
The pleasure I got from writing that makes me feel I truly need to get back to working on my novel. My dearly departed novel. For almost two years I worked religiously on it, and reached the final few chapters before … running out of steam. Well, that’s not the best description for what happened. In truth, I became distracted. After a year and a half absence, I rediscovered SecondLife. After my divorce in March of last year, I soon became more and more addicted to SecondLife, to the exclusion of my novel (and other pursuits). The death blow for my novel was when I was laid off in May of last year, and I sunk into a clinical depression which I’m only now finally clawing out of, almost a year and a half later. When that happened, my addiction to SecondLife became complete, and for almost a year it truly became my life, my escape from a reality I couldn’t emotionally face.
SecondLife is truly like a drug. I got into SecondLife because I couldn’t face reality. And because SecondLife seems so wonderful, it makes the real world seem awful by comparison. Well, it does when you’re addicted, when you find the real world to be one that you hate, and you lie awake at night wishing you were dead. That’s how I was back then. Fortunately, I’m much better now.
Still, though, even though I’m not addicted to SecondLife anymore, I’ve moved on. I’m a much different person because of what I’ve experienced. A year and a half ago I was planning on marrying a wonderful man in Kentucky who is half my age. Now I’m Owned by a Mistress with no plans to change my situation. That man I loved (and still love deeply) was a writer and was my editor, and he still desires to be that should I ever pick my novel back up.
Lately, though, I simply haven’t had time. No, of course, that’s not true. I simply haven’t made the novel a priority. Even as a slave, I’m sure I could write it, because my Mistress knows of it and would most likely approve.
I could have written in it tonight if not for SecondLife, of course. *sighs*
Yeah. I was in SecondLife tonight. I feel like I just finished a weird little vacation.
Mistress is out tonight with a female friend, attending a BDSM mixer “munch” in Longmont. Mistress’s Master will likely be there, so she gave me the full choice of whether I wanted to go or stay here and simply enjoy myself doing whatever I wanted.
If she had been alone, I would have gone with her, but I sensed she wanted to be with her female friend, and so … I stayed at home and undertook the guilty pleasure known as SecondLife.
*shrugs*
It’s not as intense as it used to be. But then, I was only in it for a few hours tonight, and I used to live in SecondLife for usually eight to twelve hours a day, every day.
I feel a bit tired and mentally exhausted, and I have a slight headache. I think I’ve gotten mentally out of shape in able to live in a virtual world for long periods of time.
Tonight I was a puppet – a marionette – like I have been the last few times I’ve been in SecondLife. I interacted with people on Doll Island, Doll Works and a store named “Dirty Dollies,” but the roleplaying wasn’t deep. Instead, it was like we were at a costume party, and all of us were having fun interacting with each other.
In contrast, when I would roleplay in Gor, I felt like I was really there, because the roleplaying was psychologically overwhelming at times.
Looking back, I find it amazing that I spent three hours in there tonight because so little happened. I chatted with people here and there and played a bit and talked about music, all while pretending to be a marionette. I had some fun with K-8 (the author of the blog at consciousobject.livejournal.com), and this time I was a bit more eloquent.
*shrugs again*
I did, however, get the chance to pass out a few copies of my new story.
So far nobody on www.stuckposting.com has commented at all on my story. Actually, they haven’t commented on anything I’ve written there. Oh, well.
Along with writing the story, most of my time the two days before today were taken up with moving. And, yes, we’re still not done yet. Not only are there still a lot of little (and not so little) things at the old house, but the new place is full of boxes stacked up on top of each other, and it still definitely needs a lot of work to become a normal house. I simply cannot imagine us moving again anytime soon at all.
Today was the day I spent with my kids. It went decently well. I hardly saw my son at all. He wanted to spend the day with a friend and not with me, and when he returned tonight, he didn’t want to talk to me. Something’s bothering him and I don’t yet know what it is, but I think it has something to do with the divorce.
When my ex and I divorced last year, we had stipulated joint custody in the agreement, with the kids being at my place and my ex’s place every other day. But the first night at my place, the kids wanted to go back home, and we let them. My ex got to keep the house, and to two young children, my apartment must have been a scary place. Well, they soon got used to it because my ex made it clear that we weren’t going to “traumatize” the kids by forcing them to do something upsetting to them regarding the divorce. Being so submissive, I gave in. Then I started falling into the clinical depression, the first serious signs hitting even before I was laid off, and my ex and I decided that the children should stay at their old place most of the time because my emotional condition wasn’t best for them. I gave in and … it became the norm. During this last summer I was seeing my kids almost every other day, but they haven’t slept under the same roof with me since my divorce a year and a half ago. As things are now, because of all that’s going on (particularly with the move), during the last month I’ve usually only seen my kids one day a week, and only for around eight hours each of those days, more or less. My ex sometimes complains about having the kids too much, but all-in-all I think my ex wants the kids to get used to me not being around. I should be fighting it but … I don’t know how. Part of me agrees because I’m still mentally unstable. But I miss my kids so much some times I can’t stop crying.
I’m not the only slave in this situation. I know of another slave in the Denver area a little younger than I am who only sees her children about once a month. I don’t know her situation, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s sadly similar.
Well, today was a lot of fun with my seven-year-old daughter, at least. We went to the annual Pumpkin Festival at Four Mile Historic Park in Denver, which celebrates life in Colorado’s pioneer days. I dressed up in my pseudo-Old-West clothes (tall boots, a long brown dress, a white button-up blouse and a tan frilled shawl), and I had expected my daughter to do the same because she also loves Old West stuff, but instead she went as a cat – which for her meant wearing a great sweatsuit with a nametag she made that says she’s a member of the “council of cats”. She was, naturally, adorable the whole time. *smiles* We rode on a really bumpy ride in a covered wagon, and ate sugar cookies from a wood-burning stove, and talked with fur trappers (*sighs and grumbles*), and drank root beer, and listened to silly music, and played with antique toys, and I learned to walk on stilts and my daughter was in a sack race and a “carry-the-egg-in-the-spoon” race, and (my daughter’s favorite part) we panned for gold using real equipment, and I taught her (and a bunch of other kids there) techniques an actual gold panner taught me years ago, and my daughter brought home several large chunks of (fool’s) gold at the end of the day! So even though I don’t see my kids a lot, at least I try to make my time with them as good as possible.
Well, Mistress just came back, so I’d better get this logged and get to bed. We’re going over tomorrow morning to play with two of her submissive friends, and even though I may not be playing that much, I need to get some sleep.
Oh … I was going to talk about the fact that the married couple came over again the day before yesterday with Mistress’s Master, and they all did things I’m not privy to inside of Mistress’s bedroom. I do know Mistress’s was forced to suck her Master’s cock in front of the couple as his way of showing off his property to them.
And I know that I had to give Mistress an enema before the couple arrived. Which brings up a rather gross topic I was going to cover in this entry, but I’ll save it for next time.
Until then, toodles!
La kajira!!!
p.s. With any luck, as I try to sleep I won’t be thinking tonight about a disturbing short story I read online tonight about an intelligent woman who is gradually turned into an ultra-horny imbecile with a body so super feminine it’s a pure caricature. The woman hates what’s happening because she has a family and friends and is a college swimmer, but it’s done purely because of the psychopathic desires of a crazed woman who traps her into the process. I know some people really get turned on by such stories, and I have to admit that I’m turned on, but in a way that’s very disturbing and may possibly give me nightmares tonight.
I can’t read a story and think “it’s just a story.” To me, fiction and reality often blur in my mind, at least in my emotional responses. But then, I admit I’m not the most emotionally healthy woman on the planet.
If you want to read it (and I hope you do) you can find it at: "An Untangling of Threads"
Yes, it’s not the longest story in the world, nor the most complex. But I had fun with it. I stayed up late and wrote it in one setting, and I’m rather pleased with it for what it is, no more and no less.
The pleasure I got from writing that makes me feel I truly need to get back to working on my novel. My dearly departed novel. For almost two years I worked religiously on it, and reached the final few chapters before … running out of steam. Well, that’s not the best description for what happened. In truth, I became distracted. After a year and a half absence, I rediscovered SecondLife. After my divorce in March of last year, I soon became more and more addicted to SecondLife, to the exclusion of my novel (and other pursuits). The death blow for my novel was when I was laid off in May of last year, and I sunk into a clinical depression which I’m only now finally clawing out of, almost a year and a half later. When that happened, my addiction to SecondLife became complete, and for almost a year it truly became my life, my escape from a reality I couldn’t emotionally face.
SecondLife is truly like a drug. I got into SecondLife because I couldn’t face reality. And because SecondLife seems so wonderful, it makes the real world seem awful by comparison. Well, it does when you’re addicted, when you find the real world to be one that you hate, and you lie awake at night wishing you were dead. That’s how I was back then. Fortunately, I’m much better now.
Still, though, even though I’m not addicted to SecondLife anymore, I’ve moved on. I’m a much different person because of what I’ve experienced. A year and a half ago I was planning on marrying a wonderful man in Kentucky who is half my age. Now I’m Owned by a Mistress with no plans to change my situation. That man I loved (and still love deeply) was a writer and was my editor, and he still desires to be that should I ever pick my novel back up.
Lately, though, I simply haven’t had time. No, of course, that’s not true. I simply haven’t made the novel a priority. Even as a slave, I’m sure I could write it, because my Mistress knows of it and would most likely approve.
I could have written in it tonight if not for SecondLife, of course. *sighs*
Yeah. I was in SecondLife tonight. I feel like I just finished a weird little vacation.
Mistress is out tonight with a female friend, attending a BDSM mixer “munch” in Longmont. Mistress’s Master will likely be there, so she gave me the full choice of whether I wanted to go or stay here and simply enjoy myself doing whatever I wanted.
If she had been alone, I would have gone with her, but I sensed she wanted to be with her female friend, and so … I stayed at home and undertook the guilty pleasure known as SecondLife.
*shrugs*
It’s not as intense as it used to be. But then, I was only in it for a few hours tonight, and I used to live in SecondLife for usually eight to twelve hours a day, every day.
I feel a bit tired and mentally exhausted, and I have a slight headache. I think I’ve gotten mentally out of shape in able to live in a virtual world for long periods of time.
Tonight I was a puppet – a marionette – like I have been the last few times I’ve been in SecondLife. I interacted with people on Doll Island, Doll Works and a store named “Dirty Dollies,” but the roleplaying wasn’t deep. Instead, it was like we were at a costume party, and all of us were having fun interacting with each other.
In contrast, when I would roleplay in Gor, I felt like I was really there, because the roleplaying was psychologically overwhelming at times.
Looking back, I find it amazing that I spent three hours in there tonight because so little happened. I chatted with people here and there and played a bit and talked about music, all while pretending to be a marionette. I had some fun with K-8 (the author of the blog at consciousobject.livejournal.com), and this time I was a bit more eloquent.
*shrugs again*
I did, however, get the chance to pass out a few copies of my new story.
So far nobody on www.stuckposting.com has commented at all on my story. Actually, they haven’t commented on anything I’ve written there. Oh, well.
Along with writing the story, most of my time the two days before today were taken up with moving. And, yes, we’re still not done yet. Not only are there still a lot of little (and not so little) things at the old house, but the new place is full of boxes stacked up on top of each other, and it still definitely needs a lot of work to become a normal house. I simply cannot imagine us moving again anytime soon at all.
Today was the day I spent with my kids. It went decently well. I hardly saw my son at all. He wanted to spend the day with a friend and not with me, and when he returned tonight, he didn’t want to talk to me. Something’s bothering him and I don’t yet know what it is, but I think it has something to do with the divorce.
When my ex and I divorced last year, we had stipulated joint custody in the agreement, with the kids being at my place and my ex’s place every other day. But the first night at my place, the kids wanted to go back home, and we let them. My ex got to keep the house, and to two young children, my apartment must have been a scary place. Well, they soon got used to it because my ex made it clear that we weren’t going to “traumatize” the kids by forcing them to do something upsetting to them regarding the divorce. Being so submissive, I gave in. Then I started falling into the clinical depression, the first serious signs hitting even before I was laid off, and my ex and I decided that the children should stay at their old place most of the time because my emotional condition wasn’t best for them. I gave in and … it became the norm. During this last summer I was seeing my kids almost every other day, but they haven’t slept under the same roof with me since my divorce a year and a half ago. As things are now, because of all that’s going on (particularly with the move), during the last month I’ve usually only seen my kids one day a week, and only for around eight hours each of those days, more or less. My ex sometimes complains about having the kids too much, but all-in-all I think my ex wants the kids to get used to me not being around. I should be fighting it but … I don’t know how. Part of me agrees because I’m still mentally unstable. But I miss my kids so much some times I can’t stop crying.
I’m not the only slave in this situation. I know of another slave in the Denver area a little younger than I am who only sees her children about once a month. I don’t know her situation, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s sadly similar.
Well, today was a lot of fun with my seven-year-old daughter, at least. We went to the annual Pumpkin Festival at Four Mile Historic Park in Denver, which celebrates life in Colorado’s pioneer days. I dressed up in my pseudo-Old-West clothes (tall boots, a long brown dress, a white button-up blouse and a tan frilled shawl), and I had expected my daughter to do the same because she also loves Old West stuff, but instead she went as a cat – which for her meant wearing a great sweatsuit with a nametag she made that says she’s a member of the “council of cats”. She was, naturally, adorable the whole time. *smiles* We rode on a really bumpy ride in a covered wagon, and ate sugar cookies from a wood-burning stove, and talked with fur trappers (*sighs and grumbles*), and drank root beer, and listened to silly music, and played with antique toys, and I learned to walk on stilts and my daughter was in a sack race and a “carry-the-egg-in-the-spoon” race, and (my daughter’s favorite part) we panned for gold using real equipment, and I taught her (and a bunch of other kids there) techniques an actual gold panner taught me years ago, and my daughter brought home several large chunks of (fool’s) gold at the end of the day! So even though I don’t see my kids a lot, at least I try to make my time with them as good as possible.
Well, Mistress just came back, so I’d better get this logged and get to bed. We’re going over tomorrow morning to play with two of her submissive friends, and even though I may not be playing that much, I need to get some sleep.
Oh … I was going to talk about the fact that the married couple came over again the day before yesterday with Mistress’s Master, and they all did things I’m not privy to inside of Mistress’s bedroom. I do know Mistress’s was forced to suck her Master’s cock in front of the couple as his way of showing off his property to them.
And I know that I had to give Mistress an enema before the couple arrived. Which brings up a rather gross topic I was going to cover in this entry, but I’ll save it for next time.
Until then, toodles!
La kajira!!!
p.s. With any luck, as I try to sleep I won’t be thinking tonight about a disturbing short story I read online tonight about an intelligent woman who is gradually turned into an ultra-horny imbecile with a body so super feminine it’s a pure caricature. The woman hates what’s happening because she has a family and friends and is a college swimmer, but it’s done purely because of the psychopathic desires of a crazed woman who traps her into the process. I know some people really get turned on by such stories, and I have to admit that I’m turned on, but in a way that’s very disturbing and may possibly give me nightmares tonight.
I can’t read a story and think “it’s just a story.” To me, fiction and reality often blur in my mind, at least in my emotional responses. But then, I admit I’m not the most emotionally healthy woman on the planet.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Day 50 - On Being a Toy, Meeting the Evergreen Man, K-8 and Mistress's Master, and Watching "Sita Sings the Blues"
A conscious object.
A coin-operated girl.
A toy in a human body.
That’s me.
I’ve known that for a very long time in my heart, and I came to realize it yesterday in my mind. So did Mistress.
Mistress and I spent yesterday at the home of the man in Evergreen (the one who writes poetry and enjoys being humiliated by being forced to dress up as a woman).
I’ll be quick to admit I was rather unfair in my previous bias against him. He’s a very nice, considerate, insightful and extremely intelligent man. He’s extremely driven in ways I couldn’t dream of. For example, he began working in software as a teenager and graduated from college with an English degree at age 19, immediately becoming a high-school teacher (with some students actually older than he was that first year). He reads voraciously and is particularly fascinated with Hinduism, world religions and the cosmology of the physical universe.
He and Mistress got along perfectly. For most of the time we were there, I was either working in the kitchen or kneeling on the floor while he and Mistress discussed topics that were largely beyond my fields of knowledge.
I’m no dummy. I loved science in high school, and I was tested by Mensa (the high-IQ society) with a result that put me in the 99th percentile (making me a member for life). When I was a journalist, I would be the one everybody would turn to as the “walking encyclopedia” who knew tons of trivial about the most esoteric subjects. But something’s happened to me the last decade. In particular, since I discovered therianthropy. And I feel as if my brain is rational brain is shrinking, gradually being replaced by a mind that lives on instincts and hunches.
My wolf spirit.
But I digress. Suffice to say that Mistress and the Evergreen man seriously hit it off, although in a purely platonic way. As Mistress said last night, if that man is going to play with anybody, it’ll be me. But I don’t think he will. I got the strong feeling that once he understood my slave heart isn’t a fetish, but is instead who I truly am, he relegated me to the floor, as if I’m an underling. At times I would ask a question while hearing their conversation and he would ignore me. He never asked my opinion about anything. I was a slave, and I was treated as such, with all of his attention and respect going to my Owner.
And that’s how it should be. I applaud him for that, even if it means he and I will likely never wind up together for anything more than a one-night stand.
The Evergreen man’s house was huge and beautifully rustic, nestled in a mountain forest with a view that would take your breath away. His neighbors include Johnny Depp and Arnold Schwarzenegger (both of who have summer homes there). The drive to get to his house was rather long, convoluted and, at the end, extremely bumpy along a rocky rutted road, with us being happy we went up there in Mistress’s pickup truck instead of my Toyota sedan.
The man was equally impressive. He took part protesting in favor of gay-rights in Chicago as a teenager. Among his many fields of expertise is BDSM, and he was heavily involved in the Chicago community, and he became a counselor of sorts, helping people overcome psychological issues through applied bondage, pain, sex and the like.
Yet despite his experiences, I was a mystery to him. After dinner, he questioned me in an attempt to determine what makes me tick. What turns me on. He couldn’t figure me out because I’m not into this for humiliation or pain. I’m into it for the slavery, and he couldn’t see that as an end in itself.
He left the question hanging and began talking about some of his “patients,” and he mentioned how some women who felt too much in control of their situation would find they couldn’t orgasm easily, but would instead become detached. Those women, he said, would need to be put into situations (consensually, of course) where they wouldn’t know what was coming, such as being blindfolded and made to endure first cold play (with ice cubes on sensitive areas) followed by hot play (with melted wax). The man said some women he encountered consensually took part in very serious rape-oriented play, in which they would wear a band around their arm to parties, which would signal that anybody at the party could force them into having sex. Some went so far as to struggle, with the desire to be slapped or even beaten into submission. In one instance, he was the one who did the beating and raping, to my understanding. He wasn’t thrilled with doing it, but he took part nonetheless.
While he was talking, things started clicking together in my mind, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally locking into place.
I could answer his question regarding what turns me on.
To be treated as a toy. An object. A possession. Non-human.
I indicated to the man that I had his answer, but although he acknowledged that I wanted to speak, he didn’t let me for some time, instead making me wait until he and Mistress were sufficiently through with their conversation. And that was perfectly fine with me (even if a little frustrating) because it fit my true role in life.
After I started talking, though, both the man and Mistress became rather interested, and they completely agreed with me. And Mistress and the man both said they now know exactly how to treat me.
Pretty much every piece of the puzzle has already been mentioned in my previous postings in this blog.
Among the puzzle pieces are:
I’m fixated with Gor in a way I can’t shake. I was in Gor for years, serving Owners both online and in real life. I long to return, but Mistress won’t let me because she feels it would be detrimental. In Gor, the women are truly slaves against their will, liable to being killed or sold at the whim of their Owner for the slightest failure, sign of disrespect or act of obedience.
I long to be a wooden ballerina marionette, and I fantasize about it often whenever I’m sad. I was one in SecondLife for months, and I returned to it recently for a brief visit. Whenever I see puppets, I feel a connection and a wish to be with them, just a toy on strings, existing for no reason but to give joy, purely at the whim of my Owner.
As previously noted, I orgasmed 20 times in a single hour when Mistress’s Master took me to the porn theatre and allowed the men there to use me. He never once asked permission.
Possibly the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had was when a potential Master in Colorado Springs inflicted very powerful pain on me while also intensely playing with my clit and breasts. He never asked for permission.
I love bondage with a passion. I love to be tied up and gagged and left with no recourse, no way out, existing only as a plaything.
I’ve fantasized for years, masturbating every day (sometimes multiple times) about being transformed into a vinyl inflatable fuck doll. In a typical fantasy, I’m sold or given to somebody who has no idea I was once human. Instead, I’m treated as nothing more than an inanimate object, with the purpose of being fucked then deflated until brought out to be fucked again.
And so on.
Despite it all, I have a shred of self-preservation. Which is why I was so upset when I was collared by Mistress’s Master. I knew if I allowed my mind and heart to be owned by him, he would abuse me immensely without any reciprocation to me.
I’m a toy. And as a toy, isn’t it right that I seek an Owner who would love me? An Owner that would treat me as a toy, but as a cherished one?
I have to admit I don’t know why I’m this way. But that’s what I am. And Mistress and the Evergreen man saw it without a doubt.
And last night, after that conversation, the Evergreen man wrapped me tightly in a long corset that extended past my crotch (he called it a “bondage corset”), then he cuffed my hands behind my back.
And Mistress called me her doll. And the man called me an object.
And I melted inside.
I started singing “Coin-Operated Boy” (a fantastic song by the Dresden Dolls that Mistress introduced me to recently), but I changed the words and created my own lyrics to a song I called, “Coin-Operated Girl.” It’s me. Really me. And I love it. *bounces gently*
I like the Evergreen man a lot. But, despite his wealth and resources, he isn’t Mistress. And I love her very much. Oh, I believe I could love the Evergreen man as well. But he came a bit too late.
We likely won’t be seeing him much as he’s often out of town on business, and the drive to his place took around two hours. Still, though, it was fun enough that eventually we’ll make it out there again … or he can come see us.
One wonderful side benefit of his Hinduism was he showed us a fantastic movie called “Sita Sings the Blues.” It’s a reverently irreverent animated telling of the part of the Ramayana that deals with Rama’s relationship with Sita. It’s written by a woman and is quite funny while telling things from Sita’s point of view with great old music. The creator has released it for downloading free online at Sita Sings the Blues . Do yourself a favor and watch it soon!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, I lifted the term “conscious object” from an incredible blog entitled: The Thoughts of a Conscious Object . The author, known as “K-8”, has been posting regularly for years about her fixation with the idea of becoming a sentient object. There’s a whole subculture devoted to this, which includes numerous art and stories and discussions. (FYI, the subculture is called “ASFR”, which relates back to old pre-internet days when the stories were listed in a news group called “alt.sex.fetish.robots”). I’ve been fascinated by the subculture for a very long time and have read almost every story out on the Web about the topic, despite the fact that many are rather creepy, in that the person who is transformed does not want to be transformed. *shrugs*
To my total surprise, I met “K-8” in SecondLife a couple of days ago (she’s known as “Kate Battery” there). When I realized it was her, I completely embarrassed myself by behaving like a blushing teenage fangirl, and I don’t think an intelligent word was uttered on my part. Hopefully, the next time I meet her (should I be fortunate enough to do so), I’ll be able to have a better conversation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mistress’s Master came over today by surprise. Well, he gave some warning.
I’ve realized why I don’t like Mistress’s Master. He takes people’s good traits (like compassion and tenderness) and selfishly exploits them.
Mistress loves him deeply, even though she is very bothered by the fact her Master is cheating on his wife and, as a result, nothing long-term will ever come of the relationship. Mistress keeps telling me that she feels she and her Master will break up soon, but it seems yet to happen.
Mistress’s Master treats her like Mistress treats me. Today, for instance, he brought over a married couple and had Mistress suck his cock while they watched. He humiliates Mistress, uses her without concern for her desires and uses her to no end. He treats her as a slave. The problem is that Mistress doesn’t want to be treated like that, but she allows it because she loves him so much. In contrast, I want to be treated like that (as a slave, that is, without being asked for my input). Mistress is pretty much at her limits with her Master, in that it’s doubtful anybody could push her further than he does. I, however, am far from my limits with Mistress, and somebody (like her Master) could seriously hurt and abuse me if I let them get their hooks into me. I came pretty close to doing something pretty bad – I almost signed over power of attorney to a Master and Mistress in Colorado Springs – but I was stopped by my Mistress at the time, who refused to let them own me without them agreeing to a contract approved by her. That contract was a deal breaker, and I’m glad. Anyway, Mistress is hurt by how her Master treats her, and I’m blessed by how my Mistress treats me, yet we’re treated the same way. The difference is, of course, that Mistress loves me, and Mistress’s Master doesn’t love her. Such is life.
Mistress told me to expect to suck her Master’s cock, but fortunately, that didn’t happen. What did happen was I was stripped naked (except for my panties) for her Master (who occasionally groped my breasts), then tied up with skilled finesse by Mistress. My breasts were bound, my wrists were tied behind my back, and my ankles here tied together so I could hardly move. Well, hardly for some people, as I could still dance, spin around and kneel fluidly (which Mistress found amusing). After the couple arrived, I was told to stay in the living room while they all went to Mistress’s bedroom to play. I never found out exactly what happened except that the married woman was crying at the end and was rather uncomfortable with the events, and she was likely convinced against her wishes to try out BDSM today. Sounds like her husband and Mistress’s Master share a like mind in a few ways.
While they were all in there I decided to make good use of the fact that Mistress had untied my hands, and I made a plate of hor d'oeuvres using what little we had at the new house – which turned up to be little tuna-salad sandwiches and pickles arranged in a sunburst wheel around a small bowl of spicy dip. I had hoped to impress everybody because I was thoroughly pissed at myself. I was supposed to be in high protocol during the visit, but at one point when Mistress was trying to help me to my feet she slightly wrenched my arm by accident, and I corrected her by quietly saying I could get up better by myself and said she hurt me while doing so. I was embarrassed beyond belief that I had blurted out my thoughts like that, but nobody seemed to mind. Afterward, Mistress saw my inner turmoil and, to help me, she punished me by slapping my breasts and face around painfully, and that actually did help. Anyway, although I had hoped to further make up for that with the food plate, nobody ate it but Mistress and me, although people saw it, and Mistress was happy with it. And that was enough for me. *grins*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mistress wants to head out for dinner, so I’d better post this before it turns into a novel. Hopefully I didn’t make too many typos, as I’m posting it without proofreading it. La kajira!!!
A coin-operated girl.
A toy in a human body.
That’s me.
I’ve known that for a very long time in my heart, and I came to realize it yesterday in my mind. So did Mistress.
Mistress and I spent yesterday at the home of the man in Evergreen (the one who writes poetry and enjoys being humiliated by being forced to dress up as a woman).
I’ll be quick to admit I was rather unfair in my previous bias against him. He’s a very nice, considerate, insightful and extremely intelligent man. He’s extremely driven in ways I couldn’t dream of. For example, he began working in software as a teenager and graduated from college with an English degree at age 19, immediately becoming a high-school teacher (with some students actually older than he was that first year). He reads voraciously and is particularly fascinated with Hinduism, world religions and the cosmology of the physical universe.
He and Mistress got along perfectly. For most of the time we were there, I was either working in the kitchen or kneeling on the floor while he and Mistress discussed topics that were largely beyond my fields of knowledge.
I’m no dummy. I loved science in high school, and I was tested by Mensa (the high-IQ society) with a result that put me in the 99th percentile (making me a member for life). When I was a journalist, I would be the one everybody would turn to as the “walking encyclopedia” who knew tons of trivial about the most esoteric subjects. But something’s happened to me the last decade. In particular, since I discovered therianthropy. And I feel as if my brain is rational brain is shrinking, gradually being replaced by a mind that lives on instincts and hunches.
My wolf spirit.
But I digress. Suffice to say that Mistress and the Evergreen man seriously hit it off, although in a purely platonic way. As Mistress said last night, if that man is going to play with anybody, it’ll be me. But I don’t think he will. I got the strong feeling that once he understood my slave heart isn’t a fetish, but is instead who I truly am, he relegated me to the floor, as if I’m an underling. At times I would ask a question while hearing their conversation and he would ignore me. He never asked my opinion about anything. I was a slave, and I was treated as such, with all of his attention and respect going to my Owner.
And that’s how it should be. I applaud him for that, even if it means he and I will likely never wind up together for anything more than a one-night stand.
The Evergreen man’s house was huge and beautifully rustic, nestled in a mountain forest with a view that would take your breath away. His neighbors include Johnny Depp and Arnold Schwarzenegger (both of who have summer homes there). The drive to get to his house was rather long, convoluted and, at the end, extremely bumpy along a rocky rutted road, with us being happy we went up there in Mistress’s pickup truck instead of my Toyota sedan.
The man was equally impressive. He took part protesting in favor of gay-rights in Chicago as a teenager. Among his many fields of expertise is BDSM, and he was heavily involved in the Chicago community, and he became a counselor of sorts, helping people overcome psychological issues through applied bondage, pain, sex and the like.
Yet despite his experiences, I was a mystery to him. After dinner, he questioned me in an attempt to determine what makes me tick. What turns me on. He couldn’t figure me out because I’m not into this for humiliation or pain. I’m into it for the slavery, and he couldn’t see that as an end in itself.
He left the question hanging and began talking about some of his “patients,” and he mentioned how some women who felt too much in control of their situation would find they couldn’t orgasm easily, but would instead become detached. Those women, he said, would need to be put into situations (consensually, of course) where they wouldn’t know what was coming, such as being blindfolded and made to endure first cold play (with ice cubes on sensitive areas) followed by hot play (with melted wax). The man said some women he encountered consensually took part in very serious rape-oriented play, in which they would wear a band around their arm to parties, which would signal that anybody at the party could force them into having sex. Some went so far as to struggle, with the desire to be slapped or even beaten into submission. In one instance, he was the one who did the beating and raping, to my understanding. He wasn’t thrilled with doing it, but he took part nonetheless.
While he was talking, things started clicking together in my mind, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally locking into place.
I could answer his question regarding what turns me on.
To be treated as a toy. An object. A possession. Non-human.
I indicated to the man that I had his answer, but although he acknowledged that I wanted to speak, he didn’t let me for some time, instead making me wait until he and Mistress were sufficiently through with their conversation. And that was perfectly fine with me (even if a little frustrating) because it fit my true role in life.
After I started talking, though, both the man and Mistress became rather interested, and they completely agreed with me. And Mistress and the man both said they now know exactly how to treat me.
Pretty much every piece of the puzzle has already been mentioned in my previous postings in this blog.
Among the puzzle pieces are:
I’m fixated with Gor in a way I can’t shake. I was in Gor for years, serving Owners both online and in real life. I long to return, but Mistress won’t let me because she feels it would be detrimental. In Gor, the women are truly slaves against their will, liable to being killed or sold at the whim of their Owner for the slightest failure, sign of disrespect or act of obedience.
I long to be a wooden ballerina marionette, and I fantasize about it often whenever I’m sad. I was one in SecondLife for months, and I returned to it recently for a brief visit. Whenever I see puppets, I feel a connection and a wish to be with them, just a toy on strings, existing for no reason but to give joy, purely at the whim of my Owner.
As previously noted, I orgasmed 20 times in a single hour when Mistress’s Master took me to the porn theatre and allowed the men there to use me. He never once asked permission.
Possibly the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had was when a potential Master in Colorado Springs inflicted very powerful pain on me while also intensely playing with my clit and breasts. He never asked for permission.
I love bondage with a passion. I love to be tied up and gagged and left with no recourse, no way out, existing only as a plaything.
I’ve fantasized for years, masturbating every day (sometimes multiple times) about being transformed into a vinyl inflatable fuck doll. In a typical fantasy, I’m sold or given to somebody who has no idea I was once human. Instead, I’m treated as nothing more than an inanimate object, with the purpose of being fucked then deflated until brought out to be fucked again.
And so on.
Despite it all, I have a shred of self-preservation. Which is why I was so upset when I was collared by Mistress’s Master. I knew if I allowed my mind and heart to be owned by him, he would abuse me immensely without any reciprocation to me.
I’m a toy. And as a toy, isn’t it right that I seek an Owner who would love me? An Owner that would treat me as a toy, but as a cherished one?
I have to admit I don’t know why I’m this way. But that’s what I am. And Mistress and the Evergreen man saw it without a doubt.
And last night, after that conversation, the Evergreen man wrapped me tightly in a long corset that extended past my crotch (he called it a “bondage corset”), then he cuffed my hands behind my back.
And Mistress called me her doll. And the man called me an object.
And I melted inside.
I started singing “Coin-Operated Boy” (a fantastic song by the Dresden Dolls that Mistress introduced me to recently), but I changed the words and created my own lyrics to a song I called, “Coin-Operated Girl.” It’s me. Really me. And I love it. *bounces gently*
I like the Evergreen man a lot. But, despite his wealth and resources, he isn’t Mistress. And I love her very much. Oh, I believe I could love the Evergreen man as well. But he came a bit too late.
We likely won’t be seeing him much as he’s often out of town on business, and the drive to his place took around two hours. Still, though, it was fun enough that eventually we’ll make it out there again … or he can come see us.
One wonderful side benefit of his Hinduism was he showed us a fantastic movie called “Sita Sings the Blues.” It’s a reverently irreverent animated telling of the part of the Ramayana that deals with Rama’s relationship with Sita. It’s written by a woman and is quite funny while telling things from Sita’s point of view with great old music. The creator has released it for downloading free online at Sita Sings the Blues . Do yourself a favor and watch it soon!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, I lifted the term “conscious object” from an incredible blog entitled: The Thoughts of a Conscious Object . The author, known as “K-8”, has been posting regularly for years about her fixation with the idea of becoming a sentient object. There’s a whole subculture devoted to this, which includes numerous art and stories and discussions. (FYI, the subculture is called “ASFR”, which relates back to old pre-internet days when the stories were listed in a news group called “alt.sex.fetish.robots”). I’ve been fascinated by the subculture for a very long time and have read almost every story out on the Web about the topic, despite the fact that many are rather creepy, in that the person who is transformed does not want to be transformed. *shrugs*
To my total surprise, I met “K-8” in SecondLife a couple of days ago (she’s known as “Kate Battery” there). When I realized it was her, I completely embarrassed myself by behaving like a blushing teenage fangirl, and I don’t think an intelligent word was uttered on my part. Hopefully, the next time I meet her (should I be fortunate enough to do so), I’ll be able to have a better conversation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mistress’s Master came over today by surprise. Well, he gave some warning.
I’ve realized why I don’t like Mistress’s Master. He takes people’s good traits (like compassion and tenderness) and selfishly exploits them.
Mistress loves him deeply, even though she is very bothered by the fact her Master is cheating on his wife and, as a result, nothing long-term will ever come of the relationship. Mistress keeps telling me that she feels she and her Master will break up soon, but it seems yet to happen.
Mistress’s Master treats her like Mistress treats me. Today, for instance, he brought over a married couple and had Mistress suck his cock while they watched. He humiliates Mistress, uses her without concern for her desires and uses her to no end. He treats her as a slave. The problem is that Mistress doesn’t want to be treated like that, but she allows it because she loves him so much. In contrast, I want to be treated like that (as a slave, that is, without being asked for my input). Mistress is pretty much at her limits with her Master, in that it’s doubtful anybody could push her further than he does. I, however, am far from my limits with Mistress, and somebody (like her Master) could seriously hurt and abuse me if I let them get their hooks into me. I came pretty close to doing something pretty bad – I almost signed over power of attorney to a Master and Mistress in Colorado Springs – but I was stopped by my Mistress at the time, who refused to let them own me without them agreeing to a contract approved by her. That contract was a deal breaker, and I’m glad. Anyway, Mistress is hurt by how her Master treats her, and I’m blessed by how my Mistress treats me, yet we’re treated the same way. The difference is, of course, that Mistress loves me, and Mistress’s Master doesn’t love her. Such is life.
Mistress told me to expect to suck her Master’s cock, but fortunately, that didn’t happen. What did happen was I was stripped naked (except for my panties) for her Master (who occasionally groped my breasts), then tied up with skilled finesse by Mistress. My breasts were bound, my wrists were tied behind my back, and my ankles here tied together so I could hardly move. Well, hardly for some people, as I could still dance, spin around and kneel fluidly (which Mistress found amusing). After the couple arrived, I was told to stay in the living room while they all went to Mistress’s bedroom to play. I never found out exactly what happened except that the married woman was crying at the end and was rather uncomfortable with the events, and she was likely convinced against her wishes to try out BDSM today. Sounds like her husband and Mistress’s Master share a like mind in a few ways.
While they were all in there I decided to make good use of the fact that Mistress had untied my hands, and I made a plate of hor d'oeuvres using what little we had at the new house – which turned up to be little tuna-salad sandwiches and pickles arranged in a sunburst wheel around a small bowl of spicy dip. I had hoped to impress everybody because I was thoroughly pissed at myself. I was supposed to be in high protocol during the visit, but at one point when Mistress was trying to help me to my feet she slightly wrenched my arm by accident, and I corrected her by quietly saying I could get up better by myself and said she hurt me while doing so. I was embarrassed beyond belief that I had blurted out my thoughts like that, but nobody seemed to mind. Afterward, Mistress saw my inner turmoil and, to help me, she punished me by slapping my breasts and face around painfully, and that actually did help. Anyway, although I had hoped to further make up for that with the food plate, nobody ate it but Mistress and me, although people saw it, and Mistress was happy with it. And that was enough for me. *grins*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mistress wants to head out for dinner, so I’d better post this before it turns into a novel. Hopefully I didn’t make too many typos, as I’m posting it without proofreading it. La kajira!!!
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