Under His Hand

The journal of a slave

Closing Time

On June 24th my son was murdered. You knew him as B-man. He was 21 years old.

The last few weeks have been a nightmare. A hazy, twisting, overwhelming mess of pain and confusion and anger and pain and more pain. I’ve been in denial, I’ve said over and over that this can’t be real.

It is.

My son had recently (as in in the 2 weeks or so before his death) started seeing a girl. Her ex-boyfriend walked in on them sleeping in her bedroom. He then proceeded to attack my son in his sleep and kill him.

The details of my son’s death are too painful to discuss and that’s not why I’m here anyway. I came here to say goodbye. I cannot fathom a day where I will want to do this, be here. I can’t imagine a day where I care about kink or sex or can laugh again.

It’s all I can do to breathe.

You’ve been great blog readers. I didn’t want to leave it up to speculation, where I had disappeared to or why. So this is it, this is why. I’m not going to delete the blog, but I’m not going to pay the hosting charge when it comes due either. It’ll just fade away, I suppose. Seems fitting that way.

My new life is going to be trials, prosecutors, and figuring out how to live without him. Writing is what I do, though, and has always been a valuable tool for me so I might start up again somewhere else. It won’t be about sex or kink, but it will be about pain. It will be about grief and heartache and anger. It will be about family. It will be about my son.

Maybe we’ll see each other again, should our paths cross in that world. If not, take care. Thanks for the memories.

Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair, Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen…

It surprised me, the ease with which the beautician dismissed me and listened to Master.

She initially asked me what I wanted done with my hair as I was taking my seat in her chair. I opened my mouth to deliver the rehearsed directive he’d given me, but before I could finish, Master spoke from where he’d been standing behind us, she turned to him – and she never spoke to me again.

They made small talk while she cut, with her occasionally asking him questions about my hair cut.

I fully expected at some point that she’d ask me if I was okay with it. Or at the very least if I agreed with what he was saying. But nothing.

She was a younger girl, too. I could almost understand an older woman allowing the husband’s opinion to weigh in on his wife’s haircut. But I was pretty well flabbergasted that she didn’t even ask me what I wanted, she just did what he said.

I thought we lived in a feminist society? lol

I could tell from how it felt that she was cutting it short, far FAR shorter than what he’d told me to ask for, and I started to get nervous.

No. That’s not accurate. I started to get terrified. I know how beauticians sometimes take liberties. An inch becomes three, “shoulder length” ends up at your chin. I know because I’ve been there. Me having long hair has been a must for the last 12 years, he barely lets me get a trim, so feeling those scissors snipping so HIGH up my back made me sweat. Was he watching? Was he paying attention? Should I say something? Should I scream “RED!”??

And then I heard him say “No, take off a little more.”

So I let go and let Master.

When I went in, I had hair swishing the small of my back. Now, it’s barely past my shoulders- and some of the layers don’t even touch my neck. It feels AMAZING. I don’t even care what it looks like. My hair was thick and heavy and hot, this feels light and flouncy and lovely.

At the end, as I getting out of the chair she said, almost as an after thought, like she’d forgotten I was there: “Oh! Do you want to see the back of it?” and picked up the little hand mirror to hand me.

I laughed. Nah… what for? Master’s got this.



Catch up

I don’t really know why I needed to write my sister’s story. A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with another sibling after we all learned of her having moved out of slime-guy’s place and into stranger-guy’s place and this sibling had zero compassion or concern. On one level I get that (and in fact, I have those same feelings for an even different sibling of ours lol), on another level though, there are things I know about Christie that most of the rest of the family doesn’t know. In spite of there being almost a decade between us, Christie and I are fairly close, in so much as Christie lets people get close to her, that is.

Anyway. When something is rolling around in my head, the best way to turn it off is to get it out. So I did. And while I appreciate the advise for al-anon and boundaries, the truth is Christie maintains her own boundaries which are far stricter than any I would put up on my own. She knows I have an open door policy should she ever, ever need or want a place to go. She also knows I won’t pay for her addiction. For now, those are the only boundaries I need to have since she’s not interested (yet–or ever) in taking me up on the offer.

In other family news and speaking of open door policies(!)– Jack(who used to be Amber) is moving in with us at the end of the summer AND he’s bringing his queer-platonic-life-partner too! Isn’t that exciting?

It is, actually. For us. It’s not really a complicated story, they need a boost to get where they want to be going and they just can’t get ahead where they are. It wasn’t anything they asked for, it was an offer we extended to them. An opportunity to save some money, broaden their horizons, get out of the rut they are stuck in.

As for the queer-platonic-life-partner business… well, in my day we called them BFF’s, which is what I said to Jack and he said no, it’s more than that with them. That while they aren’t romantically involved, they make life decisions together and are in a committed relationship. So while I still think a non-romantic “life” partner is still just your best friend, it’s whatever, I don’t care what label they use.

The advantage of Jack having a built in BFF when he moves here is that I am thus relieved from being the BFF during his stay. They can go do things and explore things and have the experiences that 20-somethings like to have that 45-somethings aren’t interested in. The other advantage of having them with us is that we get a built in dog/house sitter which frees us up a LOT to be able to go do the things we want to do.

I am quite looking forward to it. I miss my kid, it’s never sat well with me how we moved and “abandoned” them, and this will go a long way in easing my mind. I don’t think parenting ever ends and I don’t think most ever stop wanting their kids to succeed, nor do I ever stop wanting to help them succeed. So I am.

Jack’s transition is on-going, it’s a slow process. He’s filed the paperwork for the legal name change (and the middle name was a non-issue in that I don’t think he even remembered asking me to pick it and he just chose what he wanted) and has seen the endocrinologist and the therapist so he can start taking testosterone. He doesn’t have the prescription yet, and it’s still not a sure thing (mostly considering cost, which he doesn’t know yet how much it will be), but the therapist has ‘approved’ it and sent the letter of recommendation/diagnosis and the endocrinologist has completed all the tests and blood work to make sure Jack is healthy enough to start it, so it’s just a matter of time.

And then, at some point in the future, Jack will have top surgery. Which I personally find utterly terrifying and hard to accept and… I’m very grateful it is not something he can do right now. I suppose that means that deep down, I still think (hope?) it’s a phase. Surgery is entirely too final.

Also, I’ve had to go back and correct the many times I’ve misgendered Jack just in this post. I might have even missed some. It’s difficult.

My other ‘abandoned’ child is actually doing quite well for himself. He landed himself a pretty decent job, decent pay for the area anyway, and between that and his Army Reserves income, he’s okay. He has another 2 1/2 years to go on his enlistment and then his plan is to move away from there as well. He’s not sure yet if he wants to come here where we are or where he wants to go. I don’t worry as much about him as I used to, though. He’s proven himself resilient and resourceful and responsible. I still think he’s too young to be so entirely unsupervised and the potential for screwing up royally is pretty high, but somehow he just keeps proving my fears unfounded. So.

Lastly, my third but first (oldest) child is also doing quite well. She’s working, raising kids, studying. There is still a possibility that she and the babygirls will be coming back stateside next year so she can do the clinical portion of her course, but that’s proving to be a little more complicated than she’d thought. I guess leaving before your husband has been reassigned comes with some consequences that we aren’t sure are worth the benefits. So we’ll see, I guess. I definitely want them to come home, obviously, but I also want them to make choices that are smart for the their future, not what’s best for me in the moment.

Babygirl #1 is going to be 7 in just over a month. SEVEN. That is not a typo! She’ll be heading into the second grade in the fall, she’s doing exceptionally well in school, reading at a 5th grade level and is in an advanced reader’s program at school. She has hair down to her butt. She also recently wrote her very first fanfic, starring the Monster High characters. It was a long, rambling story that hardly made any sense but I thought it was just too funny. Fanfic at age 6, lol. I love her. She’s otherwise a bit of a gamer geek, she likes to play WoW with her dad and Minecraft.

Babygirl 2.0 is three and a half, and is a pretty typical 3 year old. I just can’t believe how much they’ve grown and changed since they left.

I watch Jes now: see how responsible she is, what a great mom she’s turned into, how well she’s doing with her life, and while I know her story isn’t over and there’s lots of time to fuck it all up, I think back to the naysayers and negative nancy’s here in the comments on the blog when I used to talk about her and I just want to say one thing



Master and I are already packing up, getting ready to move. It’s just across town to a much larger house with a much much larger yard, which will be great for the dogs. My puppy is doing awesome, though he will need another surgery in a few months when he’s finished growing. We still have to find out where his missing teeth ended up and hopefully open up his clogged nasal passages so he can breathe better. He’s otherwise the happiest, bounciest, spoiledest dog in the history of dogs.

I’m also currently fostering a three-legged, large breed mix (if anyone is looking to adopt a low-energy, low-maintenance dog, hit me up. We transport out of state!). He’s pretty chill, but has some issues of his own from his backstory, too.

Kink-wise, you know… things just roll on. I think I’m just incredibly bored with talking about it, writing about it. There are only so many ways you can describe sex and pain and I’ve done them all, pretty sure. I’m more about the rest of life now, than about the kinky fuckery. I rather like how life has progressed and changed. We’re content, happy. There isn’t much I would change right now (except making Germany right next door, maybe.)

Writing has been sparse here, and will probably continue to be. You know how moving can be. What a pain in the ass!

Here are a couple of photos of my puppy though. He’s gotten so BIG (55 pounds at his last check up), but these show some of his facial deformities. The underbite is a result of the crushing to his snout and middle face, the cells there are stunted in growth. So his lower jaw is growing at a normal pace, but his upper is not. The result is the underbite.


The other photo just shows how crooked his face is. His eyes aren’t even, his nose leans- but he’s still my gorgeous baby boy. :)


My Sister’s Keeper

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Christie. She was a normal, happy, 14 year old middle-schooler, who complained about homework and played the clarinet in band and rode her bike to the park after school to play with her friends. She’d been raised in a family that went to church on Sundays, had dinner at the table every night at 6pm, attended youth group on Wednesday nights, and her most prized possession was a David Cassidy lunch box.

She was quite a pretty girl. She was petite, with golden blonde hair, bright blue eyes, smooth skin– and puberty had been more than generous to her figure. She wasn’t yet old enough, or worldly enough, to understand her body or the teenaged boys reaction to it, all she knew was that the extra attention was flattering and– she kind of liked it.

Maybe she encouraged it a little bit, as young girls flush with hormones might do. Maybe she teased a little, flaunted a little, so ripe with newly blossomed femininity as she was. But in spite of how a little playground, childish flirting might look, she was pure, innocent, and clueless. She’d never even held hands with a boy, let alone kissed one. She hadn’t even had a school dance come up yet, where one might have a reason to stand that close to a boy – in the dark, where all the first kisses she’d read about took place.

All of those new things were just waiting to be felt and experienced, those new and exciting and wonderful firsts. They were things she was looking forward to, in that heart-pattering, tummy-flipping way that young girls might dreamily anticipate.

Until that one day at school when she was the last one in the shower after gym class and her adult male teacher came in and pushed her up against the locker room wall and


She didn’t tell anyone.

There was no one safe enough to tell, you see. About a year prior, her parents had separated. Her dad had been caught in an affair and her mom kicked him out and he was so enamored with his new freedom that he seemed to have forgotten that he had kids. The man who had sat at the head of the dinner table for 13 years, who had taught her how to ride a bike and tucked her into bed at night and tickled her until she cried with laughter hadn’t been around to see her for weeks. And when he had visited last, he’d been… different. Distracted, rushed, with a new tan and a new woman.

Her mother, who had once taught Sunday school class and sewed new dresses every Easter and Christmas, now had a job for the first time in Christie’s entire childhood, and not only that, Mom had a boyfriend. And not just “some guy” but some guy who used to be friends with both her parents, who had been her dad’s co-worker for years, a guy who had young kids of his own that Christie herself had babysat for on the occasional Saturday night to earn a few dollars for the movies with her friends.

Christie’s mother and father were not having an amicable divorce. In fact, there was much anger and bitterness and hatred. The worst of it, and what ultimately set the stage for Christie’s silence, was an accusation from her father toward the boyfriend that the only reason he (the boyfriend) was dating Christie’s mom was to “get at” his daughter; his beautiful, innocent, clueless little girl had suddenly gotten caught in the middle of accusations and questions that she didn’t even understand. Christie’s mother was so wounded by her husband’s affair after 15 years of marriage that she no longer believed anyone was above betraying her, not even perhaps her own daughter, and she grilled Christie about “being touched” while spewing hatred about men, all men, every man. They were sex-starved, penis-focused perverts who only ever wanted one thing from girls. Christie’s mother questioned her repeatedly about what she had said, how she sat, what she wore, how she acted when she was babysitting. Had she asked for it? Did she want it? Was she flirting, showing too much breast, standing too close?

Christie’s mother ranted and raved about sex and men and perverts and slutty women with such vehemence and bitterness that the very idea of now going to her mom and telling her about the rape filled her with such fear and panic that she’d rather swallow a bowlful of razor blades.

Was it her fault?? Had she flirted? Had she stood too close to him? Was her gym uniform too tight, too short, too revealing? She didn’t know. It must have been. She’d caused it.

There was nobody to tell. So she swallowed it, buried it.

After the rape, things changed inside Christie. Things had changed for everyone, her mother, her whole family. But gone was her innocence, her childish anticipation of firsts. She didn’t go to church, she skipped school, she started hanging out in the high school yard, she sneaked cigarettes and beer, and slipped out her bedroom window at night.

At 15 she found out she was pregnant. The father was an older boy, all of 16 himself. He wanted nothing to do with her, or it. Christie, now “fat”, wasn’t the hot, blonde chick with the big tits that he’d enjoyed flaunting around his group of pot-smoking, class-ditching friends. Christie missed her first school dance. He went with someone else. Christie, humiliated and embarrassed, dropped out of high school.

Christie was just a few months past her 16th birthday when she went into early labor with her daughter. Her mother wasn’t home, she’d left town, thinking it was safe to do so with Christie being weeks away from her due date. Christie went to the hospital with her grandmother, where the baby began to experience complications. Teen mom and baby were rushed into an emergency c-section, where, according to Christie after it was over, there wasn’t time for the numbing medications to work and she felt everything. She screamed, she cried, she vomited, she blacked out. Baby was found breach and blue and wrapped in the cord.

Both survived.

Two years later, pressured from his family, the toddler’s father married Christie in a no-frills, court ceremony, and joined the Army. He and Christie and child were whisked off to the barren loneliness of Kansas where they set up home in a tiny two bedroom, single wide trailer. Christie had never been away from her mom and family. Not ever. In the days before cell phones, before internet, and being too poor to even have a landline phone, Christie’s only contact with anyone was when she and her daughter trekked down to the payphone to make a collect call to her mom, and hope she was home to answer.

She didn’t- couldn’t- tell her mom that her new husband was mean, cold and cruel. She didn’t – couldn’t- tell her mom that he spent his paycheck on booze and cigarettes and poker with his Army buddies, that there was hardly enough left to pay bills, that she and the little girl were hungry a lot of the time. He’d never wanted the child, he’d certainly never wanted to marry her, and he made sure to tell her that as often as possible.

Not that that stopped him from fucking her, though. He held it over her head, that she was good for nothing else, obviously. She couldn’t get a job without child care, which she couldn’t afford anyway, and she had no transportation, didn’t have a license, and hadn’t even finished high school, and since she was just going to sit on her fat, lazy ass and sponge off his hard work, the least she could do was earn her keep and spread her fucking legs. Besides, she wanted the kid to eat, didn’t she??

With no money left over for extras like birth control, Christie was soon pregnant again. It was months before she told him, and when she did she sported a few bruises after, and a few more months before she told her mom, sputtering and bawling into the dirty pay phone with her 3 year old at her feet. As Christie’s due date drew nearer, panic began to set in. Her memory of the traumatic painful birth of her first child was as fresh as the pink scar that zipped up her stomach. In a moment of pure desperation she begged her husband to please let her go home for the birth, she cried for her mother over and over, and he finally forked over the cash for a bus ticket, likely glad to be rid of her and the squalling toddler. Gathering up her 9-months-pregnant self and her daughter, Christie rode the bus for 18+ hours straight.

2 weeks later her husband demanded she bring HIS son home. Fresh from another cesarean, with a newborn and a toddler, she took the bus back to her husband. Alone.

The marriage limped along for another year or so, until he was dishonorably discharged from the Army after getting caught with drugs. He dragged them all back home but with nowhere to live, Christie and her two kids moved in with her mother, he moved in with his mother, and shortly thereafter, Christie filed for divorce and custody of the kids he didn’t want.

She took her driver’s test and got her license, then applied for and got a second shift job in a factory. The wages were low, but the work wasn’t too hard and the paycheck was steady. Pretty soon she was able to get a tiny apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. The factory crowd was an easy crowd to work with, and soon enough Christie had made friends. The new friends often went to the bar after work, to wind down and drink off the monotony of assembly line work. At the bar, Christie had fun. There was dancing (finally! A dance with a boy. Her first.), laughing, joking, forgetting. At the bar, Christie didn’t think about her kids or her bills or her life. There was nothing but darts, the pool table, a beer and a smoke, and dancing.

Going out after work soon progressed to going out on weekends, too. Someone was always having a party somewhere, more opportunities to numb, drown out, ignore. Nobody really knew how adept her young daughter had gotten at taking care of her little brother. From finding him food, to diapers, to entertaining, to watching him while mom was either gone or passed out or too drunk to move. Christie didn’t mean for it to be that way, but the guilt was easier to swallow with a beer chaser.

One day, Christie met a guy at the bar. His name was Dave. He was handsome, gregarious, personable. His family was wealthy. He dazzled Christie with his charm and flirtations, with his money. He promised her an easier life. Yeah, he sometimes got a little short tempered when he drank, but… Christie was used to that. Plus, he had an endless supply of cocaine, and Christie hadn’t even known how much she enjoyed the rush that coke gave her until it was too late.

She left her apartment behind, quit her job, and moved herself and her kids into his house. He had a nice house, a big house, her kids didn’t have to share a room for the first time in their short little lives. One has to wonder if she knew that her son snuck into his big sister’s room almost nightly, to climb into her bed and cover his head with her blanket in an attempt to block out the crashes and bangs and his mother’s cries as Dave, drunk and high, slammed her around that big, ol’ house.

Christie began wearing sunglasses on days that weren’t very sunny, and long sleeved shirts on days that weren’t chilly. She began avoiding friends and family, and trying, almost desperately, to get someone, anyone, from grandparents to aunts and uncles, to please watch the kids for the weekend? Or the week? Some people thought she was just trying to get rid of them so she could drink more and snort more coke, and I suppose, as a full blown addict, that was part of it. But mostly, and because I still believe she was a good person, she was trying to protect them from Dave in the only way she knew how.

She was trapped, not only because she had no money and nowhere to go, but by addiction and the allure of the steady stream of drugs and alcohol that Dave provided. So what if it came with a few fists and kicks? With enough shit in her blood stream, she couldn’t feel them anyway.

The final straw came when the children’s grandparents were driving them home after a weekend spent watching them, and upon pulling into the driveway of Dave’s big, ol’ house, the sounds of a fight came drifting out into the driveway and those two little kids broke down, terrified, begging and crying to please don’t leave them there, to please take them back to grandma’s house, please please please get mommy, and can we go, please now please. PLEASE.

What had been “known” was know KNOWN and Christie came out of the house with a broken nose, missing two teeth and a dislocated jaw. There was a trip to the emergency room, a trip to the police station, a trip to the legal aid office, and a trip to the courtroom, where, in spite of the photos and doctors, Dave’s family’s attorney obliterated Christie on the stand.

Apparently, money can buy a lot more than just cocaine.

Christie didn’t recover well. I would like to say that she beat her addiction and bettered herself, a battered woman success story to inspire millions everywhere. But no. She sank deeper into addiction and alcohol, suffering all of the usual consequences of being too drunk too often. From abortions after one night stands at the bar to drunk driving charges to car accidents (where nobody got hurt, miraculously) to financial troubles to lost jobs to health problems.

Her children were not babies anymore, her daughter was in the double digits, her son not far behind. Christie was just in her 20’s, though one would never guess it. She looked much older, but she was still pretty, in spite of her hardness. Still blonde and petite, with a great figure even after two kids. She’d long ago learned how to use her looks and her body to get what she wanted. And she did. Unfortunately, all she usually wanted was another drink, another snort.

And then she met Brian. Now, to be sure Brian was as big of a drinker as Christie was, but he was a nice drunk at least. In many ways, they were bad for each other. The amount of alcohol the two of them could put away would be impressive if it hadn’t been so alarming.

In other ways, though, Brian was the best thing to happen to Christie since…. ever. He was sweet and romantic. He was funny and genuine. He owned a home, had a steady job. And he thought Christie was beautiful. Christie had become hard and rough, but Brian softened her edges. He brought her flowers, he bought her dinner. He complimented her constantly. He almost doted on her.

He proposed. They married. Her daughter and her son walked down the aisle. They moved into a home together. Christie and Brian, for as much as they loved each other and made each other happy, kind of ‘forgot’ about the kids a little too often. The kids had grown up their entire lives around alcoholism and addiction, around neglect and abuse, and they were tired. So very tired.

In a twist that surprised everyone, the children’s father- the abusive, dishonorable discharge, forgot he had kids father – had turned his life around. At some point during Christie’s destruction, he had found God, remarried, had another child. He was quiet, gentle, stable. He offered a home to his first two children.

Imagine if you can, a girl of around 13 who had known nothing but chaos and dysfunction, who was facing many years more of chaos and dysfunction. A girl who wasn’t turning toward the life she’d been raised in, but was fighting it, hated it, wanting nothing to do with it, at all, ever, and having this peach of a life dangled before her, by the father who had abandoned her, who wanted to make it right.

The father her mother hated.

Christie may not have made good choices- ever. But she was THERE. She’d STAYED. She’d fought and she’d been beat and she’d gotten back up only to get knocked down again, and still she was there. He? Ducked out for a decade, didn’t know or care if the kids were alive or dead, and now he wanted to swoop in and take it all away from her.

For all of Christie’s faults and mistakes, she loved her kids. She may not have known how, she may have been damaged and done damage, but her love was genuine and fierce.

So when her daughter disappeared one day? When her daughter called from her father’s house and said she wasn’t coming home? Christie shut down.

Christie was so wounded, felt so betrayed, that when the day came to appear in court as the ex filed for custody, Christie didn’t even show up. And thus began a hurt for the both of them, mother and daughter, from which they’ve never recovered.

Christie’s daughter, who may or may not have been cemented in her decision to live with her father, took her mother’s absence like a knife to her heart. Mom hadn’t bothered to fight for her.

Christie’s son hadn’t known his sister was leaving, either. He also felt abandoned and betrayed, left now on his own to cope with his mother and new step-father’s alcoholism. Only he also got a front row seat to the pain and hurt his mother experienced over her daughter’s leaving, and even if he would have been better off with his father, even if he really wanted the same opportunity to escape his life, he couldn’t leave her, too.

He loved her, as all children love their mother whether they necessarily deserve it or not, and at just 9 years old, he hardly had the maturity to make those kinds of decisions. What should have happened was that same father who was hearing first hand from his daughter the circumstances of his son’s life with Christie, should have filed for custody, fought for custody, or done something – anything. Anything except ASK a 9 year old boy who had just watched his mother cry for weeks straight over her daughter leaving if he *wanted* to leave her too. Of course he said no.

And so he stayed. Alone. And largely raised himself. Alone.

The years passed, as they do. Christie and Brian remained a seemingly happy, in love, functioning-alcoholic couple. They started a business together. He opened an auto repair shop, and Christie worked alongside him, learning how to do the simpler jobs and running an auto detailing service on the side, while also working as his secretary, answering the phone, doing the billing, scheduling the jobs. They bought a home, had some dogs and lived what was, without question, the very best years of Christie’s life.

All in all, both kids turned out okay. Daughter got married and had a couple of babies, and though she and her mother aren’t close, and never will be again, Christie adored her granddaughters. Unfortunately, Christie and Brian’s alcoholism limited the amount of time the daughter was willing to allow her children to spend with their grandmother, but at least she didn’t cut her out completely. It could have been worse.

Son, too, grew up, got married. Got a job. Doesn’t drink a whole lot, neither of the kids do.

For almost 18 years, Christie and Brian built a life. Though it took years, Christie finally let her guard down. Somewhere along the way, the cocaine and other drugs fizzled out. She’d even cut back a little bit on her drinking, and she’d quit smoking, too. She developed an interest in gardening, flowers and vegetables, and a keen interest in wild life rehab. She was happy. As happy as she had ever been.

I think, for everyone who knew Christie, who knew even a little bit of her life before, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a happy ending. If anyone deserved one, or…. maybe even if she didn’t deserve it, she could have it.

And then, one random date night out with her husband, Brian and Christie ran into an old friend of Brian’s. An old girlfriend from high school, someone he hadn’t seen or spoken to in over 20 years. She’d moved away after school and was only just now back in town. For old time’s sake, they all three hung out that night.

A few weeks later, not more than a few days after Christie’s 18th wedding anniversary, Brian turned to her and, completely out of the blue, said he was leaving her. That day. Right then. For the old flame.

There was nothing that could have prepared her for that pain. A thousand broken noses and kidney punches would have hurt less, she said. For months, she locked herself away in the house that he’d emptied, refusing to talk to people, refusing help. Drunk and suicidal.

She didn’t see it coming, she said. She’d had no idea that anything had gone on beyond that one chance meeting at the bar. They’d celebrated their anniversary like they always do, full of romance and love. Nothing had been different at all. She was completely blindsided.

I wish I could say she was surprised, but she’d already been so beaten by life that when bad things happen, that 14 year old girl who is pressed up against the locker room wall whispers in her ear “You deserve this. It’s your fault.” and she believes her.

Christie never really picked herself up from that blow. She went off with the first guy who paid attention to her because she had never, in all her 44+ years, figured out that she could live and be happy with just herself, that she didn’t need a man, not to fuck, not to buy her beer, not to slap her around.

Because.. Christie does believe she needs that. She does believe she deserves that. Her alcoholism, which had settled some, spiked worse than it had been in years and years. She immediately moved in with this guy, who was just as useless of a drunk as her previous choices, who promptly swindled her out of the money she got in the divorce from the sale of the house and splitting of the business. She was, again, without a job, she’d never gotten her drivers license back from the many many drunk driving charges she’d gotten over the years, and she was, once again, trading her body for booze.

Her relationship with her daughter, strained as it already was, plummeted to new lows. Now, not only was she too drunk to be around her granddaughters, this guy she was living with was even worse. He was… slimy.

Once again, the only one left was her son. To pick up the pieces, to babysit, to rescue. Again, there was suspicion of abuse. One too many “I tripped over the coffee table” stories to explain away this bruise or that black eye. And yet… drunks do stumble. A lot. She would never come out and say he hit her, because she knew her son would have beat the fuck out of him. She also never denied it. It was always “We just got drunk.”

No matter how many offers she got (gets) from family – her son, even her daughter, her mother, her sisters- to move in with them, take a break, recover, she wouldn’t do it. “I’m too old to sponge off family” she’d say. What she was really worried about was who would supply her alcohol. Full blown addicts have a hard time focusing on much more than their supplier. For her, she had to suck some dick, maybe take some hits (or maybe not), but the booze was always there. He never let her down that way.

Over the next several years, as her alcoholism has taken an even harder toll on her body and her looks, and, I suspect, her brain function, she’s lost…. everything. All of her belongings, all of those things that are important to most people- baby pictures, keepsakes, mementos- all gone due to the consequences of heavy drinking, lost jobs, evictions, family that has given up. Grandchildren she barely knows.

But the booze is always there.

Christie is 54 years old now.

She JUST left this slimeball who may or may not have been hitting her, but was certainly abusing her in other ways.

She moved in with another guy that nobody knows. Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting to get a call. You know the call.

I have offered until I’m blue in the face to let her live with me. I have begged. What I won’t do, though, is feed her addiction. I will help her in any other way, though.

She’s 54 and I feel like time is ticking down. Time to get better, time to do better, be better. But maybe she’s the best she can be.

This last Christmas, I set an alarm and Master and I got up somewhere around 3am so we could Skype with the grandkids in Germany on their Christmas morning. My sister, who lives just a few miles from her son and his daughters, got too drunk on Christmas eve to make Christmas morning with her grandkids. That makes me want to shake her until her eyes bleed. But that is a pattern they are used to and I hate that. For them, for her.

She doesn’t get a free pass on the mistakes she made. But she very likely wouldn’t have made those mistakes had the other stuff that isn’t her fault not happened.

Alcoholism ain’t no joke.

I’ll never give up on her, though. Not ever. Maybe because I can’t forget the image of that locker room.


I was talking with a friend recently about the drudgery of my daily life. The ‘same shit, different day’ attitude that creeps in and takes root.

It’s my biggest enemy- that skewed view. Especially in relation to kink things. When everything becomes so normalized that I stop seeing it or feeling it or noticing it.

At the end of the day, as I’m readying for bed, I can have this disgruntled, dissatisfied notion that my entire day was all vanilla– which is a killer for a girl like me. It’s as much of a punch to the gut as a nun getting into bed, knowing she’d sinned all day long, lol; a pervasive belief that you aren’t living up to your full potential.

It’s the nature of this type of relationship to tie my hands, to let him direct the activities, from the big to the little. So no matter how much I might wish for or want something different, he has to do it. I cannot. I can’t manipulate, I can’t demand, I can’t create. I am to just be.

So I climb into bed, where I may or may not be chained and padlocked in, with a no-fooling, old-fashioned chamber pot nearby in case I have to piddle in the night because a slave does not (willfuckingnot, do you understand, cunt?) wake her sleeping Master for something so mundane and inconsequential as a need to use the toilet.

Not to mention that the only reason I’m going to bed when I’m going to bed is because he’s told me to go to bed. It’s rare-to-never that I “announce” that I’m going to bed. I might have asked if I could, if I was feeling particularly exhausted but usually he’s not too keen on me leaving him, nor am I usually too eager to go without him. He might need something, and then what??

So I climb into bed, naked -always- because I’m not allowed to wear clothing in his bed, though I have stopped thinking “I am naked because my Master commands it” and have started thinking “I find pajamas hella uncomfortable to sleep in so I’ma sleep in mah birthday suit!”. Like I decided this for myself, and make the choice each and every night.

My eyes pass over without seeing the state of my body- the scars that spell words, the scars that are just scars because he felt like it, bruises here and there in various hues of healing, an ache here, a sting there.

I lie down and adjust the ring on my collar, the silly little leash ring that slides and spins and will, invariably, pinch my skin or get tangled in my hair at some point in the night. Another something I’ve stopped thinking about- wouldn’t a vanilla person take off jewelry that pinched their skin and pulled their hair in the night, if only for comfort’s sake? The collar and wrist cuffs never come off. A matched set. I don’t even feel the weight of them anymore. These days I only think about them when I notice a stranger’s glance is a little too long, a little too pointed, their face a little too judgy; and I fleetingly wonder what they are thinking, even if I really don’t give a fuck what they’re thinking.

But even prior to getting into bed, I’ve fetched a glass of ice water and placed it on his nightstand. I’ve prepped his toothbrush before asking for permission to do my own. I’ve asked for permission to go to the bathroom- in the actual toilet and not in the chamber pot or, worse, been sent out to the backyard in the dark with the bugs and crawlie things and mosquitoes.

I have, probably, had his cock in one or more of my holes one or more times that day. At least, assuming he’s home and not traveling which he’s been home a LOT (a lot) lately, I have likely been fucked in some manner, have likely swallowed his cum, or licked it off of (or out of) something.

I have likely served as a urinal a few times, the taste lingering in the back of my throat. Or it might be in my hair, hair he won’t let me wash “just yet”, so he can berate me for being a piss smelling whore.

Or.. maybe not.

Maybe he used the toilet all day, ignored me. Maybe he didn’t want to fuck me, would rather masturbate or do nothing at all.

That’s never up to me, though. Not to expect that I will be used in any capacity, not the right to ask for it, and certainly not the right to deny it.

It is a certainty, though, that, before bedtime, I have cooked all of his meals and plated them and served his plate to him first, before being allowed to eat my own. It is certain that I have fetched and served a glass of water/a beer/a glass of wine/made a mixed drink each time he’s asked for it. It is certain that I have fetched a snack, made a sandwich, gotten a clean pair of socks, a different tshirt, taken off his boots, gotten his phone off the counter/out of his pocket/out of car where he left it, gone to the store to buy whatever he’s craving.

It is certain that before bedtime rolled around I have cleaned the house to the standards he’s allowed me that day- which varies from spotless to messy, depending on what else he might be having me do.

I might have given him a massage that day. I might have sat on the floor while he sat on the couch watching tv, and soaked and washed his feet, massaged them, too, before giving him a pedicure.

I might have wanted to go somewhere only to be told no, we aren’t going. I might have not wanted to go anywhere only to be told to stfu and get ready. I might have wanted ice cream and couldn’t have any, only to watch him eat a bowlful. I might have not wanted to taste the icky-to-me thing he was eating only to know that if I don’t open my mouth when he’s bringing the fork in, he’ll stab me in the lips until I do.

Maybe there were random acts of violence, a shove up against the wall pressing his full body weight against me, pinning me like a bug to a board. Or a hand around my throat, that small smile on his face while I gurgled, my arms dangling at my side. A punch, a slap, a pinch- just for funsies.

Or.. none of that. Nothing. A hug, perhaps. Or a kiss. A quick dance around the kitchen, or a snuggle on the couch.

But I don’t get to pick.

I may or may not have had a plug in my ass for days, even weeks, in a row, with no option to remove it just because I want to or it’s uncomfortable.

It is definitely certain that I have asked for permission to use the bathroom each and every time I’ve needed to go. That one never changes.

It is also certain that, long long before bedtime, even as the sun was just coming up, he kicked me out of bed, and sent me off to the kitchen while he either lounged in bed reading, or relaxed on the couch with the remote, or messed about online- while I made coffee and poured it, tended to the pets, made breakfast and served it. All of this at the very start of my very vanilla day.

The conversation with my friend had centered mostly on the under-the-desk sex. Something I’ve written about extensively before. It makes up 97%, at least(!), of our sex. There’s nothing kinky – to me- about being under the desk.

It’s dark and cramped and stuffy. It’s uncomfortable. I can look at the blank, brown side of the desk or the blank wall or the blank floor- though mostly I close my eyes and go somewhere else in my head. Usually somewhere that is nowhere, a misty-ghostly no place with vague, hazy images of pain and bondage and a repeating thought that’s been drilled into me (somehow?) that goes ‘Keep your ass cocked up, you’re just a hole for his pleasure. Keep your ass cocked up, you’re just a hole for his pleasure. Keep your ass cocked…’

My arms get tired and no matter how I try to position myself or how hard I try to stabilize myself, before it’s over my neck will be bent and my head will be smashed up against the wall because I simply cannot withstand the force of the constant thrusting behind me, pushing me forward cm by cm.

He doesn’t interact with me, except maybe to reprimand me if I move too much. It could be his hand, or a fleshlight, or a blow up doll that he’s fucking.

Sometimes he spices things up with some ass slapping or hard back scratching. Or a few punches that settle deep in the muscles, making them cramp and ache. Or a reach around for a nipple or two to squeeze and tug on. All of that to make me whimper or cry out.

Oh, and to make my pussy wet (or so he says).

So maybe for him, he’s got a wet cunt hole, or a tight puckered asshole, spread and on display, just waiting for him to pick one to fuck. Or both, if he’s in the mood. And at the same time, he gets to indulge in his second-favorite activity of all time– watching porn. All of the porn. Women of all shapes and sizes, spread pussies, gaping assholes, bouncing breasts, moaning and screaming and begging for more, beautiful women with perfect bodies and round tight asses who just want to eat cum.

and he has to do nothing to me. No prep, no foreplay, no worry about my satisfaction, no pressure, no nothing. If he wants a noise out of me, he makes me make one. If he wants words out of me, he tells me what to say. If he wants my cunt to clench or my asshole to spasm, he knows how to do that, too.

I am just a hole to fuck.

Just a hole.
Just a hole.
Just a hole.
Just a hole.

It is, for him, the best.sex.ever. I am the living, breathing blow up doll with the always-available, always-warm, no-maintenance set of holes ready for his cock any time it twitches.

You see? Nothing kinky to see here.

And so, I will sometimes climb into bed at night and wonder where the kink went.

Right after I adjust my chains, ready my chamber pot, and ask for permission to sleep.

Ghandi said – “Monotony is the law of nature. Look at the monotonous manner in which the sun rises. The monotony of necessary occupation is exhilarating and life giving.”

All monotony needs is a spotlight shone on it, and suddenly all the twinkles comes to light.