The Good Sub

the ultimate battle beween good and brat

Who’s That Chick?

Hello, blogosphere! However you happened to stumble across this blog, let me humbly thank you for taking the time to read my work. I am an owned and collared submissive, and have been in a BDSM relationship for almost four years. We attempt to be 24/7, however, there are small humans in the picture, so this alters things a bit. I identify as a slave, a submissive, a puppy,  a little, and definitely a brat, with a capital B.  There’s a long list of things I am into, and a short list of things I’m not. I refer to my Owner primarily as Daddy, but occasionally I will refer to Him as Master, especially if I am being formal. For both of us, this is our first BDSM relationship. We were amazingly lucky not only to be each other’s first, but also that our kinks have been so in line. This blog is about our journey in kink, and the ins and outs of being in a monogamous 24/7 Master/slave dynamic. Due to Daddy’s job, and the type of work I plan on going into, I’m blogging this under a pseudonym; but although the names have been changed to protect the guilty, the stories are 100% true unless otherwise indicated.  I hope you have as much fun reading about my life as I have living it!

Featured post

A New Pair of Glasses

Hi, My name’s X, and I’m an alcoholic.

I started to write this post before I went to a meeting- but just now returning from the meeting, my perspective has changed; as it usually does. Living life on life’s terms, without being driven by ego and selfishness is a seemingly insurmountable task.Before the meeting, I was grumpy, and anxious. I have bills I don’t know how I’ll pay, things I simply don’t know how to do, and a schedule that is packed enough to drive even the most Type-A personality to drink. All this chaos swirling around in my brain is enough to give me a panic attack of epic proportions…but one of my main problems, is that I think my problems are special. . . but they’re not. They’re just garden variety problems, just like everyone else in life faces.

Today is day 124 without a drink touching my lips…if you know anything about my history (and if you read this blog, you do), then you will know what a miracle in an of itself that is. But it’s so much more than that. It’s only been 4 months. But let’s take stock of the things in my life that have changed in such a short period of time: I’ve ended an unhealthy 5 year co-dependent relationship. I’ve bought a new car. I’ve taken up my classes to work towards a higher credential at work. I’ve moved to a new location for my job and taken on more responsibility. I’ve invested in flute lessons for the eldest mini-me. I’ve bought a pair a professional dog trimmers, and given my pouches a semi-decent looking haircut. I’ve committed to growing my hair out. I’ve given up smoking, and switched to vaping. I’ve KonMaried my house from top to bottom, for goodness sakes. I may, (hopefully) be moving into a new house.

On a more personal level, I’ve been there for my children more. Yes, I’ve been snappy, and I’ve had my hard days, and I’ve had to apologize FAR MORE often than I’d like… But I’m also here all the time now, instead of arguing with a man about why I should be important enough to invest in a real future with. I’ve kissed boo-boos, and read stories-I’ve made flash cards, and cooked dinner. I’ve packed lunch, every. single. day. I’m here. I’m right here in the middle of this life that’s happening to me, and it’s a miracle, and a beautiful sight to behold.

I have no idea what the future holds. And I don’t need to. All I need to do is trust the process that is happening, and watch the beauty of it all as it unfolds. That’s sooo much easier said than done, my friends. I know you know this. I know this, too. But the knowing, and the doing are worlds apart. So for today, I’m going to forgive those who’ve wronged me…and know that I too deserve forgiveness. I’m going to try to remember that no matter how great I may become, or how horribly I may falter, that the best any of us can aspire to be is only human. I’ll sleep well, knowing I’ve done my best for today…and I’ll be grateful that I have a new set of glasses with which to view the world.


I know you guys are used to my spicy posts about sex and debauchery, and believe you me, I hope and pray that I can get back to those soon enough. Right now though, I feel like I just need to write about the situation I’m facing, because I feel like until I just put it all out there, I won’t get past it.

It’s been just over a month since I split from my (old) Daddy. I didn’t really fill you in on what was going on before, because it wasn’t necessarily relevant to my blog, nor did I want to share such personal information- especially as it was an obstacle I thought we would eventually overcome. BUT, since we didn’t, I have no problem sharing it now, because I need to do so to heal. This man that I was with, for nearly 5 years, who I gave my heart and soul to, who my children called Dad…this man was married. Granted, he was separated, from the time we got together (supposedly, but now, who knows??) but he wasn’t actually divorced. Now, when we first started dating, I thought it was no big deal. This was because I was also married, and hadn’t even separated from my D-Bag ex-husband until about a month after we started seeing each other. However, that changed. I’ve been legally single since 2015, and he kept dragging his feet.

I LITERALLY begged him over and over. I moved to the midwest, from the beautiful beach side town I lived in, and LOVED, on the promise he made me that he would finally file, before my birthday. He didn’t. He promised me again, and then didn’t deliver. I called it quits after that, and asked him to help me move back to said beautiful beach side town- he refused. We eventually patched things up, and he swore again he would do it. I made him take me to the consultation with the lawyer…a lot of good it did me.

So we’re all patched up, things are moving along great, and we’re even picking out engagement rings. It’s all sorted, I think, which is great, because he’s set to move down south for his new job, and I tell him I won’t move again for him without being married, given how he’s fucked me over once or twice in the past. The divorce also has to happen in the specified time frame, because I’ve applied for graduate school where he’s moving, and in order to meet the time lapse from divorce to re-marriage, it has to happen when he said it would. So the court date is supposed to happen on February 22nd, and THE DAY BEFORE, he texts me, while I am at work and unable to process anything heavy, that there is ‘a problem with the divorce date.’ As you can imagine, I lost my shit. I was crying at work (how unprofessional) and engaging  in a text argument of colossal proportions. I was pissed, and hurt, and wanted answers. But answers was not what I got. Instead, I got victim blamed. “This is such a shock to me too! I can’t believe that you’ve turned on me like this…I can’t even talk to you, I’m turning my phone off because I can’t believe how YOU are reacting.” I tried SEVERAL times to get him to tell me what happened, but he would not. Finally, I said “I’m done” via text, then immediately felt bad, because we said we would not end things via text. So I called. And he sent it to voicemail. That was the final straw: I blocked him. He continued to try and call and text, and when those didn’t go through he started e-mailing me. Here’s the thing. NONE of these e-mails contained anything that even sounded like ‘I’m sorry.’ Not a fucking thing about ‘I know I’ve lied to you repeatedly, and I said it would be different this time, and it wasn’t…that must be disappointing for you.’ Not ‘Hey, I know this is devastating, but it’s out of my control, and here’s the e-mail from the lawyer that proves it.’ Not ‘Hey, I know this is primarily my fault, because I could have filed for divorce literally years ago, but I didn’t, and now this hot mess happened.’ Not ‘Hey, I realized you hung your hopes on grad school here, and now I may have not only fucked up our relationship, but also your higher learning opportunities.’ NO. Nothing like that. Instead I get e-mails like this one:

“Our relationship had 5 years of mutual love, marriage plans, adoption plans, and forever plans…yet it gets the same treatment as the guy who pointed a gun at you, drove DUI with your daughter, cheated on you, and wasted your money???”


“Don’t you find it a little bit hypocritical that just last weekend (one of our best ever) you implored me not to lose faith with you in your battle with alcohol. I have always supported you and agreed to continue. Then just a couple of days later you turn on me and lose faith in us…just doesn’t make sense. I love you and miss you and hope to hear from you soon”

and then the last one he sent…this one really fucking gets me:

“I’ve tried to contact you for over 3 weeks. You refuse to talk. I am very disappointed that you didn’t care enough to find out what caused the delay and how easy it would have been to fix. I almost wonder if this is what you really wanted.”

Here’s why that chaps my ass: FIRST OF ALL, I gave him plenty of damn time to tell me what happened, he just chose not to….I scrolled through our text feed to make sure of it. SECOND OF ALL, how easy it would have been to fix it? What the actual fuck? I mean, if he were set on marriage and adoption and all these things he claims, wouldn’t he actually follow through with said divorce, and then come at me like “Bae, my bad, but shit’s legit now, let’s roll”…..

Beginning to wonder if this is what I really wanted?!?!?! I stayed with this narcissistic fucker for 5 years, making myself believe his lies, because ALL I ever wanted was to be a WHOLE family. My two ex-husbands walked out and abandoned their children, and this douche bag is NO BETTER.

He manipulated me, and lied to me, and he hurt me. And it sucks, because even though I’m trying to do all the right things, HE IS STILL FUCKING HERE. He’s here every time someone says “I guess” and I say “so far”. He’s here every time we get in the car, and say “Go flight!” for our seatbelt check. He’s here every time my youngest asks where her Dad is. AND GOD, I JUST FUCKING HATE IT!!!! I hate him. I hate that I loved him. I hate that I fell for his lies, over, and over and OVER.

So that’s why I’m writing. I NEED to get this out. For the month that he’s been gone, I’ve been sick. Not just mentally, but physically. I have had a wicked sinus infection for a month…and I truly feel like it’s my body holding on to all the negativity and chaos he created in my life, and my family’s life.

We used to joke that my two exes were ‘The D’s” D1, and D2, for Douche 1 and Douche 2. Well, guess who’s D3?

He’s no better. Yes, my last ex lied, and said that he would quit drugs over and over and cheated on me. But this cat lied to me over and over saying he would get a divorce, and didn’t…and just because I never caught him cheating (or sleeping with his wife,) that doesn’t mean he wasn’t.

I’m trying not to be bitter, and livid. I’m trying to do yoga, I’m not drinking, and I’m trying to be productive. I AM DOING ALL THE THINGS. So why do I still feel like this?

I kick ass at work, and people love me. That’s not a haughty statement, they truly do…and I love them back. I do meaningful work, and I’m grateful for it.

My children are happier…I can tell. Since Mom’s not embroiled in an every-other-day argument, they are more relaxed. They giggle and play, ALL THE TIME. They don’t really even give a shit when ‘Dad’s’ coming back, because he was never really here all that much to begin with.

I think mostly I feel bad, because he’s such a worthless bag of dicks, that he’s probably going to do this to another young, naive, unassuming girl, who mistakes his control for stability, and his money as kindness, and not the leash it really is. And this makes me sad.

I am going to overcome this. I know that.

I’ve already met someone new, and he’s awesome. Yeah, he’s got his flaws, but don’t we all? You know one thing he’s got that D3 never had? HONESTY. And that’s HUGE. Regardless of where my journey takes me, I will never EVER tolerate being in a relationship where I am lied to again. Period.

In fact, (new) Daddy and I are planning a trip at the end of the month so I can come see his place in the mountains….we are planning lots of fun and kinky things…so I plan for my next blog to be about that, and enough of this sad sack, can’t move on because he hurt me too bad BULLSHIT.

I AM A STRONG INDEPENDENT BLACK WOMAN WITH GPS, GOD DAMN IT! I can do ANYTHING I set my mind to, and right now, I am setting my mind on putting YOU out of it!

In short, Bye Felicia.

Thank you so much for letting me ramble, and rant. I love that I have this safe space. More (kinky) fun blogs to come shortly. Until then, my loves….


PS: FUCK YOU D3, and 20 more that smell like you!

Too Little, Too Late

This post will be short. That’s because I’m exhausted. Exhausted from what, you ask? BEING FUCKING AWESOME. See, for years, that bullshit you fed me worked, and so, logically, you thought that it would work again…but unfortunately you didn’t heed my warnings. You see, I am generous…detrimentally so. I give and give of myself until there is nothing left; then I dig deep, and give some more…but once I’m done- I AM DONE. Finished. Cut. Next. Getting the picture? Here’s the thing: I have no ill will…in fact I wish you well. I will always love you for what you did for me, and who you helped me become. However, you lied to me repeatedly, and whenever I wouldn’t believe said lies, you tried to flip the script and make me the bad guy. But here’s the other thing- I’m not. You’re not either. But what’s done is done, and THIS is done. On the bright side, in case you were wondering, I’m not going to do ecstasy and meth, and then gouge out my eyes as a sacrifice to God (WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?) Far from it. I’m doing yoga six days a week. I’m happy. I’m in touch with so many friends I forgot I had, that my phone stays poppin’. I’m still sexy. I’m healthy. And most importantly, I’M HAPPY. I am sooooo fucking happy. Transcendent meditation, crying tears of joy kind of happy. That feels so incredible. So please, stop calling this a misunderstanding. Just stop everything. Try to move on, because your chance to be a part of MY family has passed, and it will never come around again. I know that you made a terrible mistake, and you probably do, too. Unfortunately, it’s just….well, too little, too late…..

Still I Try

You must have got me twisted

Tied in knots, feeling conflicted

To stay or go is the question I ask

I usually stay, because you flash some cash

Or shower me with flowery words

Spoken promises; debts incurred

Which you may or may not pay

It’s like “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today”

Make the ratchet in me come out

Having the same argument too many times to count

Your actions and words don’t coincide

I thought that now that I was gentrified

I could be your lady

But you look at me, and tell me maybe

Whilst I sit idly by

My daughters’ looking at me with their innocent blue eyes

While I perpetually feed them lies

About how they should be strong and independent

Then dubiously accept your lack of commitment

Playing the fool again

I’ve been taught this lesson, but I must learn again

If not for my own, then my daughters’ sakes

I refuse to let them make the same mistake


Now watch me rise

Be gone from me with your pettiness and lies

My patience too long has been tested

Being a role model for my children, I’ve neglected

But it’s time to set the record straight

What I’ve taught them- it’s not to late

To set the goal, to be the standard

I need more from you. I demand it.

You’ve given me advantages

But without you, I’ll still manage

With all my dignity intact

We both know how much you worry about that

Vanilla Never Tasted So Good

W/we have been busy. In fact, busy may be the understatement of the century. He has been traveling for work, engaging in legal battle, and trying to wrap His mind around a new job prospect, all while making sure I don’t fall apart (I’m a very emotional creature), and continuing to do His best to help play His part with O/our small humans, and their ever-growing social landscape.

I have been flung into full-time work after not working (outside of school), for nearly four years. On top of which, I am taking on new supervisory duties, and taking graduate level courses in order to advance in new said job. All this, while trying to balance being a good mom, making sure the small humans are bathed, fed, loved, attended to, and doing well overall physically and mentally. Oh yeah, let’s throw into the mix that one small human has been diagnosed with a learning disability: dyslexia, so let’s not forget the 20-30 minutes of DAILY intervention that requires, as well as a once-weekly session with a dyslexia specialist.

Did I mention that Daddy is in the process of going after a job, that if procured,  threatens to change the entire topography of O/our situation, and cause U/us to move over a thousand miles to a town that neither of U/us have ever heard of before, in the middle of po-dunk nowheresville?

Because that is also happening…

On the bright side, O/our relationship is in the strongest place it’s ever been, I believe, and while things certainly are stressful, W/we are doing O/our best to handle it with grace and dignity.

On the down side, O/our kink slips further and further away from U/us. Weekends used to be exclusively for kinky debauchery, but now, with me working, it’s turned into: ‘How are the kids? What do we need to do to get ready for this week? Let’s go grocery shopping.’ And my favorite: ‘let’s coordinate O/our schedules for the next few weeks’.

One of the things that I have found that is spurring this, is I am constantly in ‘Top’ mode, and am unable to take that hat off and behave as the slave that I truly want to be. I am constantly making decisions, coordinating schedules, making things work, taking on new challenges, etc., and while that is awesome, it has made it rather hard to be told what to do and accept it without a fight. Don’t get me wrong, I usually come to my senses, but it used to be automatic. It’s tougher now. Daddy sees it. I see it. W/we’re trying to work through it together.

The other day, W/we were in a department store, and I was helping Him pick out shirts that I thought would look nice- W/we were both in the dressing room, and neither one of U/us thought, ‘Hey, I should totally give Master a quick blow job’ ….I mean, how sad is that? W/we just….shopped.

W/we have been brainstorming ways to bring the kink back in, because neither of U/us wants a vanilla relationship, and neither of U/us wants to fall into a relationship rut; right now it’s just hard. There’s a lot going on…A LOT. I hope the trip W/we have planned to NOLA in a few months will be a reset for U/us. That typically tends to be the case, I think partially due to the fact that it’s where W/we were when I was collared.

I know that things are crazy right now, and that life is throwing a lot at U/us. I also know that Daddy and I are stronger than the things that life has to throw at U/us, and that together, W/we will weather it, and come out stronger, more resilient, and kinkier than ever.

W/we are pure gold Daddy, the stuff relationship dreams are made of…that’s why all these ladies seem to have sticks up their areses when they encounter U/us. And another note, especially for You, Daddy. As far as Your job is concerned, You called Yourself the ‘pooper-scooper after the elephant parade’ – indicating that You have always taken the jobs that no one else wants…..I respectfully disagree. I submit, that with VERY few exceptions, You are the man with the Midas touch: everything You touch turns to gold. Be it Your job, me, O/our small humans, or a number of other things I could offer, You pour Yourself into it, and it becomes better. We are all better for having You. And W/we will be kinky again…but for now…vanilla never tasted so good.


The Slut Dress



The last time I wrote to you all, things were rocky. I was scared, as we all get in relationships; scared that all that time, effort, and energy that I put into building something I thought was sustainable would be for naught. Luckily, Through hard work on both sides, and perseverance, I am elated to say that Daddy and I have come out on the other side stronger, more dedicated to each other, and more in love than ever. Something that I have learned over my few years on this earth is that love is choice, not a feeling. It is making the decision to give another person 100%, even when they don’t deserve it, and especially then. I hope all of you find that love; everyone deserves to experience it.


Now, onto the Slut Dress..


The dress you saw in the beginning of this post was bought in the very beginning of Daddy’s and my relationship. In fact, I wore it on O/our second date. We went to an adult toy store in the city with me wearing only it and a pair of stilettos. We purchased something that day that on paper was an amazing toy, but  in reality completely impractical (the way we used it). That day we also purchased O/our first vibrator. (Side note, I think that vibe is in storage, and I think it’s time I made a trip to get it!) The impractical thing, if you were wondering, was a set of tweezer nipple clamps, that were connected by a chain, and then a separate chain that connected to a clitoris clamp. Perhaps this toy is actually great in practice (in the bedroom), but we were novices in the BDSM scene, and Daddy thought, “Hey, wouldn’t it be sooo sexy if you wore this out of the store underneath your sexy dress”

“Mmm yeah, sounds super sexy” I say, not knowing that moments later I would regret the statement. So He’s not allowed to help me put it on, so I’m struggling to do this myself in the dressing room. I get everything situated, only to realize that I really need to use the little girls’ room. So we make O/our purchases, and head out the door. I can’t hold it anymore, so I ask if we can find a rest room.

You’ve seen the dress, right? Scroll up, look again. I was wearing this in broad daylight, in the middle of the city. With nipple clamps and a clit clamp underneath. Oy vey! What was I thinking? But wait! There’s more… So there’s a pizza joint across the street, and I decide to step in to use the powder room there. The pizza joint is a family establishment, and as luck would have it, there was a family sitting at the front table, and as my luck would have it my clit clamp slid off just as I was walking by said family. Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s hilarious, because these days, Daddy and I would far more likely be the family at the table than the man waiting for His girl in the slut dress…but I digress.

Little did I know, that this dress lovingly named “the slut dress”, would make an appearance again in a hilarious/tragic way.

So Daddy and I decide to pop over to Des Moines for a little R&R…it’s far enough away that no one knows U/us, and W/we can indulge ourselves in a little debauchery. While W/we were there, W/e decided a fun thing to do would be to go to a strip club; if you haven’t already guessed this part, I was wearing the dress, because W/we thought it would be a cheeky way to add some D/s fun to the evening. If I recall correctly, W/we drove all over looking for this damn club, and once W/we arrived, were none too impressed with either the establishment, or its employees. Soooo, W/we sauntered around, trying to find a pretty lady to get a lap dance from, but there were none to be found. My nerves had had about all they could take, and this was back when I was a raging nicotine addict, so I decided it was about time to go light up. So Daddy proceeds to take me outside, so I can indulge my filthy habit (which I have since quit, thank you very much!) and this lady starts walking up to U/s- and she looks pissed. “Excuse me? Excuse me!” she demands, so I innocently look up at her, wondering what in hell she wants. “What exactly are you doing?” she asks, with a snotty tone. “Ummm…..I’m having a cigarette, what’s it look like?” I retort. “Well, is your shift over?” -YOU GUYS! My shift?! She thought I worked there. Once I explained to her that I was not in fact employed by her establishment, she promptly offered me a job. Flattered as I was, I kindly declined, and Daddy and I left shortly thereafter.

We had a few situations happen like that, until Daddy and I realized that maybe, JUST MAYBE, the slut dress should remain a private event, for Daddy’s eyes only.

And a few weeks ago, when W/we went to The Big Apple, W/we did just that. W/we had an amazing role-play, built around this yard or so of material. He was a film director, and I was an aspiring actress. W/we met outside of Cold Stone Creamery, and He innocently offered to buy me some ice cream, as this was a big shiny city, and I was just a lost little girl, trying to find some work. Wink, wink. So anyway, He then convinces me to come back up to His hotel room, to try on some wardrobe for a part He’s convinced me that I’d be perfect for…but when W/we get back up to the room, all He hands me is this skimpy piece of gold and black material- the Slut Dress. This led to all kinds of fun banter, and even more fun sex.

This dress is Daddy’s (and my) favorite piece of lingerie, and it’s not hard to see why. It has character, it has a story, and also, it hugs in all the right places! I love the Slut Dress, and pack it with me whenever Daddy and I go out. It always makes me feel sexy, and it never fails to turn Daddy on.


What the Hell, Wonder Woman??


TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains content about depression, anxiety, PTSD, rape, sexual abuse, and other triggering material. Please take care while reading.


Normally, I think about what my audience would like to hear…I take that into consideration, and also think about what I myself would find entertaining before I start to put words on the page.

This is NOT that. What I am about to write, I write because I need to, because it is fucking eating me up inside, and I need to get it out.

I write it so that someone else suffering knows that they’re not alone. I write it so that selfishly, I can feel less alone…I write it to help you understand, and to help me heal.

Before I dive into this post, I would like to recount for you a text that I sent to my Daddy this morning. I think it will help you understand the frame of mind I am coming from:

“Look, my days are already shit. I don’t want to have to be constantly fighting with my brain and rationalizing with myself that half the thoughts I have are irrational and crazy. But I HAVE to do that. But I don’t want the added stress of teaching you the ABC’s of depression & anxiety, and trying to explain something to You that I barely fucking understand. I am literally fighting with my brain. Its all I can do. What would be helpful is if You cared enough to research it on Your own rather than forcing me to have the additional stress of explaining something I only half understand to You. And I did feel like You yelled at me this morning. I’m sorry that my body is my fucking enemy too, and I can’t get wet for You. I’m sorry that my body and my fucking brain are working against me, so that I don’t feel safe anywhere or with anyone, not even myself, and especially not myself. I’m sorry that I can’t take criticism right now because my thoughts are filled with messages of worthlessness and guilt already. I’m sorry that the only thing I can think is that everyone would be better off without me. I’m sorry that my mental illness has been passed on to my daughter. I’m sorry that she had a panic attack last night and I didn’t know. I’m sorry she tried to come to my room, but froze in fear because she hallucinated there was a man with a knife there in the shadows. I’m sorry I copulated with douche bags who also have mental illness issues and that she started out at a disadvantage. But most of all I am sorry that I don’t know what to tell You when You ask how to help BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA. I am doing good to get out of bed and make it through the day. So please stop asking. The fact that I have no fucking clue only makes me feel that much more hopeless.”

Last night I let Daddy in. He’s the first person I have EVER let in this far. God bless Him for trying, but He was clueless. “What triggered this?” He asked….”A chemical imbalance in my brain” I say. “How long have you been dealing with this?” He asks, concern in his voice….”As long as I can remember….” I respond. Then He asks “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone, maybe they could have helped?”

This is where things get real. This is where the fucked-upedness began. Why? Because I wasn’t safe as a child, that was why. My mother was an alcoholic. Sure, she was great at keeping secrets about me going to raves or taking drugs….but to trust her with anything REAL? Nope. No thanks. I’ll lock that shit up tight and forever, thank ya very much. One time she asked if my Dad had ever touched me….and she was grateful when I said no…

and no, he NEVER did, but the look of relief on her face that she didn’t have to deal with that made me decide to not tell her that my neighbor had molested me. That I was a sweet eight year old girl who was spending the night with my best friend and bragging to her step-dad about how much I knew about sex because I watched The Ricky Lake show…and later woke up to him fingering me. I didn’t tell her about the other neighbor that forced me to do sexual things, and it was this pattern that started my negative self-image.

My dad? Why didn’t I tell him? I was deathly scared of him. He was a cop, and tall, and fucking mean. He screamed at me, and NEVER praised me. He beat me, and told me corporal punishment was legal. He DARED me to call the cops. He told me what a fuck up I was, and I believed him. He said the only way I would listen was if he got an inch away from my face and screamed. I walked on egg-shells constantly, and learned what a worthless piece of shit I really was.

I lost my virginity to spite him. A culmination of being used sexually at a young age, and being taught that I was good for nothing, and could do nothing right. Sex would be my secret revenge. I was 15, and I hardly knew him…I said I was walking the dog on Christmas Eve, and he picked me up in his car and took me to his house. Insane Clown Posse was in his CD player. I lost my virginity to a song called ‘Super Balls’ –and if that weren’t bad enough, it skipped the entire time; my romantic foray into womanhood set to “Ain’t no bitch too fat…..ain’t no bitch too fat…ain’t no bitch too fat…”

It was after that that I learned to use sex to make myself feel better. Finally, I had something of value, something that others wanted from me. It was also around this time that I jumped into heavy drugs. I won’t be specific here, but let’s just say, as long as it didn’t involve a needle, I did it. And let’s be clear…I wasn’t afraid of needles. I just knew that if I took that step, I would never recover.

I grew up, got thrown out of my house by my loving father, and ended up marrying a man that I can only describe as having the worst traits of my parents combined: A verbally and physically abusive alcoholic. I went into the military to save myself from the drugs—I knew I could detox during basic training, and that’s exactly what I did. You see, while there is a ton of tragedy in this story, let us not lose the moral along the way: I AM STILL HERE, GOD DAMN IT!

I got pregnant at my first duty station. I was in a male-dominated job that some asshole recruiter had lied to get me into, and I loathed it. The douche-bag husband left. I was alone. I was in a new place with no safety net, or support system. The depression and anxiety were awful. I started having auditory hallucinations. I was referred to a psychiatrist. I took the MMPI twice, and scored sooooo fucked up both times that my tests were deemed unusable. The douche-bag came back intermittently. He was there to reassure me what an awful person I was…and that I was a worthless whore.

Desperate for love, I started having an affair with my boss. Then one night, a couple of my co-workers came over…one thing led to another and I got raped. No big deal, right? Sadly, I was pretty used to being treated like this…and I was totally good with burying it all the way down, because that seemed to work for me. But my boss convinced me to report it, and swore he would stand by my side. SURPRISE! He didn’t. He left me high and dry, to be humiliated, victim blamed, and stripped of my dignity. During the time-line that the trial was taking place, I went further down the rabbit hole. Alcohol was my everything. I needed it to function. It eventually led to me making decisions so incompetent they took my baby…my only reason for living, and placed her in foster care. That was both the worst, and the best day of my life. I remember it so vividly, if I close my eyes, it’s like I’m re-living it. They decided it was best to institutionalize me. They gas-lighted me, and told me I asked to be kept in the room with the padded walls. I DID NOT. My mother, who wasn’t in the greatest of health at this time (see above, re: alcoholic), had surgery, during which she bled out. I requested to see her before she died, but was denied. My dad even called the mayor of the town he lived in, and called put in a red-cross call…..but those ass-hats still said no. So my mother died, with my abusive narcissistic father by her side. They finally let me out, and shortly after, I separated from the military on a medical discharge, primarily: PTSD. PTSD from what, you ask? The rape. The rape that my rapist got off scot-free from? One in the same. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the same military that determined I had suffered PTSD from the rape I endured also determined there wasn’t enough evidence to convict said rapist. Bravo!

Skip ahead a few shitty years, and I’ve gotten my act together enough to reclaim the love of my life: my daughter. I met Douche bag numero dos around this time, and became pregnant with my second love about a year later. About two years after that, I couldn’t put up with the cheating, lying, and drug use anymore, so I made him leave….

I’m skipping something important though, because just before he gets kicked to the curb, I meet Daddy. I’m not going to go into the story about how I met Daddy, because if you’ve read my previous blog about my collaring, then you know a lot of it already.



All of this occurred before I turned 30. And obviously, this is only the condensed version. My point is, that I overcame all of this. I am a college graduate. I have two beautiful kids, who are smart, talented, gracious, kind, and a blessing to me every single fucking day. I have overcome several addictions, and more than once might I add… the next time you may feel tempted to wonder where it all started, this is it. Some know most, but none know all.


My life now is cake compared to what it was then. I know I “shouldn’t” be depressed. I realize my life is good. I’m tired of being asked what triggered it. IF I FUCKING KNEW, DON’T YOU THINK I WOULD BE TRYING TO FIX IT? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER MY BRAIN IS JUST FUCKED AND OCCASIONALLY MALFUNCTIONS BECAUSE OF ALL THE ABUSE IT HAS SUFFERED OVER THE YEARS? I mean fuck, not only from my abusers, but also from all the toxins I have dumped in it. Why does everyone keep asking me WHY? Why does everyone say I need medication? I have been on medication, legal and illegal. Why do I have to be responsible for something I’m not in control of? Why does everyone keep asking me questions I don’t have the answers to? Why won’t anyone just fucking hold me? I don’t want your advice. I want to be reassured that you love me even if I’m broken. I need to know that even on the days that I am glued to my bed because the demons in my head are holding me hostage that you still care, that you know I am a human being, and I deserve love? I can’t speak to anyone else’s situation who has anxiety/PTSD/depression, etc. but for me, THIS is what I want. Because my illness lies to me, and it tells me that I’m not worthy. It doesn’t matter if I know rationally that they are lies, it’s my brain, and it knows me better than anyone, and it knows exactly what to say to make me think that you’re out to get me…and that I’m incompetent for not knowing my triggers, and that if I was really worthy of your love, that you would reassure me rather than grill me.


Mostly, if you’re reading this, and you don’t me that well, I want you to understand that looks can be deceiving. I’m pretty. I know this because I’ve been told it enough times. But behind my smiles could be genuine happiness, or they could be a mask for the pain. Sometimes you’ll know which is which, and sometimes you’ll only think you do. This is true for all humans…so think before you judge.


If I let you in…if I give you the privilege of knowing which is which, for God’s sake,  tread lightly. Give me love. Don’t victim blame. Understand I don’t have all the answers…but I don’t expect you to have them either. If I let you in, it’s because I want you to know that I’m hurting….I want you to know that I’m human. I want you to know that while all I may show you is the strong, capable, badass version of myself….that there is a scared, tortured, uncertain little girl underneath, who just wants to know she is worthy of love.

I am strong and independent and unbreakable.

I am weak and needy and fragile.

I am Wonder Woman.

I am nothing.


The Albatross Around My Neck

Four years is a long time. One thousand, four hundred and sixty days. Okay, I’m being dramatic; it won’t be quite four years for another month….you get my gist.

Whenever we met: FIREWORKS. I thought the initial high of being in love would never end….it was well over a year and a half before it did. But it did, and slowly, lust was replaced by comfort, and hot scenes traded in for Netflix binges under the covers.

Over the past year or more, things have deteriorated. Sex turned to talking, talking turned to fighting, fighting turned into crying and breaking up, followed by making up. We have repeated this pattern almost every month for the past year.

Slowly but surely, the collar that I once touched for security and strength became the albatross around my neck. It literally felt like it was suffocating me whenever the anxiety of my precarious relationship sent me into panic attacks or deep depression.

I didn’t want the power exchange. I didn’t feel like I was exchanging anything so much as he was taking it and dangling it just out of reach.

I felt cheated, slighted, jaded, and numb.

For the past few months, it’s really gone down hill. We didn’t talk for over a week while he was on a business trip…I hardly noticed. We couldn’t be in the same room for better than 15 minutes without an argument ensuing.

It came to a head over and over…and over again. We’ve called it quits three times this past week. Three! He wants to work it out…..I am trying, God knows I’m trying……but love can only take you so far. The communication, the trust, the sex….the bedrocks of our relationship are all in serious jeopardy.

I’m not even cautiously optimistic….just cautious.

I have no idea what things will look like moving forward. I’ve committed to giving him time to fix the things that need fixing…beyond that, the future is unclear. I do know that as I move forward, with or without him, that I will always be grateful for the person he helped me grow into being. I wish I had some more cheery news, or a steamy story to share with you all…but I simply don’t. I am lost, and spinning….trying to find a corner to hold on to for dear life…..

How’d You Get One So Young?

Let’s preface this writing by letting you know that I am in my (very early) 30’s, and Daddy is in His late 50’s. For me, His age has never been an issue. For Him, it was only an issue insofar as He had to get used to the nasty stares people would give us out in public, and when He had decided He was really in this for the long haul, He had to let go of the guilt that He was, barring some freak accident, going to leave this earth many years before I am.

Lots of people look at us, and immediately draw this conclusion: ‘Oh, she must be a gold digger.’ It’s shitty because, those nasty stares I mentioned to you earlier…well I’ve gotten them when I wearing a wife-beater and jean skirt, and I’ve also gotten them when I was wearing a smart dress, tights, a trench coat, and glasses. You see, people look at us, and they just assume. Also, there’s this thing called confirmation bias in psychology. It means if you assume something to be true, your brain will then look for details to corroborate that scenario. There are some fascinating studies- I encourage you to look them up. I digress…

Anyhow, a couple of weeks ago, Daddy and I were out at a party. There was a couple there we met, and one of the first sentences  uttered was “How did you get one so young?” Now, there are a million snarky comments Daddy could have lobbed back, but instead He just chose “Well, as I’ve already been told tonight, I’m a lucky mother-fucker!” This broke whatever tension the question may have caused, and the night went on without a hitch.

Daddy kept coming back to it after that night, though. He was hurt, and couldn’t wrap His mind around why someone would ask him such a question. Thinking about it with some perspective, this person was only asking what many others would have just thought about, drawn their own conclusions, and shot us dirty looks…but they didn’t…at least they asked.

Anyone who knows me now, knows what a badass I am. I pay my bills (on time), I take pride in the way my house looks, I balance my college classes and homework with chauffeuring two bunheads to three ballet classes a week, and still manage to occasionally find the time to cook healthy meals, exercise, and keep a long-term DD/lg (Daddy Dom/little girl) dynamic alive and well. Maybe it sounds boastful, but it’s true. Daddy jokes with me, whenever I get a bit too arrogant, and says I’m on my ‘haughty horse,’ to which I reply with my best horsey-whinny.

Now, you may be wondering what the hell this has to do with the story, but bear with me…I’m painting a picture.

Now that you are thoroughly convinced of how awesome I am, let’s go in the way-back-machine, and take a look at me almost four years ago, shall we? When Daddy and I met, I was on my way out of an abusive marriage. My ex was addicted to drugs, and cheated on me repeatedly, despite me agreeing to an open marriage, with my only stipulations being that he tell me where he was going, and that he used protection. I guess those requests were too hefty, because he clearly couldn’t tolerate them. I was trying to get my life together, but failing quite miserably. I drank regularly, in an attempt to try and escape my stress, smoked like a damn chimney, and was generally a sad sack. I at one point had even enrolled in college, but failed my second semester, after allowing myself to be pulled into using drugs again with my ex….that was really a turning point for me, actually, because I said I would never allow drugs in general, and this one in particular, to be a part of my life…that I wouldn’t allow them to ruin my children’s lives the way I had let them ruin my own.

Even after that decision was made though, and after I met Daddy, I continued to flounder. Daddy became concerned when every two days I was asking him to pick me up another 750 mL bottle of Crown Royal. Not being a drinker Himself, He couldn’t understand how I was consuming so much alcohol- He thought I was having parties after He was gone.  What He would later realize, is that I had been drinking so long and so heavily, that this was really my main form of caloric consumption. When we met, I was 108 pounds, medically underweight for my frame. I barely ate when we were together, and sometimes, if I did manage to eat, I would get sick afterword- not intentionally, mind you….my body was just riddled with so much anxiety and alcohol that it couldn’t even process the nourishment it was getting. After Daddy had visited my apartment a few times, He asked me what the stack of envelopes sitting on the desk in living room were for. “They’re bills,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Why aren’t any of them opened?” He inquired. “Why bother opening bills that you can’t pay?” was my reply.

Are you starting to get the picture? I was a wreck. This is only scraping the surface too, I haven’t even went into the other crazy ex I had, or his psychotic stalker girlfriend, or the other drama that seemed to be constantly swirling around me like a tornado, ready to swallow me up whole at any second.

Daddy knew me then. Daddy loved me then.

Whenever I screamed, and criticized, and pushed Him away, because I had no idea what real love was…He stood by me. Whenever I got trashed, and made poor decisions, and told Him things about my past He probably would have been better off not knowing…He didn’t leave. Whenever I fell, over, and over, AND OVER, He gently picked me up, dusted me off, and told me how much He believed in me. He stuck it out through a thousand mile long-distance move, through me quitting smoking, quitting drinking…through every single stumble and triumph. He quite literally has had a front row seat in watching me become the magnificent woman I am today. The kind of love He has shown me is awe-inspiring and life-changing. Even more credit is due Him, because it’s not like He loved this wonderful girl who hit a rough patch…I was in the midst of fighting for my life when we met. He somehow saw through all the pain, the drunken debauchery, and failed plans…and He saw my potential. He quite literally loved it out of me.

I am not saying Daddy is a saint. I realize He too is human, and has His faults. We quarrel. We have turned our relationship into an emotional roller-coaster more times than I would care to admit. But my point is this: Our relationship was never built on the basis of His money, or my age…our relationship was borne and sustained because of this man’s incredible gift to see past my chaos and understand my potential, and my realization of what true love looks like, and the infinitely enlightened decision to hold on to it, come what may…

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