Good Girl



I don’t care what you have ever seen or read about Fifty Shades of Grey,  it’s all bullshit.  At the outset, all I want is to please and want to do what he says and all that; I guess it IS like that.    And I suppose in the beginning maybe I would’ve eaten a piece of dog-shit or something for him.

But this was 3 years in.   And the lashings with his cane and whip or hand or paddle had grown kind of old .    And the formality of saying “yes, daddy” had worn me thin.

One particular night, he had bragged he wanted to make me bark like a dog.

One of his fucked-up whims I guess.

Like any good girl I told him to fuck off  that I wasn’t going to  bark like any dog .   He insisted and dragged me to the bed and said,” then I will make you.”

I quipped ,”no matter how many times you take the cane to me, or the flogger, or the paddle,   you will not make me bark like a dog. It’s just not going to happen. You will not break me.”

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown and I knew it.  But I was confident that I would be the victor.  That he would tire before I.

He threw down lash after lash.  Each time stopping long enough to pause and ask, “are you going to bark now?”

With each blow I tried to deal with the pain by biting into the comforter hard, as he bore down into my flesh.  Now, some submissives are masochists but I am not.  Some go to a dissociative place and leave their body, I did not.  I just bit down and braced for it.   Maybe I’ll write Submissives for Dummies as a helpful guide on how to take a lashing and more.   I’m certain it would be a bestseller….Pffft.

I was already bruised from his blows and felt it but didn’t want him to win.  I hate losing.  I despise weakness.   At the next go round, I’d grown angry.  I asked, “If our roles were reversed I wonder how many lashings you could take? Oh that’s right you would have pussied out by now.”

Then he hit me harder and atop of the bruises he had just inflicted.  Dirty….dirty…. underhanded bastard I thought.

I knew in that moment he would win.

He leaned in and asked for the final time, “are you ready to bark yet?

Woof.”  I said quietly. 

He said, “say it louder.


WOOF!” I yelled.

That’s my good girl, ” he replied.

Initially I wanted to be him that day, the one with all the power; the one wielding the implements.   But then I realized that I had power of a different sort.  That this sexual sadist craved me.  I was his canvas and he needed to mainline me.  By me pushing his buttons and challenging him, I created how this entire night went.

Good girl indeed.

50 Shades of Switch

IMG_4894I remember standing in front of the sink one evening, washing the dishes from dinner.   All of a sudden, I felt his hands from behind around my neck squeezing so hard I could breathe, couldn’t speak.  Instinctively, frantically, I tried my best to pry his hands off, to no avail.   My vision began to see little stars in the periphery,  twinkling.  I was terrified that I was going to suffocate in that damned kitchen.  Then without warning he simply let go.

As soon as I could catch my breath I asked, “why in the hell did you do that?!!”

He replied cooly,”to remind you who is in charge.”

I was silently horrified.

Later that evening, we were watching television in the bedroom and he asked me to get him a drink.  I of course obliged.  Upon my return, I set the drink down and explained that I was sorry that I had upset him.   I began massaging his back.

I ran my fingers through his hair and tossled it about the way he loved so much.  Then I let my hands slip around his neck and I began to squeeze as hard as I possibly could, until I could hear him gasp and choke.  He in turn tried to pry my hands off.

I leaned close and whispered in his ear and said , “if you ever put your hands around my neck again like that, I will fucking end you….. do you understand?   I waited another 15 seconds or so.   Then I let go.

You may think that’s the end of the story but of course not.  I received an ass-whooping so severe I couldn’t sit down for a good two days.   But I still smile as I type this because it was ever so worth it.








One stop shopping


My own mom doled out the corporal punishment.

My step-brother handed out the sexual abuse.

My step-dad harangued me with constant deprecating comments about my body.

My step-sister painfully reminded me that although I had now received the same last name in family court that I would never be one of “them.”

This blended family in which I was raised was the perfect recipe to make me ripe for the picking later in life.

For predators can easily see that all I was seeking was just a crumb of affection.

What I had never imagined, was that such a predator would come along like a wolf in sheeps clothing and pretending to show said affection, just to exploit me….

Pressed Flower

imageI was cleaning out my closet today and found several greeting cards that my ex gave me over the years.

One card in particular stood out, he had sent me from when he was in one of the 8 detoxes that spanned our four year relationship. This one was at the halfway mark.  Inside the card he had picked a wildflower from the grounds where he was staying.  Over time it has yellowed with age and become perfectly flat.  He had inscribed on the card, “I love you and miss you so much!! I’m just not the same without my love next to me.  I love you!  Love, C.  He drew a giant smiley face on the blank side of the card.

My heart warmed instantly when I read it.  My mind goes back to that time-space, remembering him, remembering us.  How much I enjoyed him.  The nice him, before….     His words in this card seem so genuine and caring….and for a moment or so I bask in that warmth.  A tiny piece of what I used to have.

Then, it slips away and is shattered as the icy reality floods my veins. As I have to remind myself that he was but an actor, who only pretended to love me.  All a part of an illusion.  To con me.  Use me.   Then discard me.   Cognitive Dissonance….Then the familiar sick-ish  feeling comes  over me again.

I wonder if I should bury the cards in a mock funeral to remember the memories of the man that I thought that I had ?

How do you grieve someone who is still alive?





A bag is packed by your closet door,

I don’t want to live this anymore.

Voices raised, feelings hurting….

Why isn’t our relationship working?

Back in time, we had started

a love so deep we would not part it.

Now I’m left feeling shame,

I never wanted this kind of pain.

How to heal these wounded hearts?…

questions pierce my mind like darts.

I want to wash our past away,

give us a needed brighter day.

Two lives hanging in the balance,

how ’bout giving….

us another chance?

Pour me, Pour me, Pour me a drink….

It’s back….or maybe it never went away in the first place, perhaps I just buried it alive somewhere in my psyche and now it’s re-surfacing.

I find myself feeling so desperately alone.   My man left, but even before he did.   Lately it felt like he was a million miles away even while he was in the very same room .

I sometimes wonder if I am cursed.  I have entertained that notion many times.  Did I rape and pillage an entire town in some past life to deserve this kind of bad karma?

Am I some sort of devil spawn and not a child of God?

If I am a child of God, why does He permit me this continual emotional pain?

Did I somehow sign up for this shit in some cosmic time warp? and not read the fucked-up time warp fine print?

I wish this ache in me would go away.  Death seems inviting when the pain reaches this high.

Happily ever after?


Does everything turn out “as it’s supposed to be”?

Or is that some bullshit that people tell themselves when their lives are going to hell in a hand-basket and life has become such chaos that nothing seems recognizable anymore.

I try to find comfort in that statement or similar sentiment….

“Things will work out, they always do.”

“It always seems darkest before the dawn.”

“Everything will turn out okay.”

I want to believe in all that, but part of me is a realist and more than cynical by now and just rejects that notion.  Armed with the full knowledge of my own lifetime, that nothing seems to end picture perfect.  That financial ruin, relationship gone awry, and illness seem to attack like a virus in my personal history.

There has NEVER been any “happy endings.”  Nothing even close.   Just one bat-shit-crazy puke raining out of the universe at me after another, since I was born.