Oftentimes childhood memories will blindside me from nowhere and I’m compelled to blog about them, especially since I wish I hadn’t been such a shit of a child.

Mommy! I need my shitty Pampers changed!

I recall an incident where I was a fucking brat, and old enough to not be throwing temper tantrums. I’m guessing I was 11 or 12 years old. I was at a mall with my mom and brother. For whatever reason, I got an attitude. That was when my mom told me that now we were not going to see Lethal Weapon after the mall. I started bawling and begging and saying I would be good. All this for Lethal Weapon. Wow, I had fucking issues.

Don't make me shoot you, you whiny little bitch!

And how about all those times I refused to eat fish sticks for dinner? Everytime my mom served them to me I whined and cried. And everytime I was sent to my room, where I proceeded to gag and heave, for a whole bottle of tartar sauce never killed the taste for me. Eventually I was let out of my room and there those fucking fish sticks were, still sitting on my plate at the table, waiting to be eaten.

I'd eat fish dicks before fish sticks. Believe me.

I’m sure I threw more tantrums than Satan as a baby. I was a brat, a spoiled fucking brat. Don’t argue with me. If I had a baby picture handy, you’d agree. Cause I’m probably crying in the photo.

OK…

…so I’m in Los Angeles minding my own business. I went on a date with a handsome man and I had a few drinks. I had smoked a bit-O-weed before leaving the house so after a couple Margarita’s, I was happy enough to take the beaded necklace from the Miller Lite people walking around the “cabaret” we were patronizing. I didn’t mind that the beads had huge blue circles bearing the name of the product they were selling, after all, I was on my 3rd Margarita by then. Why not? The only plans I had were to go home, kiss the handsome dude and pass out on my daughter’s couch like any good mother would do.

But as Steinbeck opined in Of Mice and Men, the best laid plans can always meet an unexpected glitch and mine certainly did. Now, remember, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I wasn’t causing any trouble and my date was paying my way so I had no obligation to society whatsoever at that point.

Some of you might argue that I had the responsibility of not smoking pot but I chose the ONE state in which I can legally do that. I defy any of you to tell me I’m not sick. And if you try to tell me that ganja doesn’t make me feel better, I will laugh in your face. I won’t argue with you, pot smokers don’t argue with straight people, only other pot smokers and only while high. But…I will absolutely make you the laughing stock of me.

So, I was smoking legally obtained weed, in my own home, strictly for the purposes of feeling better…and perhaps a little bit because of how much it helps my pool game. I was drinking perfectly taxed liquor, shooting pool for fun as opposed to cash and kissing a guy who is apparently my OWN PERSONAL dude. All of the people around me were having fun, I saw them. We chatted and laughed and no one was injured in any way.

Then, I go home, stroke out and wake up to find myself being transferred to UCLA Medical Center from another hospital that didn’t seem to have the ability to deal with my injuries. Talk about your “YIKES!” moments…that one qualified.

Anyway, I present at the emergency room of one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world…wearing no pants (Don’t ask me, the first hospital lost them.), smelling like tequila and wearing blue Miller Lite beads. I was a poster-child for drug tests if ever there was one so they tested me and, like the smart people that they were, they soon knew that, in addition to drinking a bit-O-booze, I had smoked the wacky tobacky that night.

Yay.

Then they got all FBI on me and asked, “Have you done any drugs today?”

Well, I may have been a bit tipsy and I certainly could have had a bit of a weed buzz going on and perhaps I even had brain damage. But I wasn’t stupid enough to go, “Uhhh…nyuck nyuck…nope.” So, I admitted my sins and was apparently adjudicated a stoner by one particularly annoying child/physician.

That kid was a hideous mix of Greg Brady and Eddie Haskell. (See photo in following post.) Surprisingly, the Haskell genes must be dominant because this guy was the type who LOOKED like the bully down the street. (See photo in the following post.) I may have seen his older brother in Karate Kid. I wanted to poke him in the eyeballs like Moe. (See photo in the following post.) If enough people had smacked this dude when he was a youngster, he might not be the little shit he is today so…do your grandchildren a favor and smack any and all kids you pass this weekend, only when you’re sure that you can get away with it of course. Stranger’s kids are best because they don’t know who you are so they can’t really TELL on you and they make rotten witnesses for the prosecution. Worst case…you hit an innocent kid…but that’ll just build character so it’s all good.

And yes… I am going to name this brat who held my life in his hands a mere two days ago…it’s Matthew Garrett and I’m sure that’s right because he signed a bunch of papers that I have right here in front of me.

Did Dr. Garrett do anything malicious? Probably not. But he didn’t go out of his way to be professional and that’s really a good idea in health care. I’m a nurse and sometimes I don’t particularly like my patients but the worst they’ll get from me is professionalism. They would never be able to read any negativity into my affect. I could be wrong…but I’m pretty sure that’s what professionalism is all about.

This little man came into my room twice and told me that I would be discharged that day. Then, real doctors came in and never mentioned discharge so when Dr. Brat said it again, I didn’t pay any attention to him. I had the impression that he was the junior resident who had been pegged as a nimrod and assigned to fill in while the real doctors shaved and put on ties.

I didn’t like much of what he said because it all seemed to contradict what the real doctors had said. They told me that my blood pressure medicine wasn’t working so they were going to try some different meds. Then, when Dr. Toddler came in, all he did was lower the dose of the one I already had. Now it will not only NOT work, it will not work with a lower dose. I guess that means it really, REALLY won’t help me avoid future brain injuries. I hope that it’s, at the very least, cheaper than the higher dose I’ve been taking for years. Then, the little wanker told me to stop taking my anti-seizure medicine in 7 days. I’ve been taking that for a LONG time and I don’t know if I really want to be playing games with it. Call me kookie, but I’m a bit ANTI seizure myself.

Anyway, as a nurse, I know what it is to be discharged. A doctor can discharge you all day long and even if he wiggles his nose when he says it, until a nurse comes in with the paperwork, you pretty must just sit there and wait. If I’m going to wait, I’m gonna do it in the bed…not standing in the hallway or sitting on the folding couch in the room. Anyway, apparently Dr. Bitch learned that by 10 AM, I was still in the hospital. My guess is that he made the nurse feel so stupid that she hadn’t discharged me that she came in all rattled and SHE didn’t really know what was going on either. So, as I was waiting for my ride to show up, the nurse came in again and explained that there was a “discharge lounge” downstairs and offered me it’s use. I felt like a wretched outcast.

With the single exception of Gail Spencer, I found the nursing staff at UCLA to be of the highest caliber. I wouldn’t have believed that one manager could hire so many excellent nurses in one place and even the nurse who discharged me was doing a superb job until Dr. Jack Ass got to her.

That’s what made me think that Dr. Matthew Garrett was a bully of female patients and female nurses. I don’t know about the men, I can’t speak for them. But most of us know what it’s like to be in the presence of a mean and nasty person and that’s exactly what I felt around Dr. Miserable.

That’s truly a shame because I was so impressed with the nurses that I wanted to mention them. But since the last impression was the fall-out of Dr. Phibes, that was the most pressing issue this morning.

What’s the moral to this story? Easy…don’t take the beads from the Miller Lite people.

Am I a bitch? Yes. Do I care if you agree with me? Hell no. As a matter of fact, if you don’t, I’m doing it wrong.

Słowo wstępu

Zawsze chciałam mieć starszego brata. Rodzice się nie postarali
Posiadanie starszego brata zawsze wiązało się dla mnie z tym, że on posiada dużo kolegów. W amerykańskich serialach dziewczyny posiadały starszych braci – zawsze były pod ich opieką, itd. Mój brat zawsze był pod moja – jest młodszy.

Okazuje się, że młodszy brat nie jest zły. W swojej grupie studenckiej posiada dużo kolegów w moim wieku (między nami jest rok różnicy) i niektórych miałam okazję ostatnio poznać. Nawet jeden wpadł mi w oko, a raczej w ucho bo przepiękny tembr głosu ma. Koniec wpisu typu “rozanielona nastolatka”.

Scenka rodzajowa

Witam się ze wszystkimi przez podanie ręki.
Ja: Ze mną się nie przywitasz?
On: W rękę bym cię pocałował, ale twój brat tutaj jest.
Brat: Nawet mi się nie waż.

Jako, że rozwoziłam chłopaków do domów po imprezie. On stwierdził, że jeszcze zostanie, ale
On: Daj mi swój numer, to następnym razem do ciebie zadzwonie i może mogłabyś mnie do domu podrzucić.
Brat: Upominam cię.

Młodszy brat… :]

For Everyone whom has not been able to view this video its real no stage act shit…. I will follow with a post interview but fuck this shit is HILARIOUS!!!! This kid has been pranked by the little bro, we all know these types of acts!!!!!

Scott has the top rated Subaru Brat on CarDomain. Check out his ride page for more on this awesome Subie!

…because she knows she has given her last blow job!

Yeah right! Not for me, thanks. As you all know by now, I have quite the oral fixation and there is no way in hell that I will not wanna suck cock. I guess in a lot of ways I don’t understand why everyone says that everything changes once you are married. To me it would just be like living together….only with a bit of paper stating you are legally entwined with another human being. I will always be just as I am now and Master is not going to change any time soon, for better or worse lol.

That being said, the brat strikes again!

Master: I’m pretty sure I told you to make me a coffee *reaches around and attempts to impale my ass on His 2 fingers, blocked only by my pajama bottoms*

me: If You dig a little deeper I’m sure You could find one!! *pirouettes gracefully to remove wedgie inducing fingers*

Our days are filled with quips and commentary much like that one and I’m sure if anyone followed us around with a camcorder for any length of time there would be some sort of cult following for all the antics I get up to. My excuses and remarks are pretty colorful, unique and I’m usually hearing them for the first time as well since they just seem to spew out of my mouth without any sort of editing between brain and tongue. I seem to lack that filter and Master just gets a fucking kick out of punishing my brat for making me say such terrible things

Speaking of punishment, Master says I’m due a visit down to the summer house this week, most likely on Friday since we’ll have the house to ourselves till Saturday. Apparently I’ve been slacking I forgot to make the bed the day we went to Citizens Advisory, I made a detour while I was suppose to be getting Him a drink after we’d gone to bed (but there was a good show on!) and general little things like that.

I have been keeping up with my cleaning though, the only thing I struggle with is the damned laundry because it seems every time the weather looks nice enough to hang the washing outside…it rains within an hour of hanging it up. By the time its all rehung again I am so annoyed with it I haven’t the give a fuck to iron it up too lol.

My skirt is almost completed! I just have to sew all the bits together now and a few other little things but that’s it Then I might end up making my own wedding dress…dunno yet or not. It pretty much boils down to finances. Apparently I need to figure out where we are getting married too. As soon as we have a fixed date I can let my family know for sure but considering its not that far away I doubt any of them are going to be able to afford the visit. The only one that would, won’t. My dad. So I gotta figure out who is gonna give me away now as well. Crap. Why the hell do girls get all excited about planning weddings? Seems like a bunch of unneeded stress and annoyance.

Me? Bitter? Naw…just not overly girlish I guess

]]> http://sssfinxxx.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/the-story-of-a-tattoo/ Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:41:49 +0000 sssfinxxx http://sssfinxxx.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/the-story-of-a-tattoo/ http://born2serve.wordpress.com/2009/11/11/bad-girl/ Wed, 11 Nov 2009 20:55:22 +0000 Slave Missy http://born2serve.wordpress.com/2009/11/11/bad-girl/

I feel a little crappy today about something that happened last night, and even though I’m certain that Madam P has already forgotten about it (because she loves me so much), I feel that I need to post a confession here.  I’m not sure that this entry will be approved by Madam to post publically, but I’m still going to write it and post it as private so that Madam receives this apology.

I got a little bossy with Madam last night.  Bossy, bratty, cranky, crabby, it all amounts to the same thing; I argued with Madam even though I’ve agreed to obey her.  I take my agreements to Madam very seriously… I’m just happier that way.

Madam is very easy on me.  She’s gentle and loving in her domination over her slave girl.  Even though Madam has grown to love exercising her power over her slave, the act of training her spouse to serve as her slave girl is not a powerful calling in Madam’s heart, not like submission and service is a powerful calling in my heart.  I believe that the reason Madam has come to love training her slave girl/wife so much has more to do with how much Madam enjoys the end results of training.  Madam has grown attached to how slave training has changed my personality.  I’ve become happy and content.  I’m more consistently and demonstratively loving and respectful, and I am no longer allowed to have dark, mopey moods that last for hours or days.  I don’t tease so much anymore (Madam use to hate the way I’d tease her all the time.)  I’m openly adoring.  I pamper and dote on Madam at every opportunity, sometimes on demand, and sometimes on my own initiative.  And best of all, Madam has absolute power to stop any disagreement or argument before it even has a chance to get started.  Ever since Madam P and I signed our power exchange contract, the love and harmony in our home has been overwhelming and beautiful!  All that love and harmony bubbling over in our home is, I believe, the source of Madam’s growing love of training her wife to serve as her slave girl.

Last night I got bratty with Madam over the stupidest thing.  Madam brought home 3 sweet, delicious tangerines yesterday.  I love tangerines when they’re really sweet and juicy, especially if the skins come off super easy.  I asked Madam why she only bought 3 of them.  Madam didn’t want to load up on expensive fruit only to have it go bad.  I tried to assure Madam that, as much as I love super sweet easy to peel tangerines, there’s no way they’ll go bad in our house.  Madam was skeptical.  Well, I didn’t want to argue about it, I just wanted more tangerines.  I insisted.  I became bossy.  Madam, realizing what was going on, told me point blank, “This conversation is over.”  Madam gave me a direct order.  There was a pause.  In my mind I weighed the passion of my argument against the risk of disobeying Madam’s command.  I pushed Madam a little further.  I know I came dangerously close to some form of punishment, being put in the cage, handcuffed in the dark, a spanking, having my hair pulled harder than I like, something… but I had a feeling that Madam wasn’t quite to the point of harsh punishment yet.  I had the feeling that Madam was weighing in her mind how harsh to be with me versus interfering with our pleasant evening activities.  Madam came to me and started poking me in my butt where I’m bruised from last weekend’s caning; she was letting me know that she was dead serious, that I needed to stop arguing NOW!  I pushed my argument just a little further.  Madam gave me a look that told me that one more word was going to land me in the cage for the rest of the night, so I finally shut my mouth.

Fortunately, soon after this unfortunate exchange with Madam, it was Madam’s bedtime, which meant that it was time for me to perform my bedtime service ritual.  I warmed Madam’s heat pack, turned down the bed, and slid the warmed up heat pack under the covers, I undressed and waited on my knees beside the bed for Madam to come in.  Soon Madam entered the bedroom and allowed me to undress her as I do every night; I was then allowed to worship at Madam’s feet as I do each night, kissing and licking Madam’s feet in gratitude for being allowed so much time to work at perfecting my art.  After that I was allowed to brush Madam’s beautiful red hair and scratch her back as I do each night.  Then I tucked Madam into bed and crawled under the covers to cuddle her until she fell asleep.

I’m grateful that Madam chose not to punish me harshly for talking back and arguing with her last night.  I’m grateful that she didn’t just let me get away with it either.  I’m grateful that Madam is always so fair and just.  I’m grateful that my bedtime ritual of pampering and spoiling Madam came so soon after my bad behavior; serving Madam helped me to remember my place in her household… and especially reminded me of Madam’s power over me and how lenient she is with me because she loves me so much.

I’m honored to serve Madam P.  I feel bad that I turned bratty on her last night.  I’m sorry that I put Madam into a position of having to balance punishing me against maintaining the harmony of her loving household.  I want to openly apologize to Madam here and now, and I want to renew my promise to obey Madam’s commands to the best of my ability as I agreed to.  I promise to try harder to be less argumentative.  If in the future I feel so strongly about something that I’m asking Madam for that Madam disagrees with, I promise that I will make every effort to remember to assume a begging posture, as befits my place in Madam’s home.  I will make every effort to make any passionate appeals from my assumed position of Madam’s property, begging for what I really, really want rather than hurling demands at Madam.  Most of all, I promise to rededicate myself to honoring my fifth agreement in the contract I willfully entered with Madam: “I agree to inform Madam of wants and perceived needs, recognizing that She is the sole judge of what it is that I need or how these desires shall be satisfied.”

Missy

Zawsze mnie zdumiewało, że sprawdza się ludowe porzekadło o tym, że brudne dziecko to zdrowe dziecko. Choć logika i wiedza o groźnych drobnoustrojach mówią coś innego praktyka codzienna zdaje się potwierdzać także tę życiową mądrość. Ja jednak widzę w tym powiedzeniu także trochę inne znaczenie. Na 100% brudne dziecko świetnie się bawiło. Na 100% brudne dziecko to szczęśliwe dziecko (z zastrzeżeniem, że ma się gdzie umyć, a brud wynika tylko z zabawy). Dlaczego więc tyle energii wkładamy starając się dziecko doprowadzić do stanu lśnienia? Nie wiem. Wiem za to, że gdy patrzę na poniższe zdjęcie

Zdjęcie dobrej zabawy brudnego dziecka

Wcale nie czuję dyskomfortu, tylko coś raczej na kształt zazdrości, że mnie już tak nie wypada. Oczywiście są różne sytuacje i czasami nasze dziecko wcale nie chce być brudne, a nawet wręcz przeciwnie. Zresztą co będę tłumaczył, zobaczcie sami do czego prowadzi pogoń za pięknem:

Dziecko i krem

Czyż nie jest to prawdziwa apoteoza makijażu.

Nie wyczerpuje to możliwości naszych pociech. Sytuacji, w których są zdolne doprowadzić do ruiny najlepszą pralkę, jest cała masa. Ale doświadczeni życiem z pewnością potwierdzą, że chyba najważniejszą z nich jest jedzenie. Z biegiem lat dochodzę do przeświadczenia, że jeżeli dziecko po jedzeniu jest czyste, to z pewnością mu nie smakowało. Jeżeli stopień ubrudzenia miałby być miarą oceny smakowitości jedzenia, to czy nie chcielibyście spróbować tego co ten bobas:

Brudne z czekolady dziecko

Czy po tym krótkim przeglądzie dalej macie ochotę tylko myć Wasze dzieci?

Im feeling like being such a spoilt little drama queen daddys boy brat right now.

and you know what else, im thinking, why the hell not?!

if i wanna get what I want, when I want it, ill fuckin get what i want, when I want it. im not saying its always a good thing, but sometimes it can be, and sometimes you deserve it, and personaly, right now, i think i deserve it!

so, anyone who wants to tell me im a spoilt brat or selfish or whatever the kids are calling it these days, back off, its not like I dont already know it!

So, first on my list of things i want RIGHT NOW! a house… a flat would do, if it was a nice one, but a house. yeah, its big yeah, its expensive, but what the hell is the point of asking for stuff if I have nowhere to keep it? huh? HUH!?

and second, I want a car.

yeah, sure, its not like i can drive, but hey, does it matter. i could always sit on it and just pretent… any idiot can sit and make VOOM! VOOOOOOOOOM! sounds cant they?!

I sure know I can.

thats pretty much all that I got so far, and im pretty sure their the most expensive things that i want!

now to go ask dad…

xo.

Kanske såg det ut såhär?

För alla som nån gång diskuterat med och träffat på MUF-are är det knappast en nyhet att MUF Helsingborg bjudit minderåriga på sprit. Sen min glada gymnasietid har jag vetat att MUF är kända för att värva nya medlemmar genom “balla” fester. Detta är ett gammalt koncept som de hållit på med i tiotals år. Och när jag konfronterat MUF-are jag känt med dessa fakta har jag fått höra “jamen, det är ingen fara, individens frihet ger också ett individuellt ansvar, så varje individ får ju själv ta ansvar för om den vill dricka eller inte”.

Denna typ av svar är ungefär lika intelligent som MUF i allmänhet. “Alltså, jag gör vad jag vill och det ska du skita i”, brukar det låta från ungmoderaterna samtidigt som de drar handen över hårkammen med gelé. Nu kanske ni tror att jag överdriver, att jag gör narr av dom små söta MUF-arna, men faktum är att det är dom som gör narr av sig själva.

MUF är en samling för bortskämda företrädelsevis öfre medelskiktare som har missat det här med att människor påverkas av varandra, att det finns begrepp som gemensamt ansvar och ojämlikhet. I deras bratiga Saint Tropez-världar finns bara denna abstraktion av individer som kan ta ansvar för sig själva. Men så skoj! Då kan ni ju sitta inlåsta i isoleringscell för resten av era liv. Det är väl det som krävs om man inte ska påverka någon annan (exempelvis att dricka för mycket sprit trots alltför unga år), bli påverkad själv (som ni ofta är era fulla as) eller uppleva baksidorna av klassamhället (vilket ni tyvär sällan behöver göra).

Vad jag menar är att MUF Helsingborg inte är något undantag, de är snarare en logisk konsekvens av MUF:s förda politik genom alla tider.

Självklart har vi även, till skillnad från vad tokliberaler tror, ett gemensamt samhälleligt ansvar för varandra, som exempelvis inkluderar att vi ska se till att minderåriga inte ska supa eftersom det är skadligt för dom. Detta torde vara en självklarhet.

Bloggat: Röda Malmö

Borgarblaskorna: Svd, DN, AB, Sydsv,  KvP

Ferie, ferie i po feriach. Czyli długo wyczekiwany tydzień w domu minął tak szybko, że trochę ciężko nawet wyłowić z niego więcej konkretów. Przydałoby się to jednak jakoś podsumować, opisać… cokolwiek. Niechaj, więc będzie od początku, od przylotu. A dalej, to już, na co pamięć pozwoli…

Doba pierwsza

Zaczęło się rannym świtem, a raczej nocą ciemną sobotnią koło godziny 5 z hakiem, gdy doszłam do wniosku, że ze spania nici, więc należy się zwlec, zjeść coś, spakować ostatnie rzeczy oraz opróżnić lodówkę i szafki z tego, co tam zostało, a pod nieobecność moją i Współ mogłoby przejąć kontrolę nad mieszkaniem. Już poprzedniego wieczora przeprowadziliśmy akcję pacyfikacyjną pod kryptonimem „co by tu nadprogramowo zeżreć na kolację”, ale jakieś ostatnie winogrona, zapodziane pomidory i inne takie należało umieścić w zielonym ustrojstwie o nazwie KOSZ (tak, jest zielony tym oczojebnym odcieniem zieleni). Rano to było już tylko dobijanie. Za kwadrans siódma rozległo się pukanie. Albo wtedy miało się rozlec, a w rzeczywistości rozległo się wcześniej, zaskakując mnie gdzieś między kończeniem etapu na GeoChallange a myciem kubka po kawie. I tu chwila na powiedzenie, kto o tak wczesnej porze w sobotę może pukać do drzwi osoby wyjeżdżającej. Otóż Pradeep. Hindus lat sama nie wiem ile. 25 chyba. Studiuje na M2, miły facet, pomocny i się w dodatku wtedy uparł, że ze mną przetarabani się 15 minut busem i z półtorej godziny pociągiem na lotnisko, żeby je sobie zobaczyć… Bez komentarza, ale co miałam zrobić? Chce, to chce. Przeca mu nie zabronię.

No i śmy pojechaliśmy.

Można wiele narzekać na moje zadupie zwane Les Ulis, ale z Charles de Gaulle połączenie ma dobre. Niemalże każdy RER dojeżdża aż na lotnisko. A ja jeszcze tyle farta miała, że samolot miałam z terminala drugiego, w którym na samym dole znajduje się stacja RER-a i TGV. No i tyle miłego było na początek. Sporo, więc jak Ola twierdzi: ile szczęścia tyle pecha… no i pech się przywlókł w postaci opóźnionego samolotu. Mykło się EasyJet-owi o jakieś 45 minut. Niemal godzina przy locie trwającym 2:15… no żyć nie umierać. Na pocieszenie lot do Marrakeszu tych samych linii lotniczych wykopyrtnął się w rozkładzie o przeszło 5 godzin. Podróżnym udającym się tam składam wyrazy współczucia. Zawłaszcza, że CDG nie jest miejscem, gdzie by się chciało siedzieć godziny. Po pierwsze na teren gdzie odbywa się odprawa bagażu mają wstęp już tylko osoby z biletami. Po drugie niewiele tam ciekawego. Niby jest wolnocłówka, niby jakaś restauracja, ale jakieś takieś to bez życia. Chociaż może za wcześnie tam byłam. 9 rano to taka godzina ni przypiął, ni przyłatał. Niemniej El Prat pod Barceloną było zdecydowanie sympatyczniejsze.

Kolejnym punktem w rozkładzie było wejście na pokład.

Powiedz ludziom „siedźcie i czekajcie na swoją grupę” a i tak się stłoczą przed ladą i będą blokować przejście. EasyJet nie przydziela miejsc w samolocie – siadasz gdzie chcesz. Siłą rzeczy im wcześniej wleziesz na pokład, tym większy wybór. Po drugie mam system grup. SB – speedy boarding – gdzie za pierwszeństwo dopłacasz, SA – czyli wszelkie wózki inwalidzkie, rodziny z dziećmi itd. bo nikt by nie ryzykował, że z braku miejsc matka będzie siedziała pół samolotu od rozhisteryzowanego dziecka. Na koniec są grupy A i B, które żadnych większych przywilejów nie mają. Ot A wchodzi przed B, a przydział zależy chyba tylko od kolejności nadania bagażu. System, jaki jest, taki jest. Nie jest zły, choć poniekąd świadczy o tym, że czasami EasyJet sprzedaje więcej biletów niż ma miejsc, ale to mają nawet w regulaminie napisane. W każdym razie, jak w eter idzie ogłoszenie, że zapraszamy SB, to A i B mogliby siedzieć nadal na ławeczkach i czekać… gdzieżby tam cisnąć się będą. (Na CDG to przynajmniej dużo miejsca było, to mieli gdzie… jak wracałam, to na Balicach miejsca było mniej i robiła się lekka szkoła przetrwania w tłumie.) Finalnie na pokład weszłam, siadłam tam gdzie zawsze – tuż za skrzydłem przy oknie. Chyba najgłośniejsze miejsce w całym samolocie, ale przynajmniej oko ma punkt zaczepienia, gdy wokoło tylko chmury, chmury, chmury i w zasadzie cały samolot wydaje się po prostu wisieć w bieli i hałasować. A tak jest jeszcze to skrzydło, które się czasem zatelepie. Obok mnie siadły jakieś dwie Francuzki, które w czasie późniejszym – gdy wytoczono pokładowy bufet, uraczyły się jakimiś tostami czy coś… nie wiem, co to było, ale pachniało tak, że stanowczo postanowiłam w EasyJet-owskich samolotach ograniczyć się do kawy. Im chyba smakowało. Ja wczytywałam się w National Geographic –jedna z nielicznych anglojęzycznych gazet do kupienia na CDG.

Pilot tymczasem „docisnął” i przed Krakowem odrobił z 15 minut opóźnienia.

Pierwszą konkretną rzeczą, jaką dane mi było zobaczyć na Polskiej ziemi była reklama Żywca na lotniskowym autobusie. No normalnie czuć, że dom. Poza tym wiele się nie zmieniło. Na dworze była taka sama szaruga jak w Paryżu, a dopóki nie wyrwałam się z terminalu wokół mnie wciąż dźwięczał francuski. A potem autobus, nierówne drogi i kurs na Galerię Krakowską. Można było pociągiem, ale na niego podążyli Francuzi… poza tym chyba miałam dość pociągów jak na jeden dzień.

Z wrażeń autobusowych wynikła jedna refleksja: jeny, jak to miło móc zapytać o coś drugiego człowieka bez konieczności nieśmiałego dopytania się uprzednio, czy on może przypadkiem speak English?

Galeria Krakowska przywitała mnie tłumem ludzi, których o zgrozo rozumiałam. Dziwne uczucie. Znajome, bo już nie pierwszy raz mi się tak zdarzyło, ale cóż… nie zmienia to faktu, że jest dziwne. Gdzieś w tym tłumie mieli być żona i brat… Dzięki niech będą wynalazcom za telefony komórkowe. Metodą nawigacji komórkowej – czyli moim smsowym oświadczeniem, że spotykamy się pod tą i tą kawiarnią – się znaleźliśmy. I tu pojawił się bonus. Bonusem byli Justyna i… I no właśnie zielonego pojęcia nie mam. Bo mnie cokolwiek jednak niedospaną, szczęściem upojoną, że dotarłam, spragniona kawy zapytano, czy wiem, kim jest tenże facet Justynie towarzyszący. Gdzieś rzucono, że on mnie kojarzy… A ja jego? No gęba jakaś taka znajoma, ale skąd, po co i za ile, to ja pojęcia nie mam. Jęknełam więc teatralnie, że litości dla mnie nie mają i ze chcę kawę. Temat został odpuszczony, a ja nie wiem o kawalerze nic więcej, ponad to, ze jest kawalerem Justyny. Z kawy w kawiarni wyszła kawa w lodziarni. Zła nie była, ale lokal taki 4 na 10. Ech, ja tam przywiązana a jestem do Cafe Club i W biegu Cafe. No, ale pomijając kolorowy – zielony – wystrój to kawę mieli dobrą; żeśmy wspólnie z bratem orzekli to kulturalnie pijąc kawuchę po irlandzku.
Powiem to otwarcie, miło było Justynę zobaczyć, choć wyszło to chyba trochę lipnie, bo zmęczona byłam, nastawiona tylko na spotkanie się z dwoma osobami, z którymi rozmowę można prowadzić w pewien określony, abstrakcyjny, hetaliczny sposób… przy osobach trzecich trzeba było zejść bardziej na ziemię, a i tak jak się coś nam – mnie, żonie i bratu– skojarzyło, tośmy się śmiali, choć pozostała dwójka nie za bardzo mogła zrozumieć dlaczego. Cóż… bywa…! Od żony dostało mi się pluszowgo jeża (który przy okazji jest pudełkiem na CD) ^__^ i powiedzmy, że on mi wszystko wynagrodził, a teraz jest tu ze mną… znaczy gdzieś na łóżku leży przysypany notatkami… ^^”
A potem była już jazda na krakowskie przedmieścia, do żonowego lokum. Jazda przez Tesco, bo między innymi pojawił się głód piwa… Tak… Ja i Kasiek i wstrzemięźliwość. Przemilczmy. Wstrzemięźliwość się poszła bujać, po dwa piwa na głowę zostały zakupione, a i tak potem jeszcze lecieliśmy Żabki szukać, bo nam mało jakoś wyszło. Cóż, wydawało mi się, że dwa piwa po męczącym dniu mnie siekną. Nie siekły. Cztery też nie. Nawet kaca rano nie było, szwindel jakowyś. Dzień się skończył chyba po 2 w nocy. Był długi. Cholernie długi… a jak mi się z rana oko na chwilę odemknęło koło godziny 8 starego czasu, to mnie brat – dzielący ze mną kanapę w salonie – począł tyrpać, bo był wyspany i pewnie jeszcze miał ku temu kilka powodów. Ech. Sadyzm. Niby żadna nowość, ale jednak… Na szczęście z czasem odpuścił. Ba, nawet dał się Kasiek, jako grzejnik wykorzystać, bo ja zmarzluch jestem i pod samym kocem zmarzło mi się w nocy, a to nic miłego. Grubsze skarpetki powinnam była założyć. I tak jakoś zaczął się dzień drugi radosnego szaleństwa…

Madam P was so sweet to me this weekend.  Sometimes I don’t know what comes over me, but I have a tendency to be very jealous of anyone touching Madam P in a familiar way, past, present or future.  And, well, you know, Madam has lived a long, full life; she’s had lovers before me.  And intellectually I understand the beauty of that.  I get it that Madam is the woman I know and love because of all those experiences of her past, both good and bad.  In my more lucid moments, I can feel appreciation and gratitude towards all those people who have been intimate with Madam before she met me; they’ve helped Madam to grow and evolve each in their own way, and they helped keep her from feeling lonely and unloved while she waited for me to find her.  But if I allow myself to think about it too much, I’m just so quick to get moody, jealous and withdrawn over these thoughts.

Why I respond this way to thoughts of Madam P’s sexual history seems irrelevant.  What is relevant is why at times I feel drawn to think these thoughts that I find so unsettling (much like a moth flying into a lit candle), and what can I do to stop thinking these thoughts so that I can avoid turning moody.

Madam has decided that I don’t need to deal with this issue by myself anymore.  This past Saturday I allowed myself to get into that old crazy thought cycle, dwelling on Madam’s past sexual adventures.  I could see myself doing it inside my head, and yet I felt powerless to stop it.  (Maybe it’s the masochist in me drawn to emotional pain.)  Madam does not like to be around me when I get like this.  So rather than getting angry with me this weekend, Madam took me in hand and helped me to stop thinking unsettling thoughts. 

Early in the day, Madam had to take a trip to the grocery store; before she left, she put me in my cage and locked the door.  I stayed in there for about an hour, waiting for Madam to get back from the grocery store.  (Madam doesn’t know that I was just waiting for her to leave so that I could guzzle a beer and numb out a little bit; cage time was much healthier for me, body and soul… thank you Madam P!)  For a while after Madam let me out, I was my sweet, submissive, doting self with Madam.  But I wasn’t done yet.

Later in the evening, residual thoughts came up again, turning me dark and moody one more time.  Madam didn’t wait long before she took action.

As I was preoccupied, in my own little moody world, working on my art, Madam came into the room and told me to put everything down and come to her.  I was feeling cranky.  I was in no mood to play, but I’ve surrendered my will to Madam and I’ve pledged to obey her commands, so I did what was demanded of me.  Madam had me place my hands behind my back so that she could snap on a pair of handcuffs.  I was then led to the bedroom, where Madam had me kneel beside the bed.  She removed her underwear, stuffing them into my mouth, and told me to place my head on the bed face down.  She then turned off the lights, closed the door, and left me to stew in the fullness of my submission, restrained, gagged, and in the dark.

A little while later Madam came back into the bedroom, removed her panties from my mouth, gave me a mild spanking, pulled my hair back, and let me know that the moody attitude had to stop immediately.  Madam had me say out loud that I’m her slave, that she owns me outright, and that I will obey as I’ve agreed to do.  She had me kiss and lick her feet for a little while, grabbed a handful of my hair and asked if I was ready to behave if she uncuffed me.  I agreed to be Madam’s good girl for the rest of the evening.  Madam uncuffed me, gave me a long, warm hug and let me know that she loves me with all her heart.

Madam P is no bully.  She isn’t the kind of Madam that enjoys doling out a lot of physical pain to her slave just for the fun of it.  Madam P is always fair, wise and just.  Her method of getting my attention and interrupting my crazy thoughts proved to be extremely effective.  For the rest of the weekend, I was Madam’s good girl, sweet, submissive and very affectionate towards Madam.

I like myself so much better when I’m sweet and submissive, showering my love and affection all over Madam.  I’m so grateful to Madam P for taking me in hand and helping to bring my thoughts back into alignment with who I most want to be: Madam’s sweet slave girl.  On Sunday, at an “erotic humiliation” workshop that Madam took me to, the presenter said to me after I shared about how Madam P trains me, “You’re a very lucky girl.”  Yes I am; he has no idea!

Missy

I read a really great post this morning at the blog “God’s Gift to Him“.  The author writes about a profound benefit to living the D/s lifestyle with her husband as head of their household.  She describes her way of handling negative emotions prior to surrendering her will to her husband as keeping “…things bottled up because it wasn’t worth wasting his time, or he might not understand, or another million reasons I had.  I thought I was being a nice wife by just keeping quiet about any discontent or sadness.”

Now, I don’t know if this kind of holding negative relationship feelings inside is a trait common among women who by nature thrive in submission, but her long standing inclination to hold bad feelings inside, to get cool and quiet with her husband, and to not want to burden others with her anger or sadness, are all traits that are extremely familiar to me.  I am totally the wife that gets cool and quiet and mopey whenever things get difficult with my beloved wife.  I hope I’m not out of line if I say that this particular trait is the one thing that Madam would most like to change about me.

God’s Gift to Him goes on to describe how her ‘Dom’ husband handles her chilly behavior now that she has surrendered her will as his submissive: as part of her service to him, she is expected to “…spill [her] guts, even if it’s messy.  He’ll ask more questions about how this makes me feel.  He demands an answer and he’ll wait.  If tears come, he’ll stroke my hair in his lap, but won’t back down about needing an answer.  Sometimes I can only talk when he’s forceful about it.”

I love this dynamic between them!  I’ve kind of noticed this beginning to happen with Madam P and me.  Seriously, when I’m mad, sad, grumpy or otherwise unhappy about something, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK!  I get silent; I move around the house and avoid contact.  And I know Madam hates this, but it’s who I’ve always been.  The fact is that I’m way, way, way better now than I’ve ever been in my life.  In my 20’s and 30’s, if I got pissed off with someone I was living with, I might hold my silence for days or even weeks!  I’m nowhere near that bad anymore.  Madam P would like for me to not be that way at all.  Ever.  (Frankly, I would also like for me to not behave that way anymore.)

In the couple of months since Madam P and I have entered into our agreed upon Madam/slave arrangement, I can think of at least 2 instances when I was feeling bad about something to the extent that I sort of withdrew into myself and kept my thoughts to myself.  In the first instance, we were riding in the car (a long drive), and Madam held her tongue as I maintained silence for most of the drive.  (Maybe she didn’t feel sure of her power over me yet since our power exchange dynamic was still very new.)  Eventually, when she couldn’t stand it anymore, Madam began asking me direct questions about why I was being quiet.  In my mind, I really just wanted to say, “Nothing’s wrong” and stay quiet.  But, the agreement I specifically made with Madam is that I will answer direct questions with direct answers, and even though it went against my nature, I opened up and told Madam everything.  And was it ever a relief to get it all out in the open.  If it wasn’t for Madam’s authority over me and my agreement to respect and honor that authority, I would have held all those feelings inside same as I always had.

In the second instance, Madam recently got angry with me for something I wrote in this blog.  I felt that I was being misunderstood, and I was afraid that I was going to be severely punished.  I really wanted to hold my tongue, keep my feelings to myself, and just say nothing; I didn’t want to make things worse.  When I got home from work that day, Madam called me into the bedroom and instructed me to lie on the bed beside her.  She insisted that I tell her what was going on with me.  Partly because of my agreement to obey her, and partly because I feared the punishment I might receive if I resisted her, I opened up and told her everything that was in my head and in my heart.  Madam, who is the most fair, just, and wise person I know, listened to what I had to say, agreed that maybe she was misunderstanding me, and thanked me for opening up to her. 

What can I say, I love being Madam P’s slave/wife.  It was very good for me to read what God’s Gift to Him wrote this morning.  I hadn’t really recognized clearly before this particular aspect of how Madam P’s and my M/s agreement is making our marriage 1000 times better than it’s ever been!  Simply amazing!

I’m so grateful to Madam P for allowing me to serve her.  I’m so blessed that she has taken me in hand and has taken responsibility for keeping the lines of communication wide open in our marriage, where, without her wise and firm guidance, I would habitually muck those lines up.

Missy

Madam P and I are having so much fun working out the details and dynamics of what a Master/slave relationship looks like to us.  I’m not sure that Madam understands yet how serious I am about living up to and honoring the contract I signed.  Or perhaps Madam does not yet trust the power she now possesses to use, direct, mold and control me in accordance with every little whim that passes through the desire-center of her being.  Here’s what I’m talking about:

Last night I felt as though I had a million things to do before bed, and there was no time to work at my art.  After dinner Madam called me to her and had me epilate the hair from her legs.  Of course I obeyed Madam’s instructions.  Afterward I was a little cranky and petulant.  I began rattling off to Madam the list of things I felt that I needed to accomplish before bed.  Madam agreed that I had quite a bit on my plate in a short amount of time.  I realize now that in her mind Madam was also recognizing that among the to-do list that I’d rattled off to her, my nightly rituals of placing a warm-pack in the bed for her, spending a minute or 2 kissing her feet (for allowing me to practice my art every day, among other things), and brushing her hair at bedtime were not on the list.  Madam seemed shy or hesitant about asserting her authority over me and enforcing our nightly bedtime ritual.  I’m guessing that Madam recognized that I was agitated and perhaps felt some trepidation about possibly upsetting me further and maybe even triggering a conflict.  Madam let me get away with forgetting my responsibility for putting her to bed properly, and she allowed me to get away with being petulant and cranky as I spoke my goodnights.

Please don’t think that I’m being disrespectful or otherwise judging the way that Madam chooses to handle her slave.  I really am working up to a point here.

I’m blessed beyond all expectation that Madam and I are in absolute agreement that nothing is more important in this life than to experience as much happiness and joy as we can possible cram into our years on this earth.  Because Madam and I are in absolute agreement on this crucial point, we are in a position to take some small measure of responsibility for each other’s joyful life experience and happiness.  We are in a position to not allow each other to casually get away with squandering our life energy on negative feelings.  Really!

If Madam is having a bad day, or maybe a bad experience, I, as her slave, have a responsibility to improve her mood if she’ll let me.  And because Madam and I have come to an agreement that feeling good and feeling happy is the most important thing to us both, that means I HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY TO TRY!  Depending on circumstances I can listen to Madam vent if that will help; I can offer words of encouragement and guidance based on my spiritual/human studies; I can offer to serve Madam in some of the ways that I know she loves best, bringing her tea, kissing her feet, scratching her back, kneeling at her feet; maybe I can make Madam a grilled cheese and pickle sandwich, etc. 

Not that I’m here to instruct Madam or to try to teach her how to handle her slave, but I would respectfully submit that Madam is in a position to equally take responsibility for my happy, good feeling experience when she sees that I’m in a negative place.  To use last night’s experience as an example, there is no end to the things Madam might have done to disrupt my cranky mood and bring my submissive heart back to balance.  She could have enforced our bedtime ritual, recognizing that it would only take a few extra minutes of my time (and that her taking such control of me would have turned me on and gotten me into a better/submissive head-space).  She could have reminded me of our bedtime ritual and made me get on my knees and begged her to excuse me from them for this one night (again, triggering the submissive frame of mind that gets me so hot.)  If she was concerned that I might push back and resist (that is, fight with her) if she asserted herself, she could have taken 5 minutes of my time to lock me in my cage to adjust my attitude (with sub-space) before letting me go about the tasks of my evening.  She could have put me in handcuffs for a couple of minutes (like I’m going to fight with her with my hands cuffed behind my back) and had me acknowledge my bedtime responsibilities and then maybe excused me from them.  Thirty second spankings have proven to be an effective way to get my attention (and turn me on; is it possible to be turned on and cranky at the same time?)  Or, if in fact Madam had some concern that I might argue with her if she attempted to assert her authority over me, she has a perfect control tool… she has a heavy chain collar locked around my neck that I can’t get away from, if she were so inclined to grab a handful of it.

Now, I’m not saying that Madam has a responsibility to play the heavy if I’m not behaving myself (although she does have that right, of course.)  What I am saying is that, in the same way that I would feel compelled (responsible) to reach out and make the attempt to bring Madam back to a better feeling place if I saw that she was feeling down, Madam is equally in a position to take responsibility for my better feeling thoughts when she sees that I’m not happy (moody, petulant, mopey.)  I believe that Madam has not yet come to trust that I actually like it when she takes total control over me.  (I wouldn’t have signed the contract if I didn’t want to serve her.)  Which means that Madam has not yet come to understand the extent of the power she has to create the experience she desires as a slave owner, while at the same time helping her beloved wife/slave to experience more and more happy, good feeling days than she already does.

I’m sure that Madam will correct me if I’m off base here.

Missy

Madam P and I were talking last weekend about our 2 friends that I wrote all about in the previous blog entry.  Mid conversation, Madam drifted off topic and sort of started talking about something else (a thing that she does.)  I did what I often do in these circumstances… I got frustrated and pointed out to Madam what she was doing.  Madam became frustrated and annoyed and we just stopped talking for a little while.

I hope Madam P knows that I’m not trying to be disrespectful here.  I only bring this event up to make a point. 

What happened between Madam and me seems a perfect example to me of why slave training is so important in a consensual Master/slave relationship, especially when the 2 people involved love each other very much and have a long relationship history going back much further than the M/s power exchange that exists between them does.  It’s so easy for a loving married couple like Madam P and me to fall into old patterns of stress and blurry balance of power dynamics during casual personality conflicts.  It’s funny the way old habits can so easily take us over at times.

The trouble with allowing old habits to run roughshod over us is that there’s no value in so many of them.  In the example I gave above, Madam was frustrated and quiet, I was frustrated and quiet, and it took us a little while to get back into a semblance of balance within the comfort of our M/s power exchange dynamic.  And really, we could have avoided the discomfort if only we had remembered to look to our Master/slave agreement for guidance right away.

Regardless of whether I was informing Madam of something she needed to be aware of or not, if Madam was annoyed and upset, and I was annoyed and upset, well, we have very powerful tools to help us stay joyfully blissed out; we could have easily avoided those uncomfortable feelings.  Had either Madam or I immediately invoked our power exchange agreement as soon as the old push/pull dynamic started, then we both could have avoided being annoyed and frustrated all together.  And the more slave training that we do, the more likely we are to replace those old unhealthy/unhelpful relationship dynamics with happier, more playful ways of being.

What do I mean?  The more often that Madam asserts her authority over me as her property to do with as she pleases during relaxed time together, the more likely she will be to assert that authority when we’re having a personality conflict.  And the more often that I, as Madam’s slave, am reminded of my position as her plaything to be used to her heart’s content, the more likely I am to assume my submissive profile when I see Madam getting upset with me.  I believe that regular, ritualized slave training will dramatically enhance the Master/slave dynamic within our household, replacing the old unhealthy habits with playful new habits (even if we only practice focused slave training 15 or 20 minutes at a time 2 or 3 days a week; I believe it will have profound effect.)

How could the conflict that took place this weekend have gone differently?  Well, here’s what happened: I got annoyed and let Madam know; Madam got annoyed and fell silent; uncomfortable quiet ensued in the house for a little while.  How might that situation play out differently as we create new habits in our home based on our M/s power exchange dynamic?  One scenario might have gone like this: I get annoyed and let Madam know; Madam tells me, “take off all your clothes and get into your cage;” Madam lets me stew in my cage a few minutes and comes to me, thanks me for pointing out what was happening in our conversation, lets me know that I need to learn to point these things out to her in a more respectful way, and she lets me out of the cage and we carry on with our enjoyable evening.  In that scenario, Madam avoids getting upset, and she immediately disrupts my frustration, plus we both end up turned on and amused by our mini cage scene. 

A second possible scenario might have gone like this: I get annoyed and I let Madam know; Madam gets annoyed and falls silent; I realize that I’m way out of line as Madam’s slave girl; I approach Madam, fall to her feet, kissing them and ask for her forgiveness; my gesture has disrupted Madam’s annoyance and mine as well, and we’re able to talk about what just happened in a manner more conducive to our Master/slave power exchange dynamic… plus we’re both turned on and amused as I have my lips pressed to Madam’s feet kissing and explaining myself.

In other words, I see regular slave training as Madam and I go about the day to day routine of our playful life together as a powerful tool for replacing old, unhealthy relationship habits with hot, erotic new habits.  And really, who wouldn’t rather have hot and erotic over frustrated and annoyed?  Increased playfulness, reduced stress… Madam P and I might just live forever.

Missy

I found and subscribed to a very interesting web-feed today.  It’s a website called “submissive guide“, and from what I saw, the site is set up to send out by email daily journal prompts to help submissive and erotic-slave types to keep their journal writing fresh and oriented towards maintaining and communicating clearly why we choose to serve.  As I perused the list of recent journal prompts on the website, I came across one that definitely piqued my interest:

~~~>Do you find obedience to be easy for you?<~~~~

Wow.  That’s really a good question.  I’ll try to come up with an equally good answer.

Okay, I can’t deny it… I’m a brat.  I’m a brat.  I’ll say it one more time: I’m a brat.  I don’t like being a brat.  I don’t like myself when I’m being bratty.  It’s like eating things that aren’t good for us.  We know that potato chips have little or no nutritional value, and we know that they will make us fat in the long run.  But they taste so damn good, so when they’re around, we grab a handful without thinking too much about it.  It’s not like we think, “Ooo, if I eat few more hands full of these greasy chips I might be able to get my cholesterol up over 350!”  It’s more like, “Mmmmm, chips!”

That’s the way bratty behavior works for me.  I guess the smartass in me finds it funny.  If Madam asks me a question, any question, my brain reflexively (in most cases, I’m ashamed to admit) offers a bratty comeback.  These comebacks don’t always come out of my mouth, but very often they do.  These bratty comebacks come out at work, they come out in grocery stores, on the telephone, in social situations generally.  I don’t seem to have much control over these bratty thoughts that pop into my head.  What I do have control over is whether or not I allow these thoughts to come out of my mouth.  I pick and choose which smartass remarks come out at work.  I guess Madam hears more than her share of these smartass-answers-to-straight-forward-questions because we’re together a lot and because we’re so familiar with each other.  I’m just more relaxed around Madam.

If Madam asks me a question and I answer with a smartass remark, then I’m not being obedient.  I will say this in my own defense: I don’t want to be a brat.  I don’t talk back at Madam because I want to be punished or to challenge her authority over me.  It’s a reflex.  And I love and appreciate Madam more than she knows for helping me to break this reflexive characteristic inside of me.

I have to wonder, where did this bratty reflex come from?  What is the origin of this behavior in me?  The only thing I can think of is that I’m very smart, much smarter than the average person, I think.  Throughout my life, I’ve tended to figure things out, make connections, see patterns, and remember things much more readily than most people I’ve known.  Being a bratty smartass is the superior, arrogant smarty-pants coming out in me.  I guess it’s a way that I learned early on to flaunt my intelligence over people around me that I perceived as less intelligent than I am.  Not that I’m suggesting that Madam is less intelligent than I am; Madam is highly intelligent, at least my equal.  Madam and I simply have different areas of expertise. 

I think at this point in my life, the reflexive smartass thing is just a habit, less arrogant and more part of who I’ve trained myself to be.  Most people who know me are (I think) mostly charmed by my silly intelligence and wry humor… I mean, I’m not cruel or mean to people; I’m just a smartass.  In the case of Madam P, on the other hand, while she is charmed and turned on by my intelligence, sometimes she just wants a straight answer to a direct question; she doesn’t want to have to match wits with me every time she asks a question.

Which brings me back to the question: do I find obedience to be easy for me?  I love being obedient, but only to Madam P.  I don’t always like it, but I know that it’s good for me.  I know it’s good for me because, once I’ve pushed through my initial impulse to resist and be a brat, it feels so good (and erotic) to do exactly as Madam has commanded me to do.  If it feels good, it must be good. 

Obedience does not always come easy for me.  For anyone other than Madam, I say, good luck telling me what to do.  I am, however, very drawn to “compelled obedience”.  I WANT to be obedient to Madam.  I especially love doing things that Madam has commanded me to do that I REALLY, REALLY DO NOT WANT TO DO!  It’s like, taking a beating, submitting to a spanking or a flogging, or being tied to chair or a table for several hours at a time, it’s not pleasant, I don’t particularly enjoy the pain or discomfort, but I love, love, LOVE basking in that feeling that Madam has absolute power over me, that she has all the power and I have none.  I love that feeling.  That feeling quiets the brat inside my head, and it brings out the adoring pet in me.  In those times when Madam has been exercising her control over me, putting me in a cage for a few hours, making me sleep handcuffed, giving me commands, or even repeatedly, verbally reminding me of my place, the brat goes quiet in my head, and the slave-girl in me wants to follow Madam everywhere she goes and dote on her, touch her, kiss her, or just sit at her feet staring up at her face.

I LOVE being obedient to Madam P.  But I would not say that obedience comes easy for me.  Madam P is my hero, for helping me to quiet the brat within so that, in time, perhaps obedience will come more and more easily… but only for Madam P and for those she tells me I must obey.  To all others, good luck with that!

Missy