Sometimes They Feed You the Shards

Abuse taught me that life was not always served chilled with a slice of lemon in a glitter-rimmed glass. Sometimes they crush the glass and feed you the shards instead. My entire view of the world changed utterly when I found out people like that existed, and my naivety vanished as utterly as morning fog.

In the beginning, I thought such things were recovered from as quickly as your average relationship. I was strong, after all, so why would I start struggling with challenges now? I gave myself a schedule: once half the amount of time I’d spent with him had passed, I would be ready for a new relationship.

The time passed.

And passed.

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I developed crushes. I went on dates, but as soon as it came to the crunch, I began to feel violated and skittish. I ran. Every. Damn. Time.

I’ve turned to my intellect a thousand times for answers. What was I seeing in them that was chasing me away? Logic would say I saw signs that they’d become abusive, too. Surely my fear was just intuition or paranoia? The trouble was I was looking for answers in the wrong place: outward.

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The Story of Us

How do you feel?

Fine.

Fine is not a feeling.

I feel okay.

Not a feeling.

I feel… good?

Nope.

I don’t know what I feel, Janice.

Try again.

I feel not quite happy, just normal. Calm?

Every morning we must report our feelings. Every morning, we all feel happy, sad, angry, or calm. That’s the sum total of the feelings we know how to identify. The rest might as well be homiletics for all the sense it makes to us. We’ve been pushing our feelings down for so long we no longer know how to label them, or at least those who were allowed to feel in childhood have. It seems as though the rest of us will never get there.

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We’re all adults. The oldest is 55. There are a lot of things I could tell you about “us”: None of us knows emotions beyond those four. We all feel rejected by our mothers. We all have self-inflicted scars. We’ve all felt suicidal before. We all chase oblivion, but those aren’t the important things. They’re just the side effects.

We all have eating disorders. Yes, that’s the one. That’s the one that counts.

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How to be a Dominant: a True Sub’s Guide

Contrary to popular belief, being a dominant is not about sitting around getting blowjobs and having coffee served to you all day. The Art of Domliness is rooted in being of service to your sub.

Submissives are defined as people who love having Fendi bought for them and sexy dominants delivered to their doorsteps for fabulously dressed play parties. True doms, it must be said, are monogamous. True subs are not, hence dominants have the time to source their sub’s extra sex partners.

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Most people believe that submissives spend their days fetching mojitos for their dominants, but I have one question for you: Do you want to be an ordinary dominant or an elite, premium, super-qualified one? If your answer is the latter, skill must be gained. There are a wealth of classes for dominants who haven’t yet learned how to iron a sub’s power suit, buy her stilettos that fit, or cook her a five-course tasting menu.

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Care-bears Unveil New Fetlife Rules for 2017

  • 1. How R U messages are hereby banned. All texts that contain those words will be automatically replaced by, “I’m a lazy ass. I need to be spanked and humiliated, Mistress.”
  • 2. Delusional ex-boyfriends will be instantly banned from Fetlife in future. There is no such thing as a delusional ex-girlfriend.
  • 3. Tales about magic wands breaking have traumatised the women of Fetlife, who are all currently crouched in a K&P corner shivering and saying “Umf ugh gah.” This is simply not acceptable because they’re too distressed for blowjobs. You may post about functional magic wands, but to avoid triggering PTSD, if your wand breaks, limit your writing about it to your boring feed on Facebook.

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Contempt

All his exes were psycho bitches. He once told me, after he had his first argument with his ex-fiancée, that she brought the police home to protect her while she collected her belongings. For no reason, you understand. I believed him: psycho bitch. When he told me the next one was a psycho bitch stalker, I believed him, too. When he told me his ex-wife was a psycho bitch narcissist, I was only too happy to add her to his absurd history of victimisation by every one of his exes. It was only a matter of time before I’d become one of them. I knew it then. I just didn’t want to believe it.

That is why I fear him: not for his temper, but for the strength of his delusions.

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His tales of his exes seemed unhealthy because he told them daily, but I tucked them away along with all the other red flags he was throwing up. In those days, the entire world was populated by nice people. Everyone I’d ever known, except my rapist, was nice. How pretty and light the world was in those days—just like a musical.

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The Brat in the Hat

I sat with my subby.
We sat there, we two.
And I said, ‘How I wish
we had hawt things to do!’

Too dry for a cock
and too cold to undress.
so we sat by the clock
and did nothing but stress.

Then we saw her step in on the mat!
The brat in the hat!
And she said to us,
‘I know you’re not
in anything lacy.
but we can have
lots of fun that is racy!’

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‘Why, we can have
an orgy post hoc
With a game that I call
up-up with that cock!’
‘With a vibe and butt plug
And a big anal hook!

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