Do people feel lost because in a past life when they died, they were cremated and their ashes were spread in different parts of the world?
Maybe us feeling lost and searching for missing parts is just trying to reclaim our ashes?
I don’t carry regrets in life. Not really. I’ve made choices, some good, some bad, but they were mine. They shaped me. I own them.
Except for one.
Ten years ago, my brother was murdered. He was drowned in a lake by people he believed were his friends. That pain, the loss, the shock, the guilt, has never dulled. People say time heals, but for me, it hasn't. Not when it comes to him.
You see, on the day he died, he called me. He needed a ride home. And I told him no.
I was angry. Not at him, really, but I took it out on him. I was angry at a life that had left me feeling invisible. Angry at being the kid from a previous relationship, the one who didn’t quite fit into the "new family." My mother had moved on, foster kids, adopted children, new routines, and I felt like a ghost in her world. I was bitter, volatile, and carrying around more pain than I could handle.
So when my brother reached out, I lashed out. I told him he got himself there, he could get himself back. I didn’t know those would be the last words I’d ever say to him.
Hours later, the police came to the door. When they asked for my parents, I rolled my eyes and said something like, “Ugh, what did he do now?” I didn’t know he was already dying. I didn’t know he’d be gone before the night ended. I didn’t know my anger would be the last thing he heard from me.
That regret? It lives in my bones. I’ve replayed it more times than I can count, what if I had picked him up? What if I had just been kinder? Would he still be here? Grief has a way of making you live in the "what ifs." They can eat you alive if you let them. I try not to, but I still do.
My brother was so gentle. He had this quiet kindness, this beautiful spirit. He loved music, playing guitar, drawing, laughing. He was helpful, thoughtful, and always saw the good in others, even in me, even when I didn’t deserve it. He deserved better. And I hate that I couldn’t give that to him while he was here. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly forgive myself for that. Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe some things just stay with you. But I do know this: I loved him. I always have. I took him for granted, and I’ll carry that forever.
But his life, his heart, taught me something too. He taught me to lead with love. To be kind, even when I don’t feel like it. To never let the people I care about go unappreciated. That’s the gift he gave me. And I try, every single day, to live up to it. Ten years ago, the world lost someone beautiful. But I still feel him around me. I like to think he sends little signs now and then, like the fish that swam up to me tonight, as if to say hello.
He may be gone, but he will never, ever be forgotten. I will never forget him, because that is the least I can do. Since the words, ''I'm so sorry." litereally mean nothing, and will never bring him back.
That’s a question I never used to ask myself. Or maybe I did, I just didn’t like the answer.
You see, I’ve always held people to a high standard. Maybe too high. In my world, adults should know better. You make a mistake? That’s on you. I’ve never been good at allowing room for grace or second chances. I believed in accountability so fiercely that I forgot about compassion. And honestly, kindness was never my first language.
But then They came into my life, my two Masters.
It is hard to explain the depth of what They mean to me. These two people don’t just walk beside me, they anchor me. They don’t just support me, They shape me. With them, I am a better human being. I like who I am with Them. And more importantly, I’m proud of the person I’m becoming because of Them.
They hold me accountable, not to perfection, but to my values. They reflect back the parts of me that matter most, the parts that I sometimes lose in the daily chaos, my desire to live with integrity, my struggle to be kind, and my wish to grow, even when it is uncomfortable.
Before Them, I would have written people off for their flaws. But now? I’ve learned to allow for redemption. I’ve come to understand that mistakes don’t always mean someone’s a lost cause. We’re all learning, failing, trying again. They’ve taught me that. And in teaching me, They’ve softened the hard edges I used to see as strength. Now I see that real strength is in patience, in second chances, and in love that doesn’t disappear at the first sign of imperfection.
Without Them, I truly believe I’d be alone in some tiny corner of the world, walled off, maybe even proud of my independence, but secretly aching for connection. But They didn’t let that happen. They pulled me out. They showed me what it means to walk beside someone in their growth and what it feels like to be accepted, challenged, and deeply seen.
With Them, I’m not just capable of more, I am more. More grounded. More forgiving. More whole. So yes, I like who I am with them. I might even love that version of me. And that’s something I never thought I’d say.
Putting together a Brat 101 Class. I am curious as to what people would like to be taught at a class like this.
I do not want to scratch the surface here. We are going to dive deep. So please let me know any questions you have in the comments, things you would like to learn. It would be really useful in forming the outline of this class.
There is something sacred in service, something quiet and strong, especially when it is given freely, with the heart of a kajira. I live and serve as a Gorean kajira within a Leather House. My days are guided by structure, purpose, and a deeply rooted sense of devotion. My collar does not silence me, it grounds me in truth. And truth, for me, is not optional.
Our House holds values that are not just words but principles I live by, Character, Honor, Honesty, Integrity, Respect, Merit, Trust, and Transparency. These are not traits we talk about to look good. They are how we live, how we serve, and how we relate to others in our community.
Which is why I feel so
“It’s not tolerating abuse to get both sides of a story before you make judgments. What is abusive is sending the online equivalent of a mob to my house because I gave evidence that didn’t support your narrative.” - (I forgot who wrote this but if you know who please let me know so credit can be given.)
In this lifestyle, where so much of what we do exists outside of the mainstream, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard, not just in our personal dynamics, but in how we engage with our community. That includes how we respond to conflict, claims, and crisis. We talk so much about consent, honor, and ethics, yet sometimes we forget that those values should extend to how we treat one another when there is disagreement or difficult truth.
I am a kajira. My obedience is real. My submission is intentional. But I do not, and will not, surrender my principles for the sake of groupthink or gossip. I refuse to form opinions based on one sided narratives or unverified rumors. I will always seek both sides of the story. That is how truth is found. That is how justice is served.
We do not get to talk about community safety while destroying those who ask for facts.
I know that truth is not always convenient. It is not always what we want it to be. But that does not make it less true. And it does not mean we are right to ignore it just because it makes us uncomfortable. When I came forward with evidence that didn’t match the popular version of a story, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I was living the values of my House. I was upholding honesty and integrity. I was being transparent. And for that, I was attacked. Not with reasoned disagreement, but with emotional backlash, personal insults, and attempts to isolate or intimidate me.
But I will not be moved from what I know is right. I will continue to write and speak from a place of education, knowledge, and evidence. I will not twist facts to fit someone else’s narrative. I will not hide behind falsities or half truths because it is the easy path. Even if it means I stand alone, I will stand on the side of truth.
Because that is what it means to have character.
That is what it means to serve with honor.
That is what it means to be part of something greater than myself, a House, a structure, a tradition where values are not just spoken but lived, every day.
To those who feel threatened by truth: I understand fear. But fear should not drive out integrity. And to those who stand for values, even quietly, even when it is hard, I see you. You are not truly alone.
As a kajira, I serve with obedience, but I also serve with awareness. I serve with honor, speak with honesty, and live by the integrity of my House. My submission includes a responsibility to think critically, and to act with discernment, even when it is uncomfortable. Especially then.
This is the path I choose. And I will walk it with grace, courage, and unwavering devotion to truth. You don’t have to agree with me. But you will not shame me for choosing truth over convenience.
Because that choice? That’s the very heart of who I am.
So, I read something earlier today that stopped me in my tracks: the idea that sexism is the orgasm gap. Basically, it means that while most men orgasm during sex, many women rarely, if ever, do. And honestly? I used to be one of those women.
In my early twenties, I thought I was having orgasms. Turns out… I wasn’t. (Yikes.) I didn’t realize that until I met my Master, Damon, who, for the record, was the first person to actually give me an orgasm. And not just one. But we’ll get to that in a minute.
Now, let me give credit where it is due. My mom was very sex-positive. She talked openly about sex, never shamed me, and always encouraged me to be informed. But here’s the catch, being informed isn’t the same as being equipped. I didn’t know how to communicate my desires. I didn’t have the words or the confidence to say, “Hey, this is what I need.” And if I’m being real, I was also choosing trash partners who were offering the bare minimum, and I was accepting it.
Why? Because trauma taught me that I didn’t get to have a voice. That was the script I was living by.
Therapy helped me change that. I started doing the heavy emotional weeding, pulling out the limiting beliefs, the shame, the fear of asking for what I wanted. And you know what I found under all that? My voice. My needs. My absolute right to sexual satisfaction. So... is the orgasm gap real? Yes, for some. But do I still experience it now? Hell no. I am living, moaning, soaking wet proof that women can have incredible, fulfilling sex, over and over again.
These days? Let's just say I go full Niagara Falls. Multiple orgasms are my norm. Better wear goggles, its splash mountain between my thighs. My record? Thirty two. (I know. I counted. You're welcome.) We’re talking hours of sex, layered with foreplay, toys, emotional connection, and straight up worship. And my partners? They might get one orgasm in the same amount of time. Not because I’m not trying to reciprocate, but because that’s how our bodies are wired.
Do I feel guilty? Nope.
Do I think it makes me sexist? Also nope.
Do I think it’s unfair? Maybe a little, but I’m not complaining!
Looking back at all those disappointing encounters in my past, I don’t blame the men for not being “Sexual Gods.” They didn’t know, and I didn’t tell them. That’s on me. I didn’t advocate for myself because I didn’t know how. But now? Now I do.
So, if you’re stuck in the orgasm gap, here’s my advice. Don’t blame it all on your partner. Dig deep. Find your voice. Do the work. Learn your body. Communicate your needs. And for the love of all things sexy, stop accepting the bare minimum.
As Noah said in The Notebook: “What do you want?!” Figure that out, communicate with your partner, and go get it.
There’s something I’ve been sitting with for a while now, and today I’m choosing to speak up about it, not because it is easy, but because it matters.
We talk a lot these days about healing, trauma, therapy, and accountability. And honestly? That’s a good thing. It is healthy that we’re having these conversations in public spaces and personal circles alike. But what’s really bothering me, what’s weighing on my chest, is the sheer imbalance I keep seeing in how those conversations are applied across the gender spectrum.
We hold men accountable all the time. Men are told to deconstruct toxic masculinity, go to therapy, learn emotional literacy, stop being emotionally unavailable, and be better communicators. And they should. That work is necessary and vital, not just for women, but for men themselves. But here’s the thing.
Why are we not holding women to the same standard?
Someone said something recently that stuck with me, "Women weren't raised or taught to demand pleasure. So most won't talk about how, let alone ask for it." That’s real. Generations of women were conditioned to be passive, to prioritize others' needs, and to suppress their own desires. That conditioning runs deep. I don’t deny that.
But here’s what I will say. Recognizing that conditioning is not an excuse to sit in it forever.
What gets under my skin is the hypocrisy. Women are often quick to critique men for poor communication, emotional suppression, or lack of empathy, and yes, those criticisms can be valid. But when the mirror is held up and the flaws in our side are exposed, suddenly it is “Don’t blame the victim,” or “You don’t understand my trauma,” or “You’re just silencing women.”
No. I’m holding everyone accountable, myself included.
I’m tired of the blanket blaming of “men this, men that,” when the deeper truth is that a lot of women were also never taught how to advocate for their needs, how to communicate clearly, how to ask for what they want instead of expecting someone to read their minds. And instead of learning, we’re often encouraged to sit in resentment and victimhood, while tossing accusations like confetti.
That’s not empowerment. That’s stagnation.
If we want men to heal from toxic masculinity, then women need to heal from toxic femininity, too. The kind that teaches manipulation over communication, martyrdom over self awareness, and entitlement over partnership.
Healing is not gendered. It is human.
You don’t get a free pass from doing the work just because your wounds came in a prettier package. You don’t get to demand emotional fluency from others while avoiding your own inner work. You don’t get to complain endlessly about the “lack of good men” while refusing to look in the mirror and ask yourself, "Am I showing up as the kind of partner I expect someone else to be?"
It is easy to weaponize trauma. But real healing? Real growth? That takes guts.
I’m not interested in the blame game anymore. I’m interested in solutions, in accountability, and in truth. You can’t change what you don’t own, and you can’t evolve by staying stuck in the same loops of justification. So to anyone, man, woman, or nonbinary, who keeps falling back on “this is just how I was raised,” I ask: Okay… but what are you doing about it now?
If you want different results in your life, your relationships, your joy, you’ve got to do the work. You’ve got to step out of the narrative and write a new one. No more scapegoats. No more excuses. Just real people, doing real healing, with real accountability. Let’s all rise to that.
In our community, there’s a phrase I’ve heard recently, “Just because someone says yes doesn’t always mean they truly meant yes.” And I agree, this is absolutely true. There are countless reasons why someone might agree to something they aren't fully comfortable with. These responses are often deeply rooted in trauma, fear of conflict, people pleasing tendencies, guilt, or a sense of obligation.
I've seen it, and I've lived it, those moments where you say "yes" to keep the peace, to avoid disappointing someone, or because you didn’t feel you could say "no." And what happens afterward? Often, it leads to emotional backlash, resentment, self betrayal, shame, withdrawal, or even ghosting. The requestor, who may have had no idea the consent was anything but genuine, can become the scapegoat for feelings the individual hasn’t yet learned to navigate or own.
And this is where things become complicated, and sometimes unfair.
While trauma is never a person’s fault, healing from it is our responsibility. Learning to say "no" when we mean no, to communicate our boundaries clearly, and to take ownership of our own emotional well being, these are critical life skills, especially in consent based, alternative communities like ours.
I’ve seen people weaponize a lack of communication and maturity, calling others consent violators not because actual non consensual harm occurred, but because they themselves never set a limit, asked a question, or expressed uncertainty. This is dangerous, not only because it harms others’ reputations unjustly, but because it slows our own growth. It reinforces a victim mindset where self agency is abandoned in favor of blame.
Is it the responsibility of more experienced partners to foster open dialogue, establish clear expectations, and check in? Yes, absolutely. But are they also human, capable of making mistakes, missing cues, or assuming mutual understanding based on a clear "yes"? Also yes!
We cannot expect others to carry the full burden of consent when we ourselves are not willing, or able, to engage honestly, ask questions, or say “no.” And when someone fails to do that, the answer isn't public condemnation or finger pointing. It is reflection. It is growth. It is therapy. It is education. It is accountability, not just for others, but for ourselves.
If you find yourself consistently saying “yes” when you mean “no,” I encourage you to explore the reasons why. There is no shame in having trauma responses, many of us do. But there is empowerment in choosing to face them, to heal, and to cultivate the boundaries that protect our peace and affirm our autonomy.
Because ultimately, no one else can be the gatekeeper of your consent but you!!!
When My Kinks Weren't About What I Wanted, But What I Never Got
There’s something I’ve come to understand in my journey as a slave girl, and it is not something I hear often enough in kink spaces. My kinks weren’t always about what I wanted, they were often about what I never got.
That truth cracked me wide open.
For the longest time, I couldn’t quite explain why certain fetishes gripped me so tightly. Why being owned, restrained, objectified, or punished felt not just arousing, but necessary. I used to feel ashamed, like I was broken for craving things others might flinch at. But as I dug deeper, I began to see the truth. My submission is a response to my unmet needs.
The girl who was overlooked, neglected, or constantly forced to be “strong” built a fantasy world, one where she could surrender, where she mattered, where every gesture, every command, every collar meant, you are seen, you are wanted, you belong. My kink isn’t just about chains or protocol. It is about attention I was starving for. Protection I never received. Safety that felt out of reach. The ache of being invisible, finally soothed in a space where being claimed and controlled makes me real.
This is not damage, this is my body trying to heal. I’ve learned that what I crave in scenes, being powerless, obedient, degraded, or even cherished, often taps into places where I was never given a choice, never allowed softness, never truly held.
Being tied up isn’t just sexy. It is symbolic. It says: You don’t have to hold everything together anymore. Let go. Fall apart. Be taken care of. Being disciplined isn’t about pain for its own sake. It is about finally having someone who notices, who cares enough to correct, who is invested in who I am and who I’m becoming. Even my darker desires. The ones that still scare me a little, are often just echoes of emotional absences. The fantasies that live in my head aren’t shameful. They’re sacred.
Sometimes kink is a doorway back to pieces of myself I thought were gone forever.
The right to be soft.
The freedom to surrender.
The thrill of being wanted.
The chance to rewrite pain into pleasure.
The chance to reclaim my power that was stolen.
And yes, some of my kinks are tied to trauma. That doesn’t make them wrong. When I explore them consensually, intentionally, they become tools of reclamation. My submission isn’t weakness, it is power. It is poetry. It is healing. Not every fantasy needs to leave my head. Some are safer as sacred whispers in my mind. But even then, they matter. They’re valid. They’re real. If you’ve ever felt like your kink was “too much” or “too dark”, I want you to know, You’re not broken. You’re not shameful. You’re just human. With scars. And needs. And a longing to feel whole.
And if, like me, you find wholeness in kneeling, in serving, in being owned, then you’re not alone. You’re simply listening to the parts of yourself that were never allowed to speak before. And that? That’s not something to hide. That’s something to honor. Just a slave girl who is finally learning to love her longings
“Her shadows are where the magic is. And a Dom who can stand in that darkness with her? That’s the one she’ll follow across oceans of time.” – (I do not recall who said this)
That quote hit me in the gut the first time I read it. It wasn't just beautiful. It was truth, my truth. The kind of truth that doesn't whisper, but roars quietly from deep within, like something ancient that has always existed in the marrow of my bones.
I live in the darker side of things. Always have. I'm not talking about depression or despair, though I've known those intimately too. I mean the shadow self, the part of me that finds fascination in the forbidden, that craves the edge of things. Where desire is tangled with danger, fear, and submission isn't always sweet, but sometimes sharp and savage. That part of me doesn’t ask for understanding. It simply is.
For a long time, I questioned that part of me. I worried about it. Was I broken? Twisted? Did wanting these things mean something was wrong with me?
But here’s what I’ve come to realize, my desires aren’t bad. Who I am is not bad. The fantasies I have, the ones that some would call dark, depraved, or disturbing, are just fantasies, and when shared with a willing, consenting partner who understands the power and poetry behind them, they become something sacred.
I crave what others would call toxic. I say that unapologetically. Give me that Harley Quinn and Joker type of love, the all consuming, mad devotion that dances on the line of obsession and worship. Give me the fantasy where I’m abducted, chained in the basement, lovingly brainwashed into belonging, where I ache for the person who has completely rewritten the language of my body and mind. Let me be the one who is reformed by their hands, bent to their will, molded not because I’m weak, but because I choose to surrender.
Some would say that’s a red flag. But for me, it is the red thread, the one that binds me to a kind of connection I don't find in the light. My monsters wear their humanity like a second skin, and I long to be undone by their sharp edges. Give me Myers. Ghost Face. The seductive brutality of someone who wants to break me not to destroy me, but to rebuild me as theirs.
The demons in my head? They’re not monsters to be exorcised. They’re mine. Sometimes I dwell there, sometimes I need to. It is not dark to me. It is home. And to have someone walk into that space, not afraid, not judging, but understanding? That’s the rarest kind of intimacy I’ve ever known.
To sit quietly beside me in the dark and say, “I see you. I know you. And I’m not leaving,” that’s everything. That’s not fear. That’s love. That’s devotion. And when I find that person, the one who doesn’t flinch at the shadows but embraces them, that’s the person I will follow. Across oceans. Across time. Through fire, madness, and storm.
That kind of loyalty isn’t given easily. It is earned in blood and bond and silence shared in the pitch black. That’s the kind of Dominant who will find me on my knees, not because they demanded it, but because they deserve it.
Not everyone will understand that. And that’s okay. My dynamic isn’t meant for the world’s approval. It is meant for the ones whose soul mirrors mine, who isn’t afraid to lose themselves just a little in order to meet me exactly where I am.
To sit with me in my darkness is to walk closer to death, and trust me to keep you from falling in. That’s the bond I seek. That’s the fire I burn for. And I will burn. Beautifully. Willingly. Endlessly.
And that’s why I say this with absolute certainty, you will never destroy what I have. I am Theirs, completely, totally, unapologetically. There is no force on this earth that can take that from me. No one can steal me away, no one can sever this bond, because They are the ones who sits with me in my shadows. They walk beside me at the edge of the abyss, staring down death and madness with me day after day, and still, They choose to love me. Not in spite of it, but because of it. That kind of connection is unshakable. That kind of love is war forged. And it is mine. It is ours. Unbreakable. Unstolen. Undeniable.