Under The Whip

There was a time when I measured my worth in other people’s eyes.

Every glance felt like judgment. Every whisper felt like it was about me. I learned early that love came with conditions, and beauty was one of them. Growing up, I was taught, explicitly and painfully, that being anything less than “pretty” or ”perfect” meant being less than worthy.

If I was overweight, I was ugly. If I was ugly, I was nothing.

That belief didn’t just live in my head, it was handed to me. When I got sick as a teenager and my body changed in ways I couldn’t control, I didn’t just lose my sense of self. I lost the version of me that was “acceptable.” I gained weight because my body was fighting for me, but all anyone seemed to see was that I no longer fit the mold.

And my Bio father? He made it clear.

He told me that when I was “pretty again,” he’d put my pictures back on the wall. He told me women only make it in this world two ways, by being pretty or by being smart, so I’d better get a degree. He made me run miles while he chased me on a bike. I had to wear sweat suits under all of my clothes at all times. Imagine being told, so plainly, that your value is conditional. That your body determines your worth. That love can be taken down like a photograph and tucked away until you’re “good enough” again. For a long time, I carried that with me. I shrank. I hid. I tried to earn approval that was never freely given.

But not anymore!

Fuck that. Fuck him. And fuck anyone who thinks they get to decide my worth. I am not America’s next top model. I am not airbrushed or flawless. I have wrinkles. I have scars. I have stretch marks. I am overweight. And I am perfectly imperfect. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of my submission, my surrender, my truth. I am confident in my skin, not because it meets some arbitrary standard, but because it is mine. I stopped chasing approval the moment I realized it was never mine to earn in the first place. If someone doesn’t like how I look? If someone doesn’t like who I am? That’s not my business. I have one life. One body. One chance to exist as fully and as freely as I can. And I refuse to waste it trying to fit into someone else’s expectations.

So I walk differently now.

With a skip in my step. With fire in my chest. With no fucking regrets. I glow as I go. Not because the world told me I shine, but because I decided I do. And to anyone out there still battling those quiet, gnawing insecurities. Look at your flaws. Really look at them. And then understand this, There is no one else in this world exactly like you. Not one.

You are a rare, priceless soul. Not in spite of your differences, but because of them.

So stop dimming yourself. Stop waiting for permission. Strut in the knowledge of who you are. Live bright. Live loud. And sparkle like you were always meant to. Because you definitely do.

✨A love story told by one very spoiled, very grateful slave girl ✨

I still remember the very first moment I saw You, even though it was only pixels on a screen. You were standing on a dock in a Gorean sim in Second Life, solid and commanding, while I wandered the city alone, bored, bratty, restless, quietly hoping for something. When SL worked its little magic, I zoomed in on You, tall,

handsome, confident, and every part of me whispered a desperate little prayer, Please message me. And then You did! Just a few words. Just a simple conversation about roleplay.

But it was enough. From that moment on, every day after work became ours. Cassia and Rodric, my Port Kar Princess, and Your Dark Dreamy Physician, were the first lock and key to wrap themselves around my heart, and gods, how deeply they sank in. Two months later, You reached out again. I still grin like a silly little thing when I remember it.

You: “You sound like a really submissive woman.”
Me: “I am.”
You: “Do you want to be My submissive?”
Me: “YES.”

And just like that, the spark caught. The fire began.

I was Yours online. I remember the name You gave me, the ritual, the meaning, Your Rune. A name I still carry tucked safely in my heart and soul. We stumbled at first. We argued. We were rough around the edges. But You grounded me. You matured my submission. You made me see that I wasn’t honoring it the way I promised I would.

“You can be angry from your knees.”

Those words changed me. You taught me that I could feel, struggle, hurt, and still belong to You. That my emotions didn’t disqualify me from being Your slave, they simply needed to exist within my surrender. You saw me. You knew I wasn’t trying to run. I wasn’t trying to escape. I just wanted to lay everything down and give myself. And You gave me the strength and the safety to do exactly that.

“I see you,” You said.

And You did. In a way no one else ever had, or even dared to try. We talked more. Discovered we lived only an hour and a half apart. And then, You came to see me.

No vetting. No protocols. No long safety speeches. We were helplessly drawn together. There was only one instruction from You.

“Once I meet you, tell me if you truly want to be Mine.”

I was meant to be a service slave only, no sex, just obedience. And honestly? I was perfectly content with that. But then You saw me. We spent the day training, teasing, testing. You drove me home. And then You kissed me. A massage later, cuddling, hands down my pants, I was done for.

And I melted. Completely. Hopelessly.

After that, there were no limits, not to desire, not to devotion, not to love. I gave You everything… even my slave papers. And I knew, with a terrifying and beautiful certainty, There was nowhere else in this world I could ever belong but with You.

You traveled endlessly just to see me, exhaustion written across Your body while I ached with missing You, craving nothing more than to serve You every day, every moment.

And then my world shattered. My brother was murdered.

You rushed to me after a twelve hour shift, held me through the night, left at dawn for another shift with barely any sleep, and still came back that same day, and again for the funeral. I couldn’t even speak. You stood beside me. Held me. Read the eulogy when I broke apart. You were, and still are, my strength. My person.

Six months later, we moved in together. Our own place. Our dog. Our cats. Our ferrets. Our little, imperfect slice of heaven. That was when I became Your Deka, Your obedient, pleasing one. All I wanted was to love You, serve You, and give You everything I was. Then came the hospital.

Watching You nearly die was the first time I ever truly knew fear. I still don’t know what infection it was only that the medication they gave You was the same used for the bubonic plague, and I almost lost You.

But You lived.

And I got more time. More years. More love than I ever dreamed I deserved.

The years blurred together, theme parks, adventures, growth, mistakes, healing, fighting, forgiveness, learning how to be better, learning how to be us. We endured loss. Explosive fights. Hard boundaries. Deep pain. And still, it didn’t break us.

Six years in, we opened our hearts wider. And Calvin found us, and we found him. I became both of Yours. I went from Rune, to Deka, to Ava. I am Ava. I am Yours. I am happy. I am loved.

The transition wasn’t easy, monogamy to polyamory, one Master one slave to something larger, deeper, more complex. But once the fear loosened its grip, once the emotions settled, It became beautiful.

I get to love You. I get to watch another man love You. And I get to love him too.

Seeing You and Calvin together cooking, gaming, dancing, being ridiculous, riding roller coasters I refuse to touch, fills me with a warm, fizzy happiness I can’t put into words. Curled together, the three of us tangled in blankets, laughter, kisses, soft touches. Paradise.

I get to grow. I get to fall deeper. I get to be held. I get to refine my submission, communicate better, hold boundaries, and love You fully, flaws and all.

Before You, I didn’t truly understand love. Not until this exact day, ten years ago, when a silly, handsome avatar on a dock changed everything.

You love me deeply. Wildly. Imperfectly. Unconditionally. We fight. We struggle. We get frustrated. But if I have to argue with anyone in this life, I want it to be with You. And with Calvin. No one else gets that close to my heart.

You are my strength. My compass. My home. My safe place. You are grounded, silly, intelligent, hardworking, passionate, kind, open hearted, and endlessly loving. You carved Your name into my soul. And I am honored, truly honored, to celebrate ten years with You.

I cannot wait for the next ten. And the ten after that. And every year You allow me to kneel at Your feet, curl against Your chest, and whisper that I am Yours.

Because You are my Master. You are my Daddy. You are my world. You are my person. And I love You, freely, fiercely, wildly, and forever.

Happy Ten Year Anniversary, my Master.

Your pet is still and always, hopelessly, joyfully, willingly Yours.

I love You!

💜💜💜

A few days ago, my world cracked in half.

I got the news that my sister passed away… finally, after fighting Stage Four Cancer for two long years. I knew this moment was coming, I could feel it creeping closer, but knowing doesn’t make the impact any less brutal. There’s no easing into this kind of pain. It hits like a fucking freight train.

Today is her funeral. And I’m not there.

I can’t begin to express how much that tears me apart. I feel sick with guilt, with regret, with the feeling that I should be standing there with everyone else as they honor her life. She’s being given a military service, she served in the Air Force, and she served with pride. She deserves that honor. She deserves every moment of respect and remembrance they’re giving her.

And I’m sitting here hundreds of miles away, trying not to drown in the weight of all the things I can’t change.

I keep telling myself she isn’t suffering anymore. That her pain is gone. That her body, which fought as hard as it could until it simply couldn’t anymore, is finally at rest. A part of me really is grateful for that. She deserved peace so much more than she ever got But the rest of me…

The rest of me is just fucking devastated.

I miss her so fucking much. I miss her laugh. Her sarcasm. Her kindness. The way she could ground me even in my darkest moments. I miss knowing she was on this planet with me, even if we weren’t talking every day. Losing her feels like losing a piece of my own foundation. My chest physically aches with how deeply I love her and how violently she’s been ripped away.

I will never forget her. I can’t.

She’s part of my bones, part of my history, part of everything that shaped me, and continues to shape me. I love her with a depth I don’t have words for, and I will honor her memory for the rest of my life. She deserved more time… but I’ll make damn sure her impact doesn’t fade.

So this is me… grieving loudly because I don’t know how to hold this quietly. This is me missing her with everything I am. This is me loving her beyond the boundary of life.

Rest easy, sis. You finally get to breathe.