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The Stone Shelter

On becoming.
22 hours ago. Wed 20 Mar 2019 07:53:57 AM IST

1 day ago. Tue 19 Mar 2019 10:30:21 AM IST

What a dumb question for someone who realized long ago that he was on the capitalized side of the slash to ask of himself! 

I mean, sure.  Miserable little subbies who don't realize they are can ask that question.  Even after they realize they are a sub, they still have to consistently ask.  Because part and parcel of who they are is dependent on the Dominant into who's sphere of dark influence they allow themselves to fall.  That's what it's all about, right?  Surrendering control, allowing their chosen Dom(me) to help shape them? 

But, a Dominant of whatever stripe is supposed to know themselves, who they are, what they want.  It says so right there in the handbook!

The thing is...  For a long, long time, I didn't know I was a Dominant.  It just never dawned on me to consider the question.  I was who I was.  And anyone around me who didn't like it could lick it or lump it.

Because, you see, it wasn't an attitude, a headspace, that I took on and off at the bedroom door.  It was who I was, built, bred, and born in my bone and blood.  It wasn't just a sexual component to my psychological and bio-chemical make-up.  I needed that control in every aspect of my life.

Oh, sure.  If you happened to have had the endurance to make it through my introductory rambling, I was a tiny, scrawny little thing with health issues, an above average intellect, and a smart mouth that combined made me the natural prey of the corn fed type bully boys on the playground.  I was waterboarded for the first time when I was seven.  (Although, we didn't call it that back then.  We called it "high spirits."  Or "boys will be boys.")  All, just as I described there.

While it was true that I developed a rather keen interest in the gender other than mine, one fact that I didn't belabor there was that I grew truly tired of being picked on by assholes with more biceps than brains.  And set about becoming more physically imposing myself.  Making myself better able to hold my own when the bullies came for me.

My sophomore year, when I lettered for the first time on the football team as an ironman lineman, they had already begun leaving me alone.  That was, I thought, decidedly unfair of them.  At that point in my life, I was itching for a little payback.  I had gotten bigger.  Big enough to thrash any two or three of them at once.  But, I hadn't really grown up as yet.

What really pissed me off, though, was all the people who were telling me what to do and just expecting that I would do it.  Even when it made absolutely no damn sense.  And the layers of muscle I was putting on, the reputation I was building for being the toughest son-of-a-bitch they knew, the developing of my attitude wasn't doing me a damn bit of good there since it was my parents, teachers, coaches, preachers, policemen, all the damn adults that kept looking down on me as a snot-nosed punk kid despite the fact that I was demonstrably smarter than them.

That, by the way, is not intended to be some sort of brag.  Nor is it empty braggadocio.  I tested as on a college reading level when I was eight and college mathematics and analytical thinking by the time I was ten.  I was a voracious reader with broad interests and innate curiosity.  Whenever I encountered something I didn't know about, and wanted to, I would study it and, generally, surpass all but "experts" in the field typically about three months, depending on the subject matter.

Unfortunately, then I would... Well, I don't know if I would get bored, exactly, so much as something else would catch my attention, surpassing my interest in a topic I'd gotten to know well enough to suit me, and off I'd go on yet another tangent.  Ergo, I consider myself no true expert, much less master, of any specialization.

Unfortunately, it didn't help anything that, with very few exceptions, these adults not only knew, but would openly admit that I was smarter than they were.  But, then, continue to insist that I should do it their way because they were the adult and in authority over me.

I reached eighteen and became legally an adult.  And it didn't change a damn thing.  All those people were still telling me what to do.  Trying to tell me what to think, even.

That was the beginning of my understanding about true Dominance, although I didn't apply the term then.  I was growing to understand that it's not enough to be smarter, stronger, or even right in order to impose your will on the world around you and some order to the chaos.  There was something else needed.  Something, it seemed, I was, as yet, lacking.

I refer to it as "force of will."  I've heard, and read, others refer to it as chi.  Or spirit.  Or any myriad of things depending on the culture and lexicon.  The ability to expand your control beyond the skin you're in and effect change on the world around you.  And I wanted to do that.  I needed to do that.

And I learned how to do it.  I've been told that it always startles people when they look at pictures of me with something else to provide scale because I seem so much larger from the force of my personality.  I've always taken that as a compliment.  As proof that I accomplished what I set out to learn.

Of course, at first, I was egocentric enough to believe that learning this ability, and being smarter than anybody else in the room, gave me license to reshape the world in the image I believed best.  And what I believed best was what I wanted, regardless of what they thought or felt.  What they needed or desired.

I, perhaps, found my spiritual home working the detention units.  Working my way to manage the crises response teams.  Enforcing my indomitable will on supposed hard asses who were rarely hard enough to make me break a sweat.


But, in my personal life, I was driving people away.  Lovers, yes.  But, friends also.  The stone in my make-up... the iron in my soul... the fact that I knew what was best didn't take into account their own personage.  Their needs.  Their wants.  Their desires.

I don't really know just what it was that mellowed me.  But, if pressed, I would credit the woman I called "Love" for almost the entirety of our time together.  (She knew she was in trouble on the rare occasions when I used the name from her birth certificate.)

I had been a Dominant, in the truest sense of the word.  Not just in the bedroom, but at work, or even just walking down the street.  Raw honesty compels me to admit that I was the bad sort.  The kind that put the domineering the term.

In the bedroom (and also outside it), I had been... I guess the best descriptor would be a Top.  A Sir, in probably all the worst ways.  A micromanaging megalomaniac there for my own needs.  Don't get me wrong.  I would make them cum.  I needed that probably more than I needed my own.  But, beyond that, they could get what they could out of it.  I didn't give it a thought beyond their cum and my own.  And, of course, that they did what I commanded.

I say commanded because I didn't just say it.  Nor did I demand it.  I just commanded it and expected I would be obeyed.  And for no other reason than that I said so.


What can I say about her?  How can I get across just what a phenomenal woman she was?

Her left knee was blown out by a shotgun blast before she graduated from high school.  She gave up... was forced to give up... a scholarship to go to college.  But, other than that, she didn't let it slow her down.  She got married, gave birth to and raised two awesome kids.  She worked the jobs she could find in that area to the best of her abilities.  Volunteered at her church.  Led the "pathfinders" (sort of like Boy Scouts, as near I can figure it).  I could go on and on to give examples of the quiet strength and underutilized intelligence...

Underutilized because the man she married knew that she was better than he deserved.  Kept her beaten down and cowed.  Made her believe that she was ugly and stupid and no one else would want her handicapped ass.

I'm not terribly proud of the fact that she left him (and her almost grown children) to follow me.  I could try to mitigate by explaining that not only had he abused her (physically, psychologically, and emotionally) when he wasn't neglecting her, but had chased anything else in a skirt that happened to saunter by slow enough.  But, that would just be an excuse.  Despite the fact that I "rescued" her, that is still one of only three real shames I have in my life.  That I... "stole" her.  A shame ranking right up there with the woman (before her) that I used for one three day weekend without bothering to learn her name, fucking her in all of her holes and dumping load after load of my cum in her or on her, and then turned my back when the three days were up and not only left her, but moved out of town, chasing a career.  Abandoning her.

But, this isn't group confession.  Or wasn't intended to be.  I was talking about Love to tell what she taught me.  How she mellowed me.

I was still a control freak.  But, I saw her.  I saw her needs.  I saw her wants.  I saw her desires.  I saw the importance of them to her.

And I saw how to bend for the first time.

I saw how to not only control her, but to guide her for her betterment.

I can't say it was easy, exactly.  We had our growing pains after she followed me when I tried to leave her behind with her husband and children.  I was back in school, working on my Master's degree.  But, I made the mistake of taking two classes with her to get her feet wet when I pushed her into going back to school twenty years after she graduated from high school.  The thing is, she was smart.  Just not as smart as me.  And I saw the damage it would do her when she would study her ass off and I wouldn't crack a book outside of class and still aced the tests.  Just one amongst several examples.  But, I learned.  I kept her in school, but took no more classes with her.  I would help her study.  Quiz her.  Would mock-grade her papers.  But, that was it.  No more joint classes.  And she wasn't allowed to see my papers, much less my grades.

Although I didn't recognize it at the time, I graduated to a Daddy Dom and then Master, not just controlling her and subjugating her to my will, but learning to love her and care for her, guiding her in her growth.  Into becoming the woman she always should have been free to be.  Not just what I wanted her to be.  But, the best version of herself she could become.

Time went on, as it has a tendency to do.

The debt from my checkered past came due.  Parkinson's they say.  With Central Pain Syndrome and Essential Tremor complications.  From too many closed head injuries, they say.  (Except for that one jackass that jumped on the CTE bandwagon.)  They also say they'll have to wait 'til the autopsy to decide, and even that won't be a hundred percent conclusive.

They say a lot.

I got bored with listening.  And with wasting money on them and their medications that weren't ever going to do more than just keep me hanging around longer so they could run up a higher bill for keeping me here.

I knew what was important.  The debt was due.  I was old before my time.  I lost, not only my ability to run a five minute mile or bench three hundred and squat eight or practice any of seven martial arts studied (don't get excited, I wasn't a black belt in any) with any facility, but I also lost my ability to work.  Even to breathe easily as my diaphragm and heart were affected.  Even to eat easily as I have to be careful to avoid choking.

That wasn't sad.  It was actually nothing short of a miracle that I'd survived some of my history to grow to the age it became a problem.  And nothing more than I deserved for some of it...

No.  What was sad was six months after I fell prey to symptoms that had spiraled out of my unassisted control, that old injury of hers caused a problem that she couldn't any longer ignore.

Her knee had been blown out by a shotgun blast.  But, instead of doing the smart thing and amputating, they had saved the leg.  (For some values of the term.)  It did not, however, bend.  The shifting gait it caused for over three decades caused her vertebrae to wear a hole in her spinal cord and leak out spinal fluid.

Six months after I became disabled and housebound, so did she.

Our bedroom antics were curtailed, but still existed, at first.  I could no longer trust myself to subject her to some of the... riskier fetishes we had practiced and keep her safe.  Even shibari became a thing of the past.  Partially, my hands no longer could even fasten buttons or zip zippers, much less work the knots.  But, more importantly, I couldn't feel that I was capable of keeping her from harm.  Either in the tying, or in getting her loose in extremis.

That was alright, though.  We still had the intimacy of the lighter fetishes and what is referred to as "vanilla."

Until we didn't.  Until her nerve damage spread pain or numbness everywhere on her body and I could only touch her in three places (her left cheek, the crown of her head, and between her shoulder blades) without hurting her.  (And not in a sexy way.)

The last time we tried... just to make love with no kinky frills... she had to stop and burst into tears that went on for a half hour as I held her and told her that she was still Love.  That so long as we were together, it was alright.  In the flood of tears, it all came out.  Sex was just the last thing to go.  She had been all but bedridden.  Only rising to go to the bathroom, shower, or make her coffee (which she swore I never could make right).  From waiting on me, serving me, she'd been forced to submit to me waiting on her, bringing her food and drink.  Helping her bathe.  All the things that it had been her purview, her pleasure to do for me for most of her time together.  And it had hurt.  But, she had dealt with it.  Until this.  Until the last measure of her ability to prove her submission, her love for me had been taken from her.

I shushed her and told her that putting up with me, that staying with me, was all the proof I had ever needed.

The bitch left me three months later!

That was rude.  I shouldn't have said it.  Not only was she never a bitch, despite trying to claim she was (other than being my bitch, her "Old Wolf's," complete with collar with that engraved on her tag).  I'm mostly past the anger at her for dying.  And even most of the sadness.  Mostly.

For the first several months, I wallowed.  Other than taking care of the animals, I was... well, listless.  I no longer had a purpose I felt was worth striving for.  I did write some.  But, raw honesty compels me to admit I didn't think it was very good despite the high scores and praise garnered.


I met someone online.

What a cliche!

But, yeah.  I met someone.  She had read one of my stories and sent me a private correspondence lavish with praise.

I was more than a little rude in my response.  I had absolutely no interest in meeting anyone new.  I was content to be a hermit with no contact, no connection to the outside world beyond having to take Dogzilla out to the bathroom or limp my sorry old ass down a mile to purchase and cart back kibble for them.

For some reason that continues to escape me, she responded to my response.  And again to my even more brusque response to that one.

That was the point that something changed.  She was going through something.  Several somethings.  She was hurting.  I shifted gears from trying to figure out how to get rid of her to trying to figure out how to help her.

After three days of using the site's messaging system, we shifted to emails and exchanged phone numbers and addresses.

I stepped into what I saw as a gap she needed filled.

I wrote something she was to read to her mirror twice per day.  In the morning when she first got up and in the evening just before she laid down to sleep.

I encouraged her to take up her exercise regimen again.

I fought her to exchange some of her tea and alcohol for more water and electrolytes.

I railed on her eating habits which were abysmal.

I promoted a class to become an instructor in her chosen exercise.

I tried to enforce a bed time (which didn't go so hot).

I sat with her on the phone when night terrors wouldn't let her sleep and ignored the difficulties I have with speaking now to read aloud to her the entire night because she would wake any time I stopped reading.

I lost my listlessness as I had a purpose once more.

It wasn't uncommon for us to exchange anywhere from thirty on the low end to three hundred on the high messages per day.  She would tell me when she read what I wrote, when and what she ate, when she refilled her water bottle, when she exercised, when she laid down to sleep, when she got up, when she left the house, when she got home.  Every step of the day, I was with her and she was with me.  Neither of us was alone.

I was all but ready to sell everything I owned except two changes of clothes packed in a bag, put the leash on the mutt, load the three cats in a cat carrier, and head that-a-way...

Then, six months later, she lowered the boom and revealed that another's collar had been on her the entire while.

I didn't handle it at all well.  It wasn't that she'd had someone else.  That, I could have dealt with more easily if she'd been straight.  No.  It was the lies, the deceit, and manipulation.  That was what I didn't handle well at all.  Don't say I'm the only one if I'm not.  And if his collar was on her heart and soul, then why the fuck wasn't he taking care of her?!

We got past it.  Somehow.  I'm still not quite sure how.  Love had lived under the sword of Damocles for two and a half decades for being awarded two strikes, one for lying to me and one for abandoning me.  But, somehow, some way, I let this one get away with lying to me for so long.

We continued on.  She still telling me every step of her day.  Me encouraging her to do more when she could, less when she tried too much.  Holding her hand (or at least the phone) when she was sick and injured and unable to breathe, frightened, and feeling alone.

One night, nine months (almost to the day) after we met, we were up all night, talking on the phone.  Just talking.  And I popped off about something I'd read that I disagreed with.  I didn't think it was appropriate for a PYL on the capitalized side of the slash to demand a specific label from the submissive.  To me, I felt that it was the submissive's first duty, a mark of their consent, to award a title or label, to mark just how deep their submissiveness to this person was.  (Not a popular opinion, I'm well aware.)

She popped back, out of left field, with "You are not my Daddy!  You are not my Dom!  You are no kind of Dominant at all!"

That threw me for a loop as, not only had I not been talking about us at all and had no idea where this had come from, but I damn sure had been acting as a Daddy Dom for her for nine fucking months!

I made the mistake of asking her if I wasn't a Dominant, then why there had been several people in my inbox asking me to step into that role for them, three that were more persistent than the others.

"Because they are broken!"  She spat.  "No one would want you that wasn't broken!"

I compounded my error by asking just what I was to her then.

"I don't know.  My best friend and confidante?  I don't know what you want me to say."

The rest of that conversation that night doesn't bear noting other than I did not say anything else about it.  I was hurt and confused, yes.  But, more, I was angry.  And you never act out of anger.  At least I don't.  Neither act, nor speak.

Again, we got past it.  Again, I don't know just how.  But, we did.

Not unchanged, no.  I took a bottom I topped for, a little I was Daddy to, and a slave under consideration.  All knew that she was... something.  That she held priority.  (My third shame is that she never knew, despite telling me that I could have others so long as I was her priority [despite my not being hers], that the little and bottom both knew about her but not each other or the slave, that only the slave knew about everyone as she was forced to kneel abeyante while I pleasured the others, awaiting my pleasure.)

Something changed in January.  I shan't detail just what.  But an accusation was made from a surprise source that, when it made the rounds, colored everything.

My little was the first to go.  Saying that I wasn't Daddy enough.

My slave under consideration went next.  Saying I wasn't Master enough for her.

My bottom began finding other Tops.  Saying I wasn't Sir enough for her.

People I had thought were friends abandoned me.  Saying I wasn't friend enough.

Suddenly, she (my priority) would pop up with a message that she was back home when she had not told me she had left.

She stopped mentioning her meals.

Our year anniversary rolled around.  The only acknowledgement she gave was "thank you for a year of friendship."

Valentine's rolled around and all the acknowledgement she gave was "Happy Valentine's Day!" when she got up that morning, and thanked me for the roses that arrived later.  "Someone thinks I'm important!"  (Um.  Yeah.  You hadn't figured that out with all the shit I've put up with and still been right here when you needed me?)

Something else happened at the beginning of this month, and I don't know what this time.  But, she almost completely dried up and shut me out.  She not longer invites me to curl up and cuddle with her.  She has stopped sleeping with her teddy bear.  She no longer tells me when she goes to bed, or when she gets up.  When she eats.  When she exercises.  Where she is or what she's doing.  I might get one message in the course of a day, "I'm alright.  How are you?"

It took two weeks of this for hope to completely die.  I acknowledged the fact that whatever I'd been, never as much as I'd thought apparently, I no longer was. 

I wiped the file that had been carefully husbanded for over a year containing every message between us, every picture she'd sent (only nine actually of her, four being sent within a week of us meeting), everything off my hard drive.  It was hurting me too much to continue to read over those old messages, listen to those sound files, look at those pictures.  I hadn't even gotten out of bed for most of the time, instead, pulling the computer around so that I could see it from there.

Mere days ago, a thoughtful friend checked on me, and once she saw the state I'd wound up in, shut off and hermited once more, she coaxed me to The Cage despite how I snapped and snarled at her.

I've written some.  Read much more than I've written.


But, tonight... Oh, fuck!  Is that the time?!  This morning, I am sitting here wondering...

Is a Master still a Master without a slave?  What about if a slave says he isn't Master enough?

Is a Daddy still a Daddy without a little?  What about if a little says he isn't Daddy enough?

Is a Top still a Top without a bottom?  What about if a bottom says he isn't Toppy enough?

Is a Dominant still a Dominant without a submissive to bend to their will?

Do any of us really define ourselves if there is no one to interact with?  Or is that interaction necessary for the definition?

I know I was all those things once.  But, am I still when I have only myself, a dog, and three cats (all four of which use me as a servant)?

And, really, how Domly can I be if a miserable little subbie drug me kicking and screaming into The Cage just to get her to shut up about it?

Have I lost that ephemeral "it" that each didn't recognize, that I didn't resonate with them?  Or were they just the wrong one?


Fuck it. 

I am what I am. Something without a lick of submissiveness (or apparently much sense).

I apologize only to those I have done a wrong, whom I've brought harm to somehow, and never for being who and what I am.  Those that don't like what I am can lick it or lump it.

And as for you, if you've made it this far, I see absolutely no reason you should feel any differently.  Whichever side of the slash you are on, so long as you strive to know yourself and act in the best accordance with the best version of who and what you are, then be proud to be you.  I don't know you well enough to say just how good you are at anything else.  But, I can promise you this much, sight unseen.  You are the best at being you that anybody could ever be. 

And that is always enough for you to try to be, the best version of yourself you can be.


2 days ago. Mon 18 Mar 2019 07:33:40 PM IST

“Life is like a sandwich!

Birth as one slice,
and death as the other.
What you put in-between 
the slices is up to you.

Is your sandwich tasty or sour?” 
― Allan Rufus

3 days ago. Mon 18 Mar 2019 04:27:51 AM IST

A long while back in my checkered past, I actually spent a little time studying linguistics. Don't go getting excited! That major didn't last very long. And I really wasn't all that great of shakes at it. God knows I have enough trouble with my native tongue. If you don't believe me, just check out my long winded posts!

But, this is exactly the trouble I always have in a metadiscussion focused on terminology and communication. We use the words, but does everybody involved in the conversation actually understand them to mean the same fucking thing!

And then, we start pulling in buzzwords and jargon specific to the topic at hand. And, oh my aching head, the fucking acronyms!

Alright, so here's a little story that is totally unrelated to BDSM or even stuff that requires the "over the age of consent" stamp of approval.

I don't really remember just how old I was, but I was still knee-high to a grasshopper. I don't think I'd started to school yet. Any road, I was taking my first "big boy" shower! And that was a big, big, big deal to me, to take a shower instead of a bath. Just like Dad!

Well, Dad was standing just outside, watching me, and calling out directions, to make sure I was safe and doing it right. And... I don't know. I thought it was going well. Maybe it wasn't going as well as I'd thought, though. Because we hit a snag. And Dad got frustrated.

He called out a direction, and I did what I thought he was intending for me to do.

"Get under the water," he said.


So, I did.

"Get under the water," he repeated.

Uh, ok. I thought I was. But, maybe I wasn't doing it quite right. So, I did what I was doing, but harder.

"Get under the water, now!" He snapped.

And I could tell he was getting mad at me. But, I didn't know why. I was doing what he said. But, maybe I wasn't doing it good enough. So, I tried harder.

After about three more rounds, I couldn't take it anymore and snapped. (Er, I should probably go ahead and admit, there really hasn't ever been a lot of submit in my soul... Not even when I knew I was going to get my ass whipped for it.)

"I am under the water!" I burst out, near tears. "Look! I'm hugging the wall! The water is going over me! None of it is even touching me! What do you want?!"

It was a couple of months before I dared anything more than splashing around in the bathtub again.


I don't know. But, even just "Dominant" or "submissive" has (and I almost hate to say it) shades of meaning.

How dominant?

How submissive?



Uh, my what, exactly. I know what I mean when I say "mine." But, what do you mean when you say it?

And I think it's probably a pretty rare thing for two people in a discussion to mean exactly the same thing when they are discussing it. But, do they even question it? Or do they just assume they mean the same thing since they are using the same terms?

But, of course, everybody knows the terms. And everybody uses the terms. And I don't know. I've probably already proved I'm just weird as fuck and overanalyze every fucking thing. But, I often find myself glancing around at everybody else and wondering, "Ok, am I seriously the only person that is wondering if what they think they are saying is what I actually heard (read) them saying?"

And, I don't know. I think seeking brevity just makes it worse. Trying to encapsulate an idea, a whole concept and a lifestyle into an acronym or a word.

And as Paul Harvey might say; I guess that's the rest of the story about why I get so damned long-winded with some of my posts.

And, shit. I did it again when I was seriously trying my damndest not to.

3 days ago. Sun 17 Mar 2019 04:42:21 PM IST

A few years ago... Eh, wait.  Actually, it was just over a decade ago now.

Well, damn.  Now, I feel old.

Any road, I was entangled with a young woman.  I was not quite yet forty.  She was thirty-six.  That qualifies as young to me.

I suppose I could tell some tales of the mad, passionate sex that we had in places we probably shouldn't have in order to titillate those so inclined.  But, this isn't really about that.  Maybe I'll do that some other time.  Or maybe I won't.

But, no.  Suffice to say that she wore my collar on her heart and soul and my marks on her body.  She was mine.

OR so she said.

On this particular day, she had been called to the central office and was feeling trepidatious.  At her request, I took leave from my own job and rode over to wait outside.  To be there for her.

She burst out of the building as I watched and ran to her car with her face in her hands.  Started it up.  And left a rooster tail of gravel as she left the parking lot.

What the ever loving fuck?

I cranked over and took off after her.

Now, maybe there are riders who will push a cruiser configuration bike (as opposed to a crotch rocket) to try to keep up with a mustang.  But, I knew my limits.  After ten miles of watching her pull further away, I slowed, pulled off the highway, turned around and headed home to wait.

Over the next twenty-four hours, I left three messages.  At that point, I stopped.  And waited.  And waited some more.

After three days, she reached out to me.

She had been fired.  Just as she had suspected she would be.

"Ok.  So, why didn't you stop and talk to me?"

"Oh!  Were you there?"

"You asked me to be.  I said I would be."

"I didn't see you.  Why didn't you follow me?"

"I did for ten miles.  But, I'm not going to push Jenny over a hundred.  So, I came back home."

"Oh."  She paused for several seconds.  "Why did you stop reaching out to me?"

"Why didn't you respond to any of my three messages?"

What followed doesn't bear repeating.  Suffice to say that it was a long conversation.  One that I didn't see or hear from her for several more days after.

She felt I should have chased after her.  I felt I had until we reached a point where consent was absent.

She felt I should have kept reaching out to her.  I felt I had until we reached a point where consent was absent.

She felt that I should have cared about her hurt.  I felt that you run toward your safe place when you are hurting, not away from it.

It was several days before she once again came to me.  When she did, she saw me spread my arms wide, waiting for her to take that final step into my waiting embrace.


However, when she indicated that she wanted to be fucked, to be reclaimed, I pointedly told her no.

"You are more to me than a fucktoy.  And I should be more to you than a dildo on legs.  If you can not trust me to have your back, if you can not trust me to be here when you are hurting, if you can not trust me enough to seek my shelter when the storms of your life batter you, if you do not trust me with your heart, your mind, and your soul, then you can keep your body and I will keep mine.  We obviously have some more trust building to do before we go down that particular garden path again."

It took another week for her to come back.  And another week after that for her to understand that I meant exactly what I said.  That we would be spending a lot of time in conversation, in sharing, in becoming, in mending, in trusting, before ever she saw me nude or showed herself to me again.

The day I felt we had rebuilt enough and reclaimed her...

Well, let's not get prurient at this point.

Sadly, we did not have just too much longer together before life, and health issues, ripped us apart.

Last July, when we buried my father, after most everyone had left the graveside, I took the opportunity to limp over on my walking stick to her gravestone and leave a rose bearing a drop of my blood and a single teardrop atop it.

4 days ago. Sat 16 Mar 2019 06:15:27 PM IST

...and really, really fucking mean it? This time?

A while back... I'm not just sure when, but the store we were at was a Blockbuster Movie Rental Place...

Yes, I'm old. Shut the fuck up and here's a towel to dry behind your ears.

Any road, as I was saying, we were at a Blockbuster Movie Rental Place, renting some movies. I remember Step-Thing Number 1 was in town visiting because it was he who was pushing his mother's wheelchair. Things probably would have played out differently if I'd been the one shoving her around.

Well, as we were leaving some blonde bow bitch pulled up, slammed it in park, jumped out and ran around her car to go drop her movies in the turn in box. Completely blocking the ramp we were trying to use and were halfway down.

Now, if it had been me, I would have stood right there and just watched her. Most likely she would have done what she did without giving it a second thought.

The boy child, however, felt like he had enough room to pull off an exit. I didn't think he did and thought about stopping him. But, I decided "fuck it, if he hits the car, as long as Momma Bear isn't hurt, the egocentric cunt deserves it. And besides, we're older and have more insurance."

Well, he did have enough room and got out without so much as dinging the back bumper.

Bow bitch, having completed her mission, was coming back and saw us clearing the back end of her bitch mobile.

And popped out with "I'm sorry."

Okey dokey, then. Whatever. I didn't say a word. Love didn't say a word. Thing 1 didn't say a word. We just went on our merry way, having cleared the obstacle of a selfish bitch not having a thought in the world other than herself.

"What?! Don't people talk anymore?!" She spat.

Oh, no you didn't, bitch.

I distantly heard Love snort and tell the boy child to hold on, that this was going to take a minute as I turned and glided back over to bow bitch to explain a few things.

First on the agenda was saying, "I'm sorry" does not make a damn thing okay. It does not erase a hurt, even so small of one as the minor inconvenience she had caused. You're still an asshair and the hurt still exists. And especially if you knew damn well that you were being an asshair and chose to do it anyway!

Second, saying "I'm sorry" in no way, shape, form, or fashion requires the one that you say it to to actually accept the implied apology. There is not, or should not be, any requirement on my part to tell you that it's alright that you are an asshair who decided that my world was not as important as your own.

Third, if you don't mean it, don't bother saying it. For damn sure not to stroke your petty little ego that what you did wasn't that bad with some meaningless exchange of "I'm sorry," "that's alright" when it very clearly was not alright, or else why are you saying "I'm sorry" in the first damn place?

As memory serves, that was about the point she managed to slip through the driver's side door and sped away, nearly running over my foot. Hard to blame her really since she'd had an accident and the front of her too short short-shorts were wet.

But, seriously!

Why the hell even say it if you don't actually mean it? And if you do mean it, then what the hell does it matter if I don't accept it? So, you no longer mean it since I don't accept it? What were you apologizing for anyway? That you were acting like a little wad of toilet paper stuck to an ass hair, a "dingleberry?" Or that you allowed me to see that you are one?

And for fuck's sake! How in all that is holy or hellish am I ever supposed to believe your dinky little "I'm sorry" when you turn around and do the same damn thing to me again... and then say "I'm sorry" again.


And then do it again. And then say "I'm sorry" again.


Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, if you are really all that fucking sorry, stop fucking doing it!

Any road, it's been on my mind for a bit lately. Can't really point a finger at anything specifically that caused me to think of it.

Yep, I'm dimly aware of a weenie roast going on, but I don't think that would have sparked it.

Yes, I did have an exchange with someone dear to me which involved them doing something remarkably similar to something they have done time and again and saying "I'm sorry." But, nah. I gave up fundamentally changing her and accepted her the way she is months ago, so I don't think that was it either.

I don't know. Maybe it has to do with reliving some of my past and feeling some guilt about some things I did to someone who is no longer here to apologize to. And I'm just wondering if I could have, should I have? Would I have really meant it? Would it have changed anything? Would I have changed?

Or will I do the same sorts of things somewhere down the line if I ever am fortunate enough to find someone willing to accept all this fabulousness? (*belch*-excuse me-*fart*.)

Maybe it's just channeling my inner pansy and listening to fucking


What the fuck ever.

Any road, maybe I should apologize for getting full of piss and vinegar again and posting another long-winded diatribe. But, nah. I don't really mean it. And I know I'll probably do it again. So what would be the point in saying "I'm sorry?"  I mean, if I can't point to exactly what I'm sorry for, mean it, and intend to not do it again.

But, I'll shut the hell up now. And if anyone has some thoughts on apologizing and really, really, really meaning it this fucking time, I'll be glad to hear them.


(reposted from some asshole on another site by request)

4 days ago. Sat 16 Mar 2019 04:24:51 PM IST

Just a bit of randomness, for some reason last night/the wee hours of the morning, I remembered an incident I witnessed at a Kentucky Fried Chicken near me.

While I was waiting for my order, the gal came out from behind the counter and went up to some guys that had been waiting for theirs and informed them that they were sold out of the chicken pot pie.  The guy was incensed and got up and went to the manager and started raving.  Apparently when they ordered theirs, there were three pot pies sitting in plain view behind the counter.  Yet, now, they didn't have any.

Ok.  So far, this makes sense to me.  He ordered it.  They had it at the time he ordered it.  Now, they don't.  And he doesn't get what he had his mouth set for.  I can see saying something.

The manager, I thought very politely, explained that she had sold those three pies to drive thru customers, not knowing they had been sold.  She apologized.  She offered him a choice of two other items from the menu that were more expensive.

Nope.  He wanted his damn chicken pot pie.  He ordered a chicken pot pie.  He was hungry for a chicken pot pie.  And they had fucked him out of his chicken pot pie.

She told him how long it would be before the next batch was ready, and, further, offered him his money back for the inconvenience.

Nope.  He wasn't going to wait.  He wanted his chicken pot pie now.

Ok, this was the point where I had to wonder just what the hell I was missing.  First off, never fuck with the people handling your food and drink out of your sight, dumb ass.  Second, she not only apologized, but made very clear, and well thought, options to make it up to him.  He could take a more expensive item now.  Or he could wait for a pot pie for free if he was willing to wait.

He wasn't satisfied with either of them, but continued to yell and raise hell.  What the fuck did he want her do?  Pull one out of her ass?  Chase down the car and get one back?  What?


In the random number generator I got handed instead of a brain, I somehow jumped a tangent and thought of the dynamic.

Dominants that want something from their submissive that isn't given and then rant and rave no matter the appeasement offered.  Without offering any guidance on how the submissive can make it right.

Or the submissive who isn't getting their needs met by their Dominant and rebels consistently without giving a clue why, but expecting their Person to look at the print on the screen, or the absence of it, and somehow miraculously divine what the precise issue is.

I don't know.  Perhaps I'm just old.  And we all know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.

But, I just can't see any point or purpose behind continuing to rant and rave and revisit and punish without some form of offered, or accepted, redemption.  Some way to make it right.  Some form of apology.  Some hint of mercy.


Unless you're just a dick that doesn't understand the difference between "assertive" and "aggressive" and enjoy making a scene in the middle of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

5 days ago. Sat 16 Mar 2019 03:32:25 AM IST

5 days ago. Fri 15 Mar 2019 05:30:57 PM IST

Once upon a time, there was a wee lad. This lad, he wasn't by any means a prince. No, nor a squire neither. In fact... Well, this wee lad had some issues. You see, a couple that was little more than a pair of children themselves did a little experimenting and "whoops, working as the factory intended."

However, being little more than children themselves, the couple was hardly in a position to be responsible for the wee lad. Now, they might have had him chopped into bits and flushed away. But, for whatever reason, they chose not to. Instead, they found a third option and set him adrift on the winds to find a home where people who were ready for the responsibility, yet for whatever reason could not have their own, might care for the wee lad.

And the wee lad was lucky in the home that opened hearth and heart. For awhile.

The handsome knight and beautiful lady who caught him as he blew past on the wind did care for him and provided everything the wee lad could possibly have needed. Even medical care when unforeseen complications arose.

And there were plenty of other children to play with nearby. Eight to be exact. It didn't matter so much that the wee lad was the only male child as they had not yet reached the age where such factors would. However, some of the other eight were enough older that "house" became a favorite game. And as the only male of the bunch, the wee lad was called on to fill the role of Daddy each time the game was played.

How very different things might have turned out if the wee lad had been allowed to grow for longer in that environ.

However, for the tall handsome knight and his beautiful lady, the wee lad was not enough. There was much love in their hearts, they felt. Enough to bring another cast upon the winds into their hearth and hearts. A girl child this time.

And a girl child did pass upon the winds and was snagged to complete what they felt they needed to be a whole family. The wee lad's spindly arms were the first in their family to hold the newest addition.

The tall handsome knight knelt in front of the wee lad as he beheld his beautiful golden-haired sister.

"You have a new task, my son," he said. "It is your job to look after her. To protect her. To teach her what you have learned. But, above all, to make certain that she is safe and loved. Can you do that?"

The wee lad looked into the stern mien of the knight, then down to the bright blue eyes of the cherub in his arms.

"Yes, sir," he said in his piping voice.

"Good lad," the knight nodded once firmly. "Now, may I hold my new daughter?"

"Okay," the wee lad said doubtfully. "Only, maybe you'd better sit down first. We don't want to drop her, do we? And make sure you support her head."

The knight did smile tightly at being chastened even as his beautiful lady and the nurse made strange sounds as if they were choking.

Sadly, the castle was too small to house the new member. And so, the family had to move to a new castle, several blocks away from the other eight members of wee lad's "tricycle street gang" according to the knight, or his eight "girlfriends" according to the knight's beautiful lady.

In many ways worse, the wee lad quickly found himself shunted aside as all of the attention that had once been his was given to this new addition. That might have been alright, except for the beautiful princess absolutely despised the sight of him and would burst into loud screams any time her eyes found him.

Well, there was a pair of kids next door. Sort of. Teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. And they introduced the wee lad to some of the entertainments big kids liked. They moved away suddenly one night after the knight's beautiful lady asked some very pointed questions of the wee lad.

Not that it really mattered terribly much that his new friends had left without so much as a good-bye. For, the knight's beautiful lady would not let the wee lad out of her sight for a long time. In fact, he was rarely allowed to go outside at all, even in the backyard.

Now, some of that might have been the beautiful lady's disapproval of those games the teenagers had taught the wee lad. But, more than a little was because the wee lad had always been a sickly sort and his condition seemed to be worsening over time. It wasn't until a few years later that they became aware of something called "allergies" and some of the treatments available so he wouldn't be so sickly all the time.

In the meantime, the wee lad started to school. And that was an eye-opening experience. Not only was he quite a bit smaller than even the next smallest his age. But, he had spent all of his time inside learning to read while his age-mates had been learning to play with each other. And not the way those teenagers had taught him.

It's difficult to say really which was wee lad's larger sin. Whether it was being small and sickly, whether it was being so much better at what Teacher was asking them to do, or whether it was being so bad at being able to join in the games his agemates played when they were allowed.

In addition to school, the wee lad was also subjected to "church." And there he learned, amongst other things such as he was probably going to Hell, that what strengths he had, whatever he could do, counted for nothing if it wasn't done for someone other than himself. Which was a little confusing at first since "strength" was not exactly a descriptor that sprang to mind with the wee lad.

It is perhaps worth noting that it was there he was waterboarded for the first time in the baptismal by a larger lad who had taken an intense dislike to the wee lad for some reason. And resulting pneumonia that kept him out of school for a month only made things worse since he came back even further ahead of his classmates in their scholastic endeavors, yet further behind in social.

Time went on, as it has a tendency to do. The wee lad grew, although not as much as most. He learned far more than people ahead of him when it came to books, reached a college reading level by eight and by ten was helping his babysitters with their algebra homework. However, he was lagging further and further behind in the social skills that everyone else seemed to pick up so easily.

And to make matters perhaps worse, the golden-haired cherub that had blown in on the wind was growing into a golden-haired beauty guaranteed to break hearts. And had learned far more of the social skills than the wee lad would ever manage already.

Her heart had not, however, warmed to her sworn protector. In fact, if anything, her resentment had grown as he positively insisted on intervening everywhere and anywhen and disrupting her fun. Often before it could even get started well.

To make matters even worse, puberty landed on the wee lad with both feet, it seemed almost overnight. And the other sex than his own suddenly became even the fairer.

Being relatively bright, the wee lad rapidly ran through some calculations and figured out in short order that who and what he was would never garner him the attention that he craved. The inquisition's worth of medical treatments along with that best medicine, time, had improved his health to the point that he could blossom in other ways. And so, he began to branch out his already broad interests into ever-widening areas.

Athletics was, perhaps, the most difficult. But, the scrawny, sickly lad was determined. For as everyone knew, "chicks dig jocks." The best he was able to manage for a couple of years was third string water boy since the coach didn't even trust him to be able to manage that. But, he was part of the team.

Music was a bit easier. Not easy by any stretch, no. But, easier. Or would have been if the tall handsome knight hadn't looked so askance at the wails and screeches that were all the lad could call from his varied instruments other than his voice. And his voice... well, the beautiful fairy princess that had blown into their hearth and hearts had a voice that could charm the birds from the trees if she cared to try. So, once again, the lad was more often than not shunted aside in favor of the golden-haired beauty queen with already three tiaras to her credit and growing.

The lad learned the care and feeding of animals. Because, again, as everyone knew, "chicks dig baby animals."

Broader and broader the lad spread his interests. More and more did he learn. It was well that he had already learned more scholastically than would be covered in his school as his time ran short, so much of it was he spending on his new and ever more varied interests.

By his freshman year in high school, the young man would letter in music and animals. By his sophomore year, the more difficult athletics. And more and more of his time was eaten up by his interests. His days would begin before the sun was up and not end until after midnight. By his senior year, he published his first poem and landed in a choir of the top five hundred voices in the state. These are only some of his more noteworthy accomplishments. And along the way, he learned many and varied things.

But, not, he failed to notice, the thing which most would have helped him. How to speak to and interact with a young woman. There was no time to learn it as he hurried from one practice to another, from one competitive event to another. He racked up an impressive number of disparate feats by anyone's reckoning. Yet, could not point to more than one real friend and only one quasi-on-again-off-again (but more off than on) "girlfriend" who he had never kissed or even so much as held her hand.

The only real hiccup the young man on the cusp of adulthood noticed was that the knight and his beautiful lady had broken Camelot. It wasn't even particularly a surprise as the last several years, the castle had been little more than armed camp, ready at a moment's notice to break out into hostilities once more. That had, perhaps, played a small part in his ability to interact with the fairer sex as anything more than a nodding acquaintance as much as his rush from one

Graduating from high school was little enough to the man. It had been no major deal. Expected. Just a mere stepping stone on his way to college.

College was... different. First, the opportunities for extra-curricular activities dried up and the few that remained were rechanneled in other areas, such as football into kickboxing. Primarily because the large fish found this ocean was a whole hell of a lot bigger than the small pond he'd come from. But, also because for the first time in his life, he had to work an actual job.

Losing that first job for being a poor worker and almost flunking out of school because he not only didn't study but rarely attended class woke the man from his golden dream as nothing else would have. He fought his way back off academic probation easily. Just attending the classes he signed up for was a start. And he learned how to actually work at the jobs he managed to find, well enough to become what was described as "a good hand."


However, sex became a factor such as it never had. Primarily by virtue of actually having it for the first time (not counting that much earlier experience). And finding out just how much better the real thing was. Even the, in retrospect, bad experiences he had at first.

Also in retrospect, it was fortunate that first experience eventually gave way and he went off to have several more experiences. And learned vastly more than many people are given the opportunity to in even more time. Which is really odd, considering the wee man lived with his mother and fair sister for the entirety of that time in order to give them what protection his presence in the home might.

Or, according to the fair-haired fairy princess, "ruining her life!" Since, after all, it was a very rare lad of her age who would dare the wrath of "Grr," that many of them had seen, and the ones who hadn't had heard about, having his helmet ripped off at the line of scrimmage, and still hit the ball carrier head on hard enough the ball carrier had to be wheeled off on a stretcher (along with the lineman with broken fingers)while "Grr" just walked back and picked up his helmet with an admonition to the referee to watch the facemasking.

She had three dates. And "Grr" chaperoned two of them.

But, we were discussing the wee lad grown into a man. There is not much to tell about the time between when he watched the fair-haired beauty queen with seven tiaras under her sash that blown in so many years before walk across the stage to receive her high school diploma wearing a gold stole and when Love found him. At least not much that the stature of limitations or laws of confidentiality or some other redaction is not still in effect.

Suffice to say that the wee lad had become a man. Not necessarily a good man, although he tried to be on the side of the angels more than the demons. But, he was also the man who fairly often ventured where angels would fear to tread.

The thing was... for all that he had learned, for all that he could now do, his early indoctrination that it meant absolutely nothing if it wasn't done for someone else had held true.

And there was no one that he wanted to do these things for that did also want him to do them for her.

Not until the day he felt slender fingers slip into his and looked over in surprise to find Love looking back at him.

"I'm going with you," she said. "I don't care if you are heading to Heaven or Hell. I choose to walk the ways by your side."

Well, guys and girls, I don't suppose it would be spilling secrets not mine to tell for me to tell you that the wee lad grown into a man had been treading a dark path. One that most likely would have led to his ceasing to exist on this plane in some dark alley one moonless night. But, there is something potent about realizing that someone is going the same direction as you that will cause you to re-evaluate. At least I think so. If, that is, you carry the blood of a protector in your veins.

I don't know but perhaps that wee lad grown into a man heard the tall handsome knight's words echoing in his head once more.

"You have a new task, my son," he may have said. "It is your job to look after her. To protect her. To teach her what you have learned. But, above all, to make certain that she is safe and loved. Can you do that?"

"I do," the wee lad grown to a man growled in a voice fit to rattle the windows.

For decades, he gave her everything. He was her rock to shelter her in the inevitable storms. He was her cheerleader as he pushed her to accomplish more than she would have attempted without his counsel. He struggled against his nature to help her to feel loved and cherished and every day learned a little more how to do that.

In return, Love gave him the sense that he mattered. That he was enough. That so long as she had him, she didn't need a damn thing else from this world. And didn't give a damn what the rest of the world thought so long as she held his high opinion.

And she taught him what it was to love and be loved.

Until the day she closed her beautiful green eyes for the last time and breathed her last breath, leaving him to think she was just smiling at him in her sleep for many hours.

When the wee lad, how a hoary old broken man paying for his checkered past with aches and pains and creaks and rattles realized that all the light had gone from his world, he came close to following. Probably would have except for the needs of the four-footed children that were all they had shared that still needed him to care for them.

But, the old man that many still only knew as "Grr" had absolutely no interest in the world anymore beyond his four walls and the dog's bathroom. There was a chance there might be a war? What did he care? There was a food shortage? So what? There were shooting deaths less than a mile away? Fuck 'em. He was here to see to the animals and once they were gone, that was it. So was he.

But, wait...

Months later, despite his best efforts, Little One came worming her way past his barricades, and into the iron-sheathed stone walls and made herself at home in the tattered remains of his shredded heart.

It wasn't a big thing, really, at first. Just a shared pain. Something from outside of himself that snagged at his attention for the first time. A wound that he could care about that wasn't his own.

Over time, he found himself counseling and guiding her, pushing her to do more to take care of herself. Listening as she unburdened herself of her cares to him.

That was alright. It was nothing more than a friend ought to do. There was nothing there for him to feel guilty for. Nothing for him to feel he was betraying the memory of Love.

And it wasn't as if she weren't doing the same for him. Pushing him to take care of himself in return. Taunting him to better his own eating habits which had become abysmal and return to the exercise program he just hadn't cared enough to continue.

Weeks turned into months and almost without his realizing it, he began to come out of his shell. To look around and actually care about what he was seeing once more. He returned from just bare survival to actually living and finding some joy in life once again. And all because he once again gave a damn about someone in it.