Close my eyes

Sometimes the past has a nasty way of trying to slip back into your life.  It’s been awhile since that night I shattered into a million pieces but sometimes it feels like yesterday. Small things trigger it, a song, a scent.. or even a word (princess).  Today, though, I do not know what triggered it.  It just happened…

I was just sitting on my couch watching Cheers and all of the sudden I was back slumped on the floor in the bathroom of my old apartment.  A bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of Xanax in the other… that stupid necklace he had given me thrown at my feet. My collar. Only 23 and ready to give up.  I even wrote the note…

This happens less and less as time passes, but when it does it is brutal.  Like a curtain closing over my mind, pitch black and suffocating.  It is a struggle to grab onto anything real.  These are the moments I most wish Sir was here, so I try to focus my thoughts on him.  Close my eyes.  The darkness is over.  I know that.



Whiskey scented nightmares

I’m on a roll today with the posts – just a lot going on inside my head, I guess. Last night I dreamed about Jason.  I’ve written a few posts about him, here and here.  I never talked much about what happened after it was supposed to be over – besides a few allusions toward it here and there.

Once he was finished with me, it was easy for him to cast me aside but he couldn’t stop picking me back up.  The desperation (yup, I’m not proud) I felt for him was overwhelming and worsened with each heartbreak.  I think he knew what he was doing, regardless of how much Jack Daniels had taken over his mind.

I really don’t remember what happened, what truly triggered the pieces to finally shatter.  I grabbed a bottle of vodka, a bottle of NyQuil, and a bottle of Xanax and closed the bathroom door behind me.  I typed out a text message to Jason, apologizing for being such a failure, apologizing for being so selfish.  My only regret is making those apologies.

Somewhere in my drunken stupor, I managed to cut into my left ankle with my razor (yeah, the kind used to shave legs).  Drops of blood all over the bathroom floor.  I hadn’t done that since I was a teenager.

I woke up to missed calls, texts, and voicemails.  Jason had apparently taken my text message seriously.  It was my friends and family, pleading me to answer them.  Pleading.  Crying.  When I finally called one of my friends back, she said she had been close to calling the police.  In fact, she was already outside in the parking lot.  I had called her back just in time.  I felt so selfish in that moment.  I had to hurt them to hurt Jason.

Jason’s messages were a little different.  His were angry.  You fucking attention whore.  What the fuck is your problem, you stupid bitch.  And, I don’t know why I went to see him a few weeks later. He wasn’t angry until he saw my ankle, the cuts weren’t deep but they were bright red and obvious.

His face changed when he was angry.  Like something out of nightmares, as if his eyes turned black.  I can’t talk about the rest… but it was the last time I ever saw him.  It’s been so long but it still feels like yesterday when its in my nightmares. It’s over.  Forever.  I wish my mind understood that.

My submission

I talk a lot about Jason, my first Dom, and all the bad things that happened in that relationship.  It didn’t start that way.  His alcohol problem manifested itself about halfway through our time together and before that it was good.  So good.  I think that’s why I had such a hard time letting go of him.  He was the first person I was ever honest with about my interest in BDSM and my submissive desires.

Where did all this come from!?  A Dom I exchanged a few messages with asked me to describe my submissiveness.  I never know what to say when they ask that.. is it even possible?  It is different for everyone but I feel like my description won’t be uncommon.

My submission comes only when I feel a connection has been established and once its been tapped into, its intense.  I’m fiercely loyal by nature but my submission brings it out further.  All I want to do is please and it consumes me entirely.  It almost feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and trusting that the world won’t fall away under your feet.

Of course, the Earth did fall away.

Jason and I lived four hours away from each other, so we only got to spend time together a few weekends a month.  The sound of his voice on the phone was enough to pull me into subspace almost instantly.  He’d call me anytime, even at 3 in the morning after I had just suffered yet another night terror.  All I wanted was to make him happy and I did everything within my capabilities to do so.  In return, he made it clear that though we were miles apart most of the time, he would always be there when I needed him.

It wasn’t all bad.

I guess when the alcoholism took hold, I felt like I failed as a submissive.  I know now that I did not, but it really broke me.  Part of me is still very broken but that is temporary.

I wanted to write this because I realized I talk about my experiences but never my submission itself.  It is so difficult to put into words.




Broken mirrors

Sometimes it is difficult to look at myself in the mirror.  Something as simple as trying to take a photo of myself can send me into full blown panic.

Let me tell you why…

I met Jason when I was 23 and he was 36.  He had tattoos and could play guitar.  We bonded over AC/DC and Metallica.  I had been interested in BDSM since I was a teenager but he was the first one to ever bring out the submissive in me.  I would have done anything for him.

Jason had a love affair with Jack Daniels.  There is nothing more to say about that.

He thought I hated myself.  I didn’t.  I was borderline cocky.

One night after a few two many swigs from the bottle he got a genius idea.  (I’m going to fix you.  I’m going to make you love yourself.)  That was it, the first crack.  He pulled me into the bedroom and pushed me in front of the mirror so I could tell him all the things I hated about myself.

When I said I hated nothing, he got angry and called me a liar.  So I lied.  I made up every flaw I could think of until he was satisfied.  I was so enamored with him that I believed I was just being a ‘good girl.’

And then I shattered at his feet.  Those lies became my truths.  It’s still a struggle, four years later.

When I look in the mirror: I smell the whiskey, hear his voice screaming in my ear (Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Stella), feel his hand twisted in my hair.  I see those flaws.  Sometimes I can get past them, sometimes I can’t.

I would have done anything for him.  The first man to bring out my submission and the first man to shatter me into pieces.


“She’s my wife…”

I wasn’t in love with him.  I wasn’t attracted to him.  I had a shattered heart and I was desperate for attention.  He was into kink, but not D/s.  That’s okay.  I just wanted to fuck.

She kept calling and calling.  I didn’t understand why he didn’t just put that phone on silent.

He didn’t tell me he was married.  He “forgot to mention it” as if it was some tiny, insignificant detail.  He knew how I felt about it and “forgot” to tell me until it was too late.

No matter how long I stayed under the hot water of the shower, I couldn’t scrub the guilt away.

He still tries to contact me sometimes.  He calls me beautiful and tells me he misses me.  Of course he does, she probably figured it out.



When I was hanging out with a Dom a few months ago – I was never truly present.  I wanted to submit.  I really, really did.  But, it wasn’t to him I wanted to submit.  He spanked really well (and that’s about it) but I was never really submissive, just going through the motions.

I met up with him because I was frustrated and also because I felt pressure from people in my life (mother, friends… etc) to give someone, anyone, a chance.  Granted, they had no idea about the Dom part.  Mostly, I was frustrated.  There were better options so far out of my reach and I had had enough.  I felt like I was wasting my time.

I don’t want ‘just’ a Dom, I want something real… a real connection.  I can’t be submissive without becoming attached – and attachment, for me, rarely ends in anything other than complete devastation.  I don’t want that to happen again…

I’m not sure where I’m trying to go with the post, but I felt the need to type something out.  I am feeling that frustration again – that I’m wasting my time, that maybe the things I want aren’t attainable.  I just… don’t know.


Another one bites the dust

It is very possible that the person this post is about will see it.  Part of me feels bad because I am about to be so brutally honest – but, this is MY blog and this was my experience.  From now on, I’ll have to warn anyone who ever speaks to me: I blog in the same way that Taylor Swift writes songs.

I have this horrible habit: I trust people who do not deserve it and am wary of those that do.  It has always been this way.

We met on a vanilla dating site, believe it or not, but he recognized me from my profile on Collarspace.  Yes, I have one of those.  Apparently we had messaged back and forth.  That should have been red flag number one.

I did enjoy talking to him.  We had a lot in common – vanilla and kinky.  He called himself a Master though and initially said he was looking for a slave.  I am NOT and will NEVER be a slave.  He assured me this was okay.  Although, I am not sure he truly understood the difference.

Much like myself, he was looking for a real relationship within the D/s dynamic.  I don’t know why I trusted him.  We hung out a few times before anything happened – it went alright, but was not amazing.  I was NOT attracted to him but I kept trying to convince myself his personality would make up for it.

The first time we “played” was just a spanking.  No issues there.  Spanking is and always has been my main fetish.  It wasn’t overly hard – just his hand and a belt.  Nothing here was throwing up a red flag, it actually helped calm my anxiety.

The next time was more, spanking and an orgasm.

The next time, he wanted a blow job.  I won’t lie – I enjoy doing that, always have.  But, this time I didn’t enjoy it.  It tasted strange, it smelled worse.  Not diseased or anything, just dirty.  I realize that is so much TMI.  Sorry.  How does one even bring that up?  I had to hold my breath to avoid gagging more than I already was.

I recently read a post on FetLife about ‘sub frenzy’ and I am certain I had it.  He wasn’t what I wanted, or even close, but I was just so desperate to fulfill my submissive desires.  His cock made me gag, not in a good way, and I was willing to keep going because I thought I was being “good.”

He bought me a collar and told me he took it seriously. We actually went to a store and bought it (a long with a plug).  I prefer online shopping so I was miserable the entire time.  I just wanted to get out of the store.  The second he put that collar on my neck, my anxiety sky-rocketed.

One night he called to tell me he was having bad nightmares, wanted to focus more on work, didn’t think he could stay in control, excuse after excuse after excuse.  He kept repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as if it made some sort of difference or legitimatized his excuses.

My suspicion is that he couldn’t handle taking it as slow as I needed it to go.  He wanted a slave and I made it clear I would never be one.

Strangely out of character, I was not upset.  I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and that was it.  He had only been in my life a short time – no need to waste any more of it.